University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.—

A large Divan.—Saladine and his Emirs in Council.—Saladine is seated under an Eastern Canopy.—Soldiers attending.
Sala.—
Emirs, well met: ye have not thus been summon'd
To the deep council of this full divan,
To give attendance on a paltry rumour,
Or force your patience to a vain debate;
But weighty matters, and alarming truths,
Charged with high import, now must wake your prudence,
And timely warn you of impending danger.
Ye know, a restless and detested race
Have, for these some years past, with impious arms
O'er-ran, laid waste our lands. These blooming vales,
Which once array'd in beauty's glist'ning garb
Breath'd all th' enchanting fragrance of the East,
Have late too often witness'd the destruction,
The ruthless ravage which these base invaders
Trail in their rear—the shock of charging hosts
Hath struck our mother earth to her foundations;
And made men tremble, lest the yawning grave
Yield up again their dead. But hold—my rage
Transports my fancy where it should not wander.
These self-same Christians, (misbelieving crew!)
Spite of our Prophet and his holy law,
Despite of fate, and our once dreaded arms,
Again have thrown their armies on our coasts,
Which, trembling, rock beneath the measur'd tread
Of harness'd thousands; seized on Acre's tow'rs,
Where now the crescent bends beneath the cross,
And further leading their victorious host,
With cursed engines shake the tott'ring walls
Of lofty Ascalon. It rests with us
To drive them back, and send them home disgrac'd,
Lacking their fancied booty—'Tis not treaty,
Nor the base utt'rance of a few cant words,
Which will effect our purpose.—No, by Heav'ns!
But arms are now requir'd. By our good scymeters
We gain'd these regions; by the same we'll keep
Our fair possessions.—Arms I say and force
Must now repel them—And as the fell serpent,
Whom the unwary trav'ller with his tread
Hath rous'd to rage, so shall we sting the villains!
So shall we—Yes! while Saladine hath power
To wield a sabre! his bold example
Shall rouze our Saracens to feats of valour,
And gallant daring. Once more then we'll shine
In blazing armour, and we'll give them battle
E'en in their teeth.—Rise, Imaun, now, and speak
What thy mind prompts thee.—Well I know thee brave,
Dauntless in danger, and thy noble zeal
Against the proud usurpers of our right:
Proceed—

Imaun.—
All puissant Prince, whose sov'reign pow'r
Sways the vast regions of the eastern clime,
If ever my poor stock of scanty wisdom
Hath found approof in thy most princely mind,
Oh! deign to hear a soldier's timely counsel,
And lend attention to the voice of reason.
Again I wish to warn Thee of the danger
Which round thy head in threat'ning ruin gathers;
And if I dare presume to speak thus freely,
My voice is not for fight—its doubtful chance
Hangs on the smile, the fickle smile of fortune;
Whilst on her wings sits high-thron'd Victory,
And from her car displays the wav'ring palm;
Who then can call it his? no human foresight
Can say, Mine is the chance, my arm shall gain it;
For the dread bolt of swift and clouded fate,
Whilst the presuming wretch yet falsely triumphs,
Dashes the fancied glory from his grasp,
And, in his sight, presents it to another!
'Tis true, I hate—yes, with my utmost soul
Abhor these Christians! their deluded faith
Provokes my anger, and hath fully roused it:
But yet, their strength I dread; with cautious step
Let us proceed—their stern fanatic zeal
Sweeps all before it, and their num'rous legions
Pour like a torrent on us—let's avoid them:
And if we now decline the doubtful battle,
Their hungry thousands in an hostile country,
Beset with foes, all fresh supplies cut off,
Harass'd and weary'd, with internal broils
And private quarrels rent, will turn their edge
Against themselves.—Then with these growing factions
And fierce dissentions torn, while sickly famine
Hangs on their rear, and with its vengeful sword
Thins their close serried ranks, they soon will sink,
And yield an easy conquest to our arms.

