University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

THE GARDENS OF THE KING OF FEZ, BY THE SEA.
Enter some Christian captives singing, and ZARA.
ZARA.
Sing, from out this thicket here,
While the beauteous Phenix dresses;—
Those sweet songs, whose air expresses
Fond regrets; which pleased her ear
Often in the baths,—those strains
Full of grief and sentiment.—

FIRST CAPTIVE.
Can Music, whose strange instrument
Was our clanking gyves and chains—
Can it be, our wail could bring
Joy unto her heart? our woe
Be to her delight?—

ZARA.
'Tis so:—
She from this will hear you; sing.

SECOND CAPTIVE.
Ah! this anguish doth exceed,
Beauteous Zara, all the rest—
Since from out a captive's breast
(Save a soulless bird's indeed)
Never has a willing strain
Of music burst.

ZARA.
But have not you
Yourselves sung many a time?—

THIRD CAPTIVE.
'Tis true;
But then it was no stranger's pain
To which we hoped some ease to bring,
It was our own too bitter grief
For which in song we sought relief.

ZARA.
She is listening now—then sing.

The captives sing:—
Age doth not respect
The fair or the sublime;
Nothing stands erect
Before the face of time.

Enter ROSA.
ROSA.
Captives, you can now retire,
And your pleasing concert end,
For fair Phenix doth descend
To this garden, to inspire
Joy, where'er her footsteps stray:—
Coming like a second morn,
Young Aurora newly born.—

The captives go out.
Enter PHENIX, attended by her Moorish maidens, ESTRELLA and ZELIMA, &c. dressing her.
ESTRELLA.
Beauteous have you risen to-day.

ZARA.
Let the dawn, so purely bright,
Boast no more, this garden owes
To her its beauty—that the rose
Draws from her its purple light,
Or the jessamine its whiteness.

PHENIX.
The glass.

ESTRELLA.
Thou should'st not strive to find
Specks the pencil ne'er designed
In its artificial brightness.

They present her with a mirror.
PHENIX.
What does loveliness avail me,
(If, indeed, 'tis mine to vaunt it)—
If my joy of heart be wanted?—
If life's happiest feelings fail me?—

ZELIMA.
How dost thou feel?

PHENIX.
If I but knew,
Ah! my Zelima, how I feel,
That certain knowledge soon would steal
Half of the grief that pains me through:—
I do not know its nature wholly,
Although it robs my heart of gladness;
For now it seemeth tearful sadness,—
And now 'tis pensive melancholy:—
I only know, I know I feel—
But what I feel I do not know,—
The sweet illusions mock me so.

ZARA.
Since these gardens cannot steal
Away your oft-returning woes—
Though to beauteous spring, they build
Snow-white jasmine temples filled
With radiant statues of the rose,
Come unto the sea, and make
Thy bark the chariot of the sun.—

ROSA.
And when the golden splendours run
Athwart the waves, along thy wake—
The garden to the sea will say
(By melancholy fears deprest),
The sun already gilds the west,
How very short has been this day!—

PHENIX.
Ah! no more can gladden me
Sunny shores, or dark projections,
Where in emulous reflections
Blend the rival land and sea;
When, alike in charms and powers,
Where the woods and waves are meeting—
Flowers with foam are seen competing—
Sparkling foam with snow-white flowers;
For the garden, envious grown
Of the curling waves of ocean,
Loves to imitate their motion;
And the amorous zephyr, blown
Out to sea from fragrant bowers,
In the shining waters laving
Back returns, and makes the waving
Leaves an ocean of bright flowers:
When the sea too, sad to view
Its barren waste of waves forlorn,
Striveth swiftly to adorn
All its realm, and to subdue
The pride of its majestic mien,
To second laws it doth subject
Its nature, and with sweet effect
Blends fields of blue with waves of green.
Coloured now like heaven's blue dome,
Now plumed as if from verdant bowers,
The garden seems a sea of flowers,
The sea a garden of bright foam:
How deep my pain must be, is plain,
Since naught delights my heart or eye,
Nor earth, nor air, nor sea, nor sky.

