 | The heir of Morocco, with the Death of Gayland |  |
43
Act V.
Enter Morat meeting Mirvan.Mor.
Mirvan, thy Looks speak Horror; if thou'rt come
From the Imperial Army, and dost bring
Ought terrible give it a Tongue. No Voice
But that of Ruine sure should speak to day.
Mirv.
Yes Sir, I come from the Imperial Camp,
To tell you that Distraction and Confusion,
Lie like a brooding Plague around our Walls.
No Mutiny was ever half so loud.
The Souldiers in a hundred different Shapes
Of Outrage crowd about their Generals Tent.
And where the Fury of this Storm will fall,
Whether their Clamors be their pious Rage
For their lost Emp'ror, or a kindling Fire
In Vengeance to his Blood, Heav'n only knows.
Mor.
Alas! Those little Horrors are not half
So dismal, as our Tragick Scene within.
Oh Mirvan, Mirvan, that Illustrious Youth,
The gallant conquering Altomar, at whose
Adored dear Name our Nations Genius bows.
He who has propt our sinking Kingdoms Glory
Is basely murder'd, like a Traytor dies,
And by a Death so infamous, so inhumane.
Enter Rosalin.
Ros.
Oh never, never was a Sight so horrid.
Mor.
Ah Madam, if your Eyes have felt so much
Fly from this Ground; For I am repeating that
Will wound your Ears, and act new Murders there.
Ros.
No, kind Morat, if thou canst breath that Story
Whose Repetition is enough to kill,
44
Mor.
What Hearts of Flesh, with Eyes of Sence and Pity
Could stand to see that God-like Martyr stretcht
Upon a Wrack, fixt on a publick Scaffold;
And then behold from all his tortur'd Limbs,
His manly Flesh torn off with burning Pincers.
Oh more than barbarous King: the sooty Cyclops,
Who sweating at the Anvil, points the lightning,
And moulds the Bolts of th'angry Thunderer
Ne'er shaped a Mettal for a work so dismal.
Mirv.
Oh matchless Cruelty!
Mor.
Nor is this all to drown his dying Groans,
The Drums and Trumpets, all those martial Organs,
Which once were tuned to nobler Ayres, when Altomar
Fill'd their shrill Throats with sounds of Victory,
Are now employed to ring his Funeral Peal.
Methinks I fancy how in times first Non-age,
The frighted World beheld the dark'ning Moon;
Then joyn'd with discord dinns of ratling Brass,
Cryes, Yells, and Shouts to aid the laboring Planet.
So sing the Dirges of the dying Altomar,
No Sounds too harsh for such eclipsing Glory.
Mirv.
What could provoke the best of Kings to act
A Deed below the worst of Savages?
Mor.
That Canker of Great Souls; those only Actors
In all great Massacres Fear and Revenge.
He fears the Out-rage of the mutinous Souldiers,
And thinks his threat'ned Kingdom lies at Stake.
And for th'ignoble Cowards Maxim, Safety,
In hopes to mitigate their Rage, he prosecutes
This more than common Vengeance for their King.
Merv.
What could the wretched Altomar e'er do,
To harden the obdurate Gods against him?
Mor.
Why nothing,
Only he loved the Daughter of his King;
And as that criminal doom'd for robbing Heav'n,
In Tortures like the poor Prometheus dies,
For stealing Fire from Artemira's Eyes.
45
Oh Sir, you leave the saddest part untold:
'Tis not enough this injur'd Hero dies;
But to make revenge astonishingly cruel,
The mourning Princess in more exquisite Torments
For her forbidden Love to her dear Altomar,
By her own Slaves, her new-made Jaylors haled,
Stands by to view the Bloody Execution,
And see her dying Lover's Heart-strings crack.
The mourning Niobe for her slaughter'd Sons,
Congealed with Horror to a weeping Marble;
Her griefs were calm to Artemira's Woes.
Art.
Inhumane, bloody, Savage, Tyrant, Father,
Oh let me die, Dogs, Slaves, infernal Torturers,
Lend me a Javelin, Sword, Cords, Daggers, Poyson.
No Fiend below, no pitying God above;
Nor one kind Bolt in Heaven to strike me dead?
Alt.
Oh stop that Sacred Flood, my Royal Heav'n,
Weep not for me; for I'm above all pity.
But some few Minutes more, and I shall mount
On Angels Wings to that immortal Throne,
Where dying Lovers Groans are heard no more;
Nor their warm purple stains the reeking Floor.
Art.
Let go your Hold, Tormentors, let me go.
Oh see proud Slaves, your humble Princess kneels;
And can she be denyed?
