University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—A Garden.
Ibrahim,
Solus.
Sweet is the freshness of the morning air,
The rising sun is pleasant, and the breeze
Spreads a soft coolness thro' my feverish frame:
Not so my heart, it still with anguish bleeds,
And fierce resentment burns; while all around
Is gay and cheerful, I am sunk and sad,
The thrush is singing on yon bending spray,
The linnet flutters round the opening rose
Cheerfully warbling, even the very groves,
Gilt by the vernal sunbeams, seem to smile:
Still I am sad, a heavy gloom o'erspreads
My melancholy heart; I feel a cold
Instinctive shuddering creep along my veins.
Why should I fear? why should this trembling shake
My form, that oft has borne the brunt of war?
Is vengeance then so hard, it makes me shrink
To attempt it? No! I feel my righteous cause,
I feel that heaven commands me to revenge.
What! shall I stand to see my dear companion,
Who oft has sought undaunted by my side,
And with me march'd to danger and to victory,
To see this friend disgrac'd? to see him stripp'd
Of all his hard-earn'd honours? No, by heaven!
While I've a sword, Zamor shall be reveng'd.

Enter Alhouran and Omar.
Ibrahim.
How pleasant is the morning, does't not raise
Your spirits? does't not wake the cheerful smile?
Why? what is this? why look you so dishearten'd?
What cause of grief, while all around is lovely?

Alh.
Yesterday! dost thou not remember it?
Oh I shall ne'er forget it!

Ibrah.
What of it?
What sad event has sunk your manly feelings,
So gay and buoyant once, to such despair?

Alh.
Dost thou not well remember yesterday?
Oh I shall ne'er forget it!

Ibrah.
Ne'er forget it!
What dreadful accident has then befall'n you?

Alh.
Zamor, whom we adore, the noble warrior,
The generous chieftain, Zamor, was disgrac'd,
Yes, shamefully disgrac'd, on yesterday.

Omar.
Yes, cursed be the wretch, who dar'd that deed!
Oh were the dastard but within my reach,
I'd make him feel the sharpness of this steel.

Ibrah.
Hush! be more quiet; but this sad event
Need not depress you so: cheer up, my friends,
Vengeance is easy, when our cause is just.

Alh.
What are we, Ibrahim, before this tyrant?
Mere helpless, feeble worms, for him to tread on.
Oh! had my arm but strength to wield the blow,
I'd strike the despot prostrate from his throne.

Omar.
And I have strength, and I will soon exert it.

Alh.
Exert thy strength against the great Abdallah
'Tis madness; what! attempt the tyrant's life
By thy own hand alone? No! never try
So desperate, so foolish an adventure.

Omar.
Justice and heaven shall give me strength to do it.

Alh.
Justice and heaven, against his mighty power,
I fear, will not avail thee; canst thou break
The gates of brass that close his lofty palace?
Canst thou o'ercome the guards, who watch like Argus
The least approach of danger? Oh! be quiet,
And let thy sabre rest within its scabbard.

Omar.
Ah! thou wouldst weep to think thou'rt such a coward,
And wish and long for strength to strike the blow;
But I have now that strength.

Alh.
What say'st thou, Omar,
That I am coward! hell and fury seize thee.

Ibrah.
Stop! stop! my friends! let no unhappy quarrels
Disturb us in this dark and dangerous hour:
This is an hour of peril, ere we draw
Another breath, disgrace may be our lot,
Or ignominious death; oh! be united,
Reserve your courage for the hour of trial,
And strike no blow but for the hero Zamor.
But, gallant Omar, stay thy headlong rashness,
Reflect upon the deed that thou wouldst do,
Think of the power that circles round that throne,
Think of the lofty towers, the embattled walls,
And massive gates, think of the num'rous guards,
That wait, with sword in hand, each bold invader,
Prepared to strike the traitor to the heart;
Oh! think of these, and moderate thy fury.
But oh, Alhouran! cheer thy drooping spirits;
The cause is not so desperate as thou think'st;
Though fortune lours with such a gloomy aspect
Upon us now, the time may come, my friend,
When victory shall declare for noble Zamor,
When he shall triumph o'er the insulting tyrant,
And bid each despot tremble for his throne.

Alh.
Fortune may favour, but our hope is feeble.

Ibrah.
No, not so feeble as thou think'st, Alhouran.
Didst thou not mark, when proud Abdallah dar'd,
Before his armies, break the sword of Zamor,
How vengeance lour'd upon the soldier's brow?

Alh.
I saw them grin a ghastly smile of pleasure,
To see this godlike hero so disgrac'd;
But none, I saw, would draw a sword to aid him.

Ibrah.
Thou sawst not right: the faithful troop, whom Zamor
Led on to victory in all his battles,
The brave ten thousand, had'st thou seen their eyes
Flashing with fury, and their grinding teeth,
Thou would'st not be so cheerless in this hour:
Yes, when the tyrant, with his voice of thunder,
Exclaim'd, “depart—thou dastard, from my armies,
And take this shivered blade,” this faithful troop,
Who lov'd their gallant leader to distraction,
Were all on fire; I saw them all on tiptoe
To make the assault, I saw each bosom swell,
I saw each hand instinctive grasp the sword,
And every countenance wro't high to vengeance.

Alh.
Hope then revives within my anxious breast;
Yes, now methinks I see my friend reveng'd,
And the proud tyrant humbled.

Omar.
I will wait,
Till we can strike at once.

Ibrah.
Come then, my friends,
And let us swear a firm fidelity;
Yes, on these swords so oft in battle crimson'd
With Spanish blood—yes, we will swear by heav'n,
And all the happiness of Paradise,
To cling with all our energies to Zamor,
To hold our swords in readiness to strike,
When fortune favours, the decisive blow
Of vengeance, on the haughty tyrant's head.