ZARA.
Ah! deep, indeed, must be your pain!—

Enter the KING with a portrait in his hand.
KING.
If perchance the fever fit,
Quartan of thy beauty, let
Thee thy sadness to forget,—
This fair original (for it
Is too full of life, to be
But a picture) is the Infante
Of Morocco, Tarudante,
Who doth come to offer thee
His hand and crown; do not reprove
The ambassador who pleads his suit—
Do not doubt that he, though mute,
Bringeth messages of love:—
With favour I his wish behold,
For he hath sent to me, as liege,
Ten thousand horsemen, to besiege
Ceuta, which I long to hold:—
Let nor fears, nor vain alarms,
Nor coldness in your heart be found;
But let him soon in Fez be crowned
King of all thy beauteous charms.

PHENIX,
aside.
Protect me, Allah!

KING.
What abhorred
Terror thus suspends thy breath?—

PHENIX,
aside.
It is the sentence of my death!

KING.
What is it you say?

PHENIX,
aloud.
My lord,
My master, and my king, to thee,
My father, what have I to say?—
Aside.
What a happy chance, Muléy,
Hast thou lost! Ah! woe is me.
Aloud.
Let my silence be a token
Of my dutiful reply.
Aside.
In thinking it, my soul would lie,
My tongue would lie, if it had spoken.

KING.
Take the picture.

PHENIX,
aside.
Being desired,
My hand the hated gift hath got,
But my heart receives it not.

The report of a cannon is heard.
ZARA.
This salute, my lord, is fired
For Muléy, arrived to-day
In the Sea of Fez.

KING.
'Tis meet.

Enter MULÉY with the truncheon of a general.
MULÉY.
Give me, mighty lord, thy feet.

KING.
You are welcome home, Muléy.

MULÉY.
He who penetrates the light
Of so sovereign a sphere,
He who homeward drawing near
Finds a sun and dawn so sweet,
Well hath homeward come, indeed:—
Lady, let me kiss thy hand,
For his love and faith demand
Such reward, whose heart would bleed
To work his sovereign's least intent.
To the King.
For newer triumphs still he burns
In thy service.—He returns
More thy lover than he went.

Aside to Phenix.
PHENIX,
aside.
Heaven protect me! [To Muléy.]
Thou, indeed,
Art most welcome. [Aside.]
Life doth leave me!

MULÉY,
aside.
If my eyes do not deceive me,
Rather the reverse I read.

KING.
Well, Muléy, what news from sea?—

MULÉY.
Now thou'lt test thy suffering
Of misfortune: for I bring
Saddest news; [aside]
as mine must be.

KING.
What thou knowest, let me hear,
For a firm and constant mind
Lets both good and evil find
Equal entrance: sit thou here,
Phenix.

PHENIX.
Yes.

KING.
Let all be seated.
Now proceed thy news to tell,
Hiding nothing.

The King and ladies sit down.
MULÉY.
I, nor well
Can conceal it, or repeat it;— [aside.]