[Gets loose.
—Oh my dear murder'd Lord,
[Kneeling.
Alt.
Ah rise, fair royal Angel mourner, rise.
Art.
Oh never, never, on my Knees I'll grow,
Fix and root here, till some relenting God
Has laid me in thy Grave.
Alt.
My better Self,
These Griefs are kind; but let 'em flow more mildly.
I feel no pains, but thro' my Princess Heart.
46
King.
If you want pains
I'll find 'em for you; call to your remembrance
Your black Ingratitude to your kind King,
For all the numerous Honors I had given you;
That glorious Structure my vast Hopes had rais'd
Thou hast at one blast blown up;
And the only Remnant of my Royal Blood
Thou hast made for ever wretched.
Art.
Wretched! can my Altomar's
Dear Love make Artemira wretched! No,
Mistaken King, I've loved so well that know,
To die for Altomar has more of Heav'n in't,
Than Ages on the World's Imperial Throne.
King.
Take Hence the Syren.
Oh Love, thou unextinguishable Brand
Of Vengeance, take her from his Sight; be gone.
She from this Minute ne'er shall see him more.
Art.
Stay merciless Villains, savage Blood-hounds stay.
Alt.
And art thou gone?
[Exit forced out.
Snatcht from my panting Side?
Remorsless King, how can you be so cruel
To a poor dying Wretch at his last Gasp,
To tear that Beauty from my bleeding Arms?
Thro' all the Graves my gaping Wounds can show,
You never stab'd me till this killing Blow.
King.
What Sounds are these?
[Trumpets heard.
Enter Messenger.
Mess.
An Envoy from the Army.
[Enter Envoy.
Env.
Great Sir, I come from the Imperial Camp,
To tell you that the mutinous Souldiers, tired
With an Usurper's Yoak, demand a Successor
From the true Royal Line: And by their Threats
47
Have forced him to discover that Prince Altomar,
A noble Youth residing in your Court,
But Stranger to his own great Quality,
Is the true Heir to th'Empire of Morocco.
And in th'united Peoples Voice I come
To call him to a Throne.
King.
How Sir! is Altomar
The Royal Heir to th'Empire of Morocco?
Env.
Yes Sir, the Blood of their last murder'd Monarch
Muly Labas runs in his Veins; his true Name
Muly-Mesude; but by a borrow'd Title,
Preserved an Infant in the Court of Egypt,
T'escape the mortal Rage of the old Bloody Empress.
King.
What Words are these?
Env.
But all his Injuries
Are cancell'd in his Coronation day.
From his long Night, like a gay Bridal Sun,
He to his new wedded World sets out in Glory.
King.
Oh never, never will that morning rise;
See there that Glorious Sun is set for ever.
Haste; take that Sacred Martyr from the Wrack:
Be quick ye Slaves.
[They cut him down, and set him on a Chair.
Env.
What have ye done?
King.
Yes, Fates, what have I done?
A deed for which the Furies want a Name:
Martyr'd a Monarch on a Gibbet!
Damnation shape me such a Deed in Hell.
In Vengeance to a base Usurper's Blood,
Like an infatuated Savage Indian,
I've built an Altar to a worshipt Devil,
And sacrific'd a King t'a Rebell's Ghost.
Alt.
And was I born an Empire's Heir for this?
King.
Oh Altomar, most sacred injured Lord,
What dismal Wrongs does Heaven ordain for thee?
What Plagues, what Hells for me?
48
That could have made me great, my Daughter blest,
Her Love immortal, and my Name eternal,
I have most barbarously massacred,
The noblest Blood that Royal Veins e'er held,
I have let out to drown the sinking World.
Alt.
Ah Sir, did you not name your beauteous Daughter!
For sure methought I felt new Life shoot thro' me.
King.
Fly, bring that mourning Sweetness to his Arms;
Tell her her Royal Altomar's hard Fate,
And her repenting Father's killing Horrors.
Alt.
There's something in that Breath so kind, so wondrous kind,
Had I more Lives to lose I could forgive 'em all.
Enter Artemira.
Art.
Oh my dear dying Lord!
Alt.
Oh name not dying:
For thou'rt my Bride, and this our Nuptial Day.
And now let Death and Ruine do their worst;
One minute in my Artemira's Arms,
Has all the Raptures of Eternity.
Art.
Yes, my loved Lord, in spite of Fate, this day's,
At once our Nuptial and our Coronation.
And sure if Love can Crown us in the Stars,
We shall shine there the brightest Pair in Heav'n.
Alt.
Oh Love, what is thy Power?
Art.