Haroun.—
(rising impatiently.)
Hold coward, hold! I can no longer brook
Thy tame, reflecting, and insidious words:
Hereto I've stifled, but with swelling heart,
The flame which burns within me; but its rage
Now bursts restraint—my choler shall find vent.
Shame on thee!—fear directs thy fluent tongue:
And while the smoother garb of caution veils it,
'Tis terror prompts thy cold deceitful language.
And would ye thus persuade my royal Brother,
With canting terms, yet deem'd most sage advice,
To yield his country, e'en without a blow,
To a curs'd crew of mean and dastard slaves,
Who would profane with our fast streaming gore
Our holy temples; trample under foot
Our sacred altars; then with stern derision
Rush o'er our corses, stain'd with Christian tread,
To seek the loth embraces of our consorts,
Seize our poor harmless infants in their grasp,
Dash their smear'd brains against the flinty pavement;
And—oh! tis too much—where is the man
Who would not rush to meet approaching death,
With glowing breast, and leap into destruction,
Rather than hear his torn and bleeding country,
Gall'd by the yoke of slavish tyranny,
Lament the loss of her last patriot champion?
And, whilst her tears bewail his hapless fall,
Groan with sad echo, to the clank of fetters!
Hear, holy Prophet, hear my patriot vow,
Which thus I swear to sanction with the blood
Of fallen Christians! If none else will follow,
If dastard fear hath chill'd each noble spark
Of your once haughty spirits, I alone,
Midst the huge wreck of Saracens untainted,
Will rush to meet the hoarse Battalia's thunder
Frowning with death; this keen and well-tried weapon
Shall, when all other friends thus basely shrink,
Ope wide a passage through yon dread array:
So, if I seize by valour vict'ry's chance,
I'll shine conspicuous in emblazon'd annals:
And if I fall, I fall in glory's cause,
There to receive a crown—a wreath immortal!
Yes, Mah'met, yes! from thy all-radiant throne
Look down indignant, and with thunder's bolt
Blast the accursed wretch whose coward heart,
Chilled by the icy hand of trembling fear,
Would sell his wretched country to a Christian!

Assad.—
And so say I.—While Heav'n permits me life,
Ne'er will I cease to rouse our native bands,
To march with zealous ardour, in the cause
Of our most holy and much injur'd Prophet,
Against a race of fawning hypocrites,
Who can assume a smile, a viper smile,
A flatt'ring aspect, flatt'ring to betray,
E'en when their minds conceive the hellish plan
To wrest our fair possessions from their masters.
I've often warn'd You of the lurking danger
Which doth attend these num'rous caravans
Of canting pilgrims, half-starv'd, whining hermits,
And the whole crew of such deceiving varlets:
And now behold their false and fangled speeches
Have rous'd an army in their hateful quarrels,
Whose num'rous hordes o'er-run our desart fields,
Like a vast swarm of all-destructive locusts:
Whose very armour, with terrific clang,
Hath made our coasts prolong the varied echo,
'Till men have started, lest th' avenging angel
Rise up in arms to blast the race of sin;
And widely fraught with terror and destruction,
Hurl the wide fabric of the world to ruin!
Fight then, I say, for Mahomet, or Death!
Strike, now, for Allah! and amid the shock
Cry, with the words of my indignant brother,
Whose noble soul revolts at dastard fear—
A glorious vict'ry! or immortal end!

Alcanzor.—
Believe me, Prince, thy two most royal brothers,
Haroun and Assad, have most nobly spoken;
I'm for the field! the field of instant battle!
Where vict'ry waits us with triumphant smiles;
And each brave Mussulman, in such a cause,
Will feel his proud heart beat with conscious joy,
When the shrill bugle wakes his soul to arms;
And the loud neighing of impatient steeds
Thrills through his ears in martial symphony:
Whilst his high mind anticipates success,
And routs yon Christians scatter'd o'er the plains.

Zared.—
It is the voice of holy Mahomet
That spurs our hearts.—I give my voice for fight.

Kerim.—
And I, and all, most great and sov'reign Prince,
Entreat Thee here to spurn all timid counsel,
And quickly lead us to the field of fight.

Sala.—
Well, be it so.—I'll lead ye forth to battle;
Where 'midst the fierce alarums of the plain,
Shall ye behold Me, with undaunted heart,
Brave the dire storm of wing'd and feather'd death,
Which the base dastards, from their crooked bows,
Pour fast upon us—they have no avail
Against the Faithful.—Ye shall see them bound,
(As I confide in our great Prophet's aid,)
From my tough target and emblazon'd mail,
Like shiv'ring hailstones from a granite rock.
I'll lead the charge, and with one cheering shout,
We'll spur our Arab coursers to the stretch;
With vengeful sabres cut the string in twain;
Break the long shafts—aye tame their quiv'red pride,
While their proud archers strew the blood-dy'd ground.—
How now Imaun? thy looks speak discontent.