With two galliasses only,
By command, my lord, of thee,
I departed to examine
All the coast of Barbary,
With the intention of approaching
That famed city of the South,
Known of old time as Eliza,
And which nearly at the mouth
Of the Herculean strait is founded;
Ceido is its latter name,—
For this Hebrew word and Ceuta
In the Arabic are the same,
Both expressive but of beauty,
Or the ever-beauteous town,—
That fair town, that, like a jewel,
Heaven has snatched from out thy crown.
Through, perhaps, Mahomet's anger,
Through the mighty prophet's wrath,
Which, opprobrium of our valour!
Now a foreign ruler hath.
Where we tamely gape and gaze at,
Where our slavish eye-sight sees,
Floating from its topmast turrets,
Banners of the Portuguese.
'Neath our very eyes prescribing
Limits that our arms deride—
'Tis a mockery of our praises,
'Tis a bridle to our pride,
'Tis a Caucasus, which, lying
Midway, doth the stream detain;
Back thy Nile of victory turning
From its onward course to Spain.
Hither, then, I went with orders
To examine, and to see
What the form and disposition
Of the place to-day might be;
How, with less expense and danger,
You might undertake its siege.
May heaven grant its restoration
Quickly unto you, my liege!
Though it be delayed a little
By a threatened new disgrace;
For this doubtful undertaking
To another must give place,
Far more pressing and important,
Since the thousand swords and spears
That for Ceuta you have marshall'd
Must be drawn around Tangiers
For that threatened city weepeth
Equal suffering, equal woe,
Equal ruin, equal trouble—
This, my gracious lord, I know.
For one morning on the ocean,
When the half-awaken'd sun,
Trampling down the lingering shadows
Of the western vapours dun,
Spread his ruby-tinted tresses
Over jessamine and rose,
Dried with cloths of gold, Aurora's
Tears of mingled fire and snows,
Which to pearls his glance converted.
It was then that, in the light
Of the horizon, a vast navy
Rose upon my startled sight:
First (so many a fair illusion
Oft the wandering seaman mocks),
I could not determine truly
Whether they were ships or rocks;
For, as on the coloured canvass
Subtle pencils softly blend
Dark and bright, in such proportions
That the dim perspectives end—
Now, perhaps, like famous cities,
Now, like caves or misty capes,
For remoteness ever formeth
Monstrous and unreal shapes.
Thus, athwart the fields of azure,
Lights and shades alternate fly;
Clouds and waves in rich confusion,
Intermingling sea and sky,
Mock the sight with fair deceptions.
So it was, while I, alone,
Saw their bulk and vast proportions,
Though their form remained unknown.
First they seemed to us uplifting
High in heaven their pointed towers,
Clouds that to the sea descended,
To conceive in sapphire showers
What they would bring forth in crystal.
And this fancy seemed more true,
As from their untold abundance
They, methought, could drink the blue
Drop by drop. Again, sea-monsters,
Seemed to us the wandering droves,
Which, to form the train of Neptune,
Issued from their green alcoves.
For the sails, when lightly shaken,
Fanned by zephyrs as by slaves,
Seemed to us like outspread pinions,
Fluttering o'er the darkened waves;
Then the mass, approaching nearer,
Seemed a mighty Babylon,
With its hanging gardens pictured
By the streamers floating down.
But, although our certain vision
Undeceived, becoming true,
Showed it was a great armada,
For I saw the prows cut through
Foam, that, sparkling in the sunshine,
Like the fleece of snow-white flocks,
Rolled itself in silver mountains,
Curdled into crystal rocks.
I, so great a foe, beholding,
Turned my prow with utmost speed,
For a timely flight doth often
But to quicker victory lead—
And from being more experienced
In those seas, the entrance made,
Of a little creek, where, hidden
In the shelter and the shade,
I could best resist the powerful
Fury of a power so vast,
Which sea, sky and earth o'ershadowed;
Without seeing us, they passed:—
I, desiring to discover
(Who would not desire to know?)
Whither did this great armada
O'er the darkened ocean go—
Once again my anchor weighing,
Sought the blue sea's level plain,
And full knowledge, in this manner,
Heaven permitted me to gain:—
For I saw, of this armada
But one ship remained behind,
Which with difficulty struggled
With the warring wave and wind:
Since, as afterwards was told me,
From a tempest which had blown
Over all the fleet, it issued
Rent, disabled, and o'erthrown;
And so full of water was she,
That the men that worked thereat,
Scarcely baled her out, and reeling
Now on this side, now on that,
Seemed, with every fluctuation,
On the point of going down.
I approached, and though my Moorish
Garb and colours made them frown,
Still my company consoled them,
For companionship in woes
Ever gives alleviation,
Even though it be a foe's.
The desire of life arising
So provoked the hearts of some,
That by ladders made of twisted
Cords and cables, did they come
To our ship, although a prison;
But the rest, resisting, cried,
“Life is but to live with honour!”—
Proof of Portuguese vain pride!—
One of those who left the vessel
Thus informed me in detail:
Lately, thus he said, from Lisbon
Did the great armada sail
For Tangiers: and its heroic
Resolution seems to be,
To besiege it with such valour,
That upon its towers you'll see
The five shields, you see at Ceuta
Every time the sun doth rise.
Edward, Portugal's great monarch,
Whose renown of conquest flies
As on wings of Roman eagles,
Has sent thither to preside
Over them his own two brothers,
Fernando and Enrique,—pride
Of this age, which early sees them
Crowned with conquest: and each chief
Is Grand Master both of Avis
And of Christ: in white relief
On their breasts they bear two crosses,
One of green, the other red;
Fourteen thousand is the number
Of the paid troops, thither led—
Without mentioning the many
Volunteers, that with them serve,
At their own expense; a thousand
Are the steeds—whose fire and nerve,
Mixed with Spanish mettle, clothe them
With the tiger's glossy skin
And the swift foot of the panther:—
Now perhaps they enter in
Tangiers' waters,—at this moment,
If its shore they have not made,
They at least cleave through its waters:
Let us hasten to its aid:
You yourself, your arms assuming,
Mahomet's dread scourges bear—
And the brightest leaf it carries,
From death's mystic volume, tear:—
That this day may be accomplished
That brave prophecy of yore—
Of the Moors, which says, 'tis destined
That upon the sandy shore
Of our Africa, the glory
Of the crown of Portugal
There its hapless grave must meet with.
And these proud invaders shall
See thee, as thy curved sword waveth
O'er each prostrate foeman's head,
Turn the fields, both green and azure,
With their gushing hearts—blood red.