Now cruel Father,
Kill'd by my dear Lord's Wounds, I'll save you all
Th'Expence of Steel or Poyson for my Fall.
King.
No live, you best of Lovers, live for ever.
Oh that I could supply from my own Veins
That Blood I've rob'd from thine; from my torn Limbs,
With my own Flesh new cloath thy naked Bones.
Ye Gods, why are your Miracles all ceas'd?
No Art in Heav'n to save his precious Life?
49
Sir, your untimely Kindness comes too late:
But to acknowledge these last Sparks of Pity,
You Sir, that come t'invite me to a Throne,
[To the Envoy.
Bear back my dying Sighs to my kind Subjects:
Tell 'em I have a Brother call'd Cialto,
A Souldier in the Persian Sophy's Camp.
Let him be call'd to fill my empty Throne.
But let him know e'er the Imperial Diadem
Circles his radiant Brow, that 'tis the last
Request of his expiring Brother, that
The Wrongs of Altomar be ne'er remember'd.
No Schriech-owl Fame dare croak my dying Wounds;
But let him cherish this dear Sacred Prince:
For he's the Father to my Royal Bride;
And his kind Hand has given me Artemira.
King.
Bright Miracle! prodigious Goodness! Gods,
Must so much Worth, and so much Honor die?
Alt.
Oh stop your violent Griefs. Alas, great Sir,
I am your Son, we're both your Children now,
And cannot bear our drooping Father's Woe.
Art.
Oh cruel Sir, why are you kind too late?
Why was not I my dear Lord's Bride till now?
Why did not your poor Artemira
In these dear Arms, these circling Glories shine?
Could nothing but an Empire make him mine?
Oh the ill judging World!
King.
Poor injur'd Girl!
Art.
Has he more Love, more Charms, more Hearts to give me,
Because he's Heir t'a Crown. Ah no, he was
To me my King, my World, my Heaven before,
And Crowns and Empires could not make him more.
Alt.
Oh Artemira, take me on thy Breast.
My Royal Saint, what Heavn of Bliss
Should we possess if I had Life to love thee.
But Oh a Cloud o'ercasts my Rising Sun:
Just when my Joys begin, my Life is done.
[Dies.
Art.
He's gon, he's gon, and do I stay behind?
King.
Farewell dear martyr'd Saint;
That parting Sigh that breaks thy Heart stabs mine.
50
Oh Murder, Ruine, Horror and Despair,
That ghastly Scene of Blood!—Blood did I say!
Fye! these are Ruby Bracelets on his Arms,
Those Scarlet Love-Knots my kind Father tied,
To bind two dying bleeding Hearts together.
King.
Poor injur'd Innocence, look up and live.
Art.
Live cruel Father! love like me and live!
Not to be Empress of a thousand Worlds.
A Love like mine. Oh Father, Love's a God-head—
Yes a blind God, his Lights all drown'd like mine.
And is he blind indeed! how came he blind?
Say, did he weep his Eyes out for my Altomar?
Oh my sick Soul!
King.
Speak to thy wretched Father.
Art.
Ha! is't my Love that calls me? See
His mounting Chariot hastens me away.
I come my Altomar, my Life I come.
[Stabs her self.
Oh see the Gods our Nuptials do prepare.
See Altomar, see Artemira there.
The Feasting Gods with Bridal Chaplets crownd,
Whilst to the Poles the jocund Orbs resound,
And all the Nectar of their Heav'n goes round.
In thy chaste Arms thy glittering Bride enfold:
Her Palace archt with Gemms, and paved with Gold.
[Dies.
King.
Was ever wretched Father damn'd as I am?
But I am safe, his dying Breath forgave me.
No, generous Prince, thy Mercy soar'd too high:
Thou mayest forgive thy Murder, but not I.
[Stabs himself.
Mor.
Why this rash Deed?
King.
No, 'tis a Noble Deed.
Should Guilt and Shame survive when Vertue bleeds?
I'm but the meanest Wretch this Storm has wrack'd.
That pair of faithful Lovers died before me.
When Natures Wealth, all her rich Fraught sinks down,
Surely the Lumber of the World may drown.
Morat, as e'er thou lov'st thy dying King,
See my Bones lodg'd in that wrong'd Prince's Grave;
51
Lay my Head low beneath his Royal Feet.
[Dies.
Mor.
See here the dire Effects of unkind Parents;
Our whole World bleeds for their unhappy Loves.
How calm a Stream is Love when unoppos'd:
But stop'd, the impetuous Torrent does o'erturne
Whole sinking Kingdoms, and makes Empires mourn.
[Exeunt Omnes.
| The heir of Morocco, with the Death of Gayland | |