Imaun.—
Alas! dread Prince; I must confess my soul
Swells with resentment, when I see Thee led
By such weak counsels and seductive words,
To shame, defeat—yes, e'en decoy'd to death!
I see th' abyss, with dark unfathom'd jaws,
Ope to receive Thee; while the depth below
Yawns, as thy feet betray th' expecting victim.
Thy noble soul, I know, brooks not restraint,
Thy lofty nature spurns at all controul:
But yet, consider the distracting woes
Which, if Thou fall'st, thy friends, alas! must suffer,
Thy much lov'd wives—thy sweet endearing babes,
Stabb'd by the hand of some polluting slave!
Thy virgin daughters, with heart-rending cries,
Imploring mercy, vainly, from a ruffian,
The hapless victims of a conqu'ror's lust!
And well I know their vast and steely squadrons,
Whose marshall'd ranks condense in firm array,
Would not, without an hard contested struggle,
Yield up the vict'ry to an hated foe,
In numbers mighty, yet in skill inferior.
Think too—and tremble at the dreadful sound!
Think on their Leader!—Richard Cœur de Lion!
'Tis He who leads them! He whose lion heart
Hath rous'd the world with these terrific storms;
Whose nervous arm hath bound in iron chains
Th' all-dreaded bolt of universal fate;
Made Fortune's self attendant on his frown,
And wedded Vict'ry with the Ring of Fame!

Sald.—
Imaun, no more;—my swelling mind revolts
At these untimely and unfit objections;
Name not to Me the boasted strength of Europe—
Her leagu'd usurpers, and infernal zeal!
Think'st thou that I, the chief of Othman's race,
Will basely shrink before an host of foes?
No! though full twice their number fill the plain
With marshall'd ranks, and all in arms of proof,
Would I rush on to seek their steely points,
And shew the miscreants how to tempt despair!
Think'st thou the name of their audacious Chief
Shall make Me tremble? What has He to boast
More than Myself?—does Richard sound more great,
With loftier tone, than Saladine, or Othman?
Nay—though that boasted title, Cœur de Lion,
Inspire his army with presumptuous pride;
None shall, with justice say, that I, abashed,
Shrunk from the phantom of an empty sound!
And [with irony]
if we find this great all-puissant Champion
As brave as fame's high swelling note reports,
I'll seek Him singly through yon Christian ranks;
On Him alone I'll pour my boiling wrath;
And, in the face of our insulted Prophet,
Teach all to conquer, or at least to die!
Now then, ye chiefs, come near;—behold this scroll,
Whereon I've sketch'd an advantageous plan,
And drawn minutely your allotted posts.
Imaun and Haroun, our right wing shall march
Beneath your guidance and consummate care;
So shall I temper fiery youth with prudence.
To thee, Alcanzor, I resign the charge
Of the Black Standard—thou deserv'st my trust;
And on the left command our troops—the chiefs
Zared and Kerim, there will also march.
Myself will lead the centre, where the warriors
Shall, when they see their Sultan at their head,
Speed with redoubled ardour 'gainst the foe.
Assad, do thou amidst the mountain gloom,
Arrange the firm and trusty bands of Mecca,
And form the wile of predatory war,
An ambuscade; then, when their hindmost troops
Have pass'd beyond thee, sally on their rear:
So shall we scatter them, and thus ensure
The laurell'd wreath which vict'ry grants the brave!
And now, ye knights and soldiers, mark me!—Thus
I cast away this badge of high distinction;
And as the meanest soldier of our camp,
Prepare to meet the hardships of the day.
Draw forth your sabres! let the glitt'ring flash
Shine o'er the fields, 'till yon resplendent sun,
High through the air, reflect the dazzling blaze!
Fear not the weapons of your adverse foes,
For those that fall have greater gifts in store
Than the short pleasures of this transient world:
Think on the raptures of that blissful Paradise,
Which our great Prophet gives unto the slain!
Methinks I see it full within my view,
Its milky rivers, and its trees of gold!
Whilst Heav'nly Houris, (Oh! enchanting fair!)
Await your coming with extended arms!
E'en Mah'met's self now fights upon your side,
And fiercely grasps the sabre of destruction:
Then, to the charge!—advance our glitt'ring banners!
Bury the rowels in your panting steeds!
Pour, like a whirlwind, on the trembling foe!
To fight!—to vict'ry!—forward!—and away!

[Exeunt.