KING.
Silence! do not speak the rest,
For my heart such wrath is feeling,
That each word is like the stealing
Of strong poison through my breast:
Graves amid the deserts yonder
I will ope, by sure disasters,
For the Infantes, those Grand Masters
Who have hither dared to wander:—
You, Muléy, along the coast
With a troop of horse depart,
And by every means that art
Can devise, engage the host
In such skirmishes of skill
That they cannot make the land
Until I can be at hand:—
And in doing so, you will
Show the blood that fills your veins.
I shall follow with all speed,
And the gallant rear-guard lead
Of the troops that fill these plains:
Thus, to-day, my many cares
And quarrels shall in one combine,
For great Ceuta shall be mine
And Tangiers shall not be theirs.

Exit.
MULÉY.
Though I must depart, yet I,
Lady, first would let thee hear,
Since my death approacheth near,
The malady with which I die.
And although my jealous fear
Disrespectful seem to thee,
Since my disease is jealousy,
Courtesy must disappear.
What picture—(ah! fair enemy!)
Is this thy beauteous fingers bear?
What is his happy name?—declare,
This favoured being, who is he?
But no; let not thy tongue eclipse
The pain thy touch hath made me bear;
Since in thy hand I see him there,
Thou needst not name him with thy lips!

PHENIX.
Although, Muléy, thou hast from me
Leave to love and to attend me,
Thou hast not any to offend me.

MULÉY.
'Tis true, fair Phenix, yes, I see
That this is not the mode or style
Of speaking to thee; but the skies
Know, when jealous thoughts arise
Respect is overborne a while.
With utmost caution—secret pride—
I've hid the passion that I feel;
But, though my love I could conceal,
My jealousy I cannot hide—
In truth I cannot.

PHENIX.
Though thy crime
Deserves not to be satisfied,
Still, will I, through wounded pride,
Satisfy thee this one time.
Friends their friendship ne'er should lose,
When a word might keep it still.

MULÉY.
And wilt thou speak the word?

PHENIX.
I will.

MULÉY.
God grant thee ever happy news!

PHENIX.
This picture has to me been sent.....

MULÉY.
By whom?

PHENIX.
His Highness the Infante
Of Morocco, Tarudante.

MULÉY.
And why?

PHENIX.
It seems with this intent,—
My father, being ignorant
Of my feelings ....

MULÉY.
Well?—

PHENIX.
Pretends
That their realms ....

MULÉY.
Is this the amends,
The satisfaction, thou dost grant?—
God grant thee evil news instead!—

PHENIX.
Why for a fault must I atone
That was my father's act alone?

MULÉY.
For taking, though he left thee dead,
This picture as a willing bride?

PHENIX.
Could I prevent it?

MULÉY.
Yes, 'tis plain.

PHENIX.
How?

MULÉY.
Some excuse thou well couldst feign.

PHENIX.
What could I do?

MULÉY.
Thou couldst have died,
As I would gladly do for thee.

PHENIX.
'Twas force prevailed.

MULÉY.
A mere pretence—
'Twas fickleness.

PHENIX.
'Twas violence.

MULÉY.
Nor violence.

PHENIX.
What could it be?

MULÉY.
Absence has been my hope's dark tomb;
And since I cannot be secure,
Nor fix thy changing fancy sure,
I must return and meet my doom.
Thou wilt return, fair Phenix, too,
Once more to grieve me to the heart.

PHENIX.
We now must separate: depart....

MULÉY.
My soul first separates in two.

PHENIX.
Thou to Tangiers, and I shall wait
In Fez—to hear thee make an end
Of thy complaints.

MULÉY.
And I'll attend,
If I am spared till then by fate.

PHENIX.
Adieu! for it is heaven's decree
We taste this bitter parting's woe.

MULÉY.
But listen—wilt thou let me go,
Nor give that portrait up to me?

PHENIX.
'Twere thine but for the king's request.

MULÉY.
Release it—justice doth demand
That I should pluck from out thy hand
Him who has plucked me from thy breast.

Exeunt.