University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

The Princess, Dionysius, Edred and Sigelin, the Brahman.
The Brahman,
(aside to the Princess)
Puissant Princess!
Dismiss thy guards; nay, nay, suspect me not!
Dismiss thy guards, and I'll disclose to thee,
Truths, to awaken terror and delight
And indignation!—Know, then, high assembly!
[Exeunt the Guards, &c.
The old king lives! I minister'd, 'tis true,
The poison; but I likewise minister'd
The antidote! Beneath Serinda's eye
Fraught with pale death, the chalice fum'd and sparkled!
Long had her hatred in my feign'd assent
Confiding, plann'd the deadly scheme. Yet lo!
He lives! And if perfidious you abhor me,
It is my perfidy hath sav'd my sovereign,—
And more than sav'd. Already for the pile
Hath it prepar'd a corpse Serinda deems
Her husband's. With this corpse shall she consume,
I trust a righteous sacrifice. A rescue
Clos'd in her widowed chamber she expected,
And still expects. But all is ordered well—
E'en on her funeral pyre will she look round
For help in vain,—that help which to preclude
Her wavering, and to silence hopes and fears
Wild on the wing, at length I promised her.

Sig.
Thy stratagem I like not—though deceit
Be to deceit opposed. Not that I plead
In pity for Serinda. But I hate
All artifice. To Justice I consign her—
Impartial Justice; that the avenging sword
Grasps in the face of day.

Dion.
But lo! she faints—
The Princess faints. Her sire's return from death
To life, by a too sudden rush of joy
O'erpowers her.

Theo.
(recovering)
Oh! my father! Is it true?
My venerable father!—once again
Once may I call thee mine? Oh! let me seek thee—
Fly to thine arms. But may my pleading voice
Be heard—Spare, spare Serinda!—Let her live!
Though every ill she wish me, may her malice
Be soften'd by the gentleness that renders
For evil, good! Perhaps, though now obdurate,
In penitential tears she may relent,
And have some claim to mercy!

Ser.
(overhearing Theodora as she is brought in)
Mercy! mercy!
What, from the Syrian Christian? I disdain it!
Though her sleek bishops vaunt their silk attire,
Their muslin robes, their mitres and their crosiers;
Though, as they strut or cringe, the golden crosses
Hang—from their necks,—hang glittering—and their beards
Sweep in grey majesty their sapphire girdles—
Yet—I despise them all! (turning to Dionysius.)

And thou deceiver! (turning to the Brahman.)

Hoar in iniquity—thou arch impostor!—
Art willing to hold out to me the cup
Of sweet salvation? Curse on all thy cups!
Poor clumsy plotter! Could the murderous uproar—
The revolutionary clang escape
My ears? Thou shouldst have well secur'd thy victim,
Though scarcely bars of iron, walls of brass
Could have done that. I am betray'd by all—
All leagued, all join'd confederate against me—
Except my poor old doting king. For deeds
Of horror if I ever own'd compunction,
'Tis for an act—my poor old doting king!
'Tis for an act of horror against thee!
I feel a pang that rends me!—But my sins
Will I soon expiate. (As she brandishes a dagger, and the Guards approach, she cries:)

Off! obstrusive minions!
There—there! (she stabs herself.)

O! that my poor old king—my husband—
Grant,—grant me my last dying prayer!—This body
Be to the waves consign'd! The crystal blue
Serene, the torrent-foam alike will bear me
Where I shall slumber, to Narayen dear!

(dies.)
Enter the Chamberlain.
Cal.
Hear! To Diophanes and Theodora
The king resigns his throne! And soon shall glow
The hymeneal moment; and all India
Hail the fair forms of Righteousness and Peace!

Sig.
Yes! And long future ages shall repose
Beneath the Christian banner! Lo! the glory
Of Albion, as of Lebanon, shall stream
O'er India—To her cities shall we cry
“Behold your Saviour and your God!” Then Truth
And mild Humanity—wrapt in red storm
As Superstition rolls away—shall snatch
The infant from the alligator's jaws;—
Shall save the aged parent from the flood
Which—at the bidding of the unnatural son—
Would swallow up decrepitude;—shall quench
The sacrificial pile, that gives the Ganges
To lift its billows in portentous light;—
Shall rescue the poor victim from the wheels—
The crashing wheels of Moloc's tower! Then life
Polish'd and fair, then arts and arms shall owe
The cross their loveliest lustre! Then shall prelates
Commission'd from the British islands, rule
The Church extending here, in harmony
With Syrian hierarchs! 'Tis to that bright union
I look with the prophetic eye of transport!—
That happy union, when dissenting tribes
Shall blend in cordial friendship—when the sun
Shall never more arise—no more go down—
Shall shine no more—but on Messiah's kingdom!