Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse Consisting of the Epistolary Correspondence of Many Distinguished Characters. With Notes and Illustrations. By the Rev. R. Polwhele |
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 | Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse |  |
SCENE I.
The Brahman alone.
'Tis a ring
Right-royal;—'tis a ruby of old time!
Well—I will wear it for Serinda's sake.
(tauntingly.)
Herself insidious, she suspects deceit.
But let us try this touchstone. Lo, untarnished—
Unclouded, on my finger it retains
Its everlasting blush! I see no paleness;
I hear no rustling wings—no pealing thunders
Of Genii, to annihilate the faithless!
Hah! the dissembler!—It is true, her sense
Of India's degradation, bids her wreck
Her vengeance on the Princess, and hath beckon'd
To Saib and his armies. But she hates
The rival, while she scorns the Christian. Dreadful
Have I observ'd the jealous fires at work,
Whether half-smother'd in her breast, or bursting
Into a livid flame. Her reign is past!
And she is caught in her own craftiness!
Her groveling minions, from her fascinations
Escaped, shall gather soon obsequious round me;
And I will turn her engines of destruction
Against herself.
Enter the Chamberlain.
Right-royal;—'tis a ruby of old time!
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Herself insidious, she suspects deceit.
But let us try this touchstone. Lo, untarnished—
Unclouded, on my finger it retains
Its everlasting blush! I see no paleness;
I hear no rustling wings—no pealing thunders
Of Genii, to annihilate the faithless!
Hah! the dissembler!—It is true, her sense
Of India's degradation, bids her wreck
Her vengeance on the Princess, and hath beckon'd
To Saib and his armies. But she hates
The rival, while she scorns the Christian. Dreadful
Have I observ'd the jealous fires at work,
Whether half-smother'd in her breast, or bursting
Into a livid flame. Her reign is past!
And she is caught in her own craftiness!
Her groveling minions, from her fascinations
Escaped, shall gather soon obsequious round me;
And I will turn her engines of destruction
Against herself.
Cham.
They come—they come! the host
Of Saib! Thro' the hollows of yon hills
They wind in long array—now lighted up—
Sabres and spears and all their mass of armour—
From yonder orb—now, as the fleeciness
Of snowy clouds hath dimm'd its brightness, fading
In fitful glimmerings.
(as he sees the Brahman.)
Traitor! Is it thou?
Still meanly skulking, till occasion spur thee,
To spring upon thy prey! Thy old heart leaps
To the shrill voices of the trumpets.—Hah!
That answering blast which thrills the inmost palace,
'Tis from some brother Brahman, like thyself,
Affecting peace, yet panting for commotion.
Wan poisoner! know, we heed nor thee nor Saib.
Sweeping around the palace-walls, our troops
Have blended Syrian worth with British valour;
While thirst the chieftains from the isles of ocean,
To punish regicides and rebels.
The Brah.
Still meanly skulking, till occasion spur thee,
To spring upon thy prey! Thy old heart leaps
To the shrill voices of the trumpets.—Hah!
That answering blast which thrills the inmost palace,
'Tis from some brother Brahman, like thyself,
Affecting peace, yet panting for commotion.
Wan poisoner! know, we heed nor thee nor Saib.
Sweeping around the palace-walls, our troops
Have blended Syrian worth with British valour;
While thirst the chieftains from the isles of ocean,
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Much
Hast thou mistaken Vayoo. From his haunts
I call'd not Saib; nor could wish to couple
The vulture with the tigress. Saib, wild
In native savageness, and still urged on
By the fanatic Princess, might in flame
Envelope India! I abjure the zeal
That persecutes opinion. To the faith
Transmitted from my fathers, I adhere.
And may our temples of old time, expand
Their portals to the ages yet to come
Magnificent and glorious. But unshaken
The Cross may stand for me. And, O loved monarch!
Kind as the gentle rivulets, that refresh
The parched glebe, tho' by thy years exhausted,
As are those gentle rivulets, dwindling fast
Amid the sultry sunblaze.—O my sovereign!
Am I a regicide?—Yes, yes, 'twas I
That poison'd thee—I mix'd for thee the chalice;
I bade thee drink—yet I'm no poisoner!
Cham.
Hoh!
Thou talkest in enigmas. But the tramp
Of steeds and clash of arms too loudly tell
There is no room for parley.
| Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse | |