University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE, The Foot of a Hill, near the Gate of the City, with a Prospect of a Cave.
Enter Selim, and Sizangar.
Selim.
(Aside.)
This must not be! Time shou'd be gain'd for Thought!
Sizangar, I approve your good Design:
Where Secrets, of such Consequence as this,
Lodge in a Subject's Breast, not to disclose them
Were passive Treason. Is your Letter sent?

Sizang.
Wise Sir, it is. The Emperor receiv'd,
And read it, seem'd surpriz'd; and bade me come
At close of Day, and I shou'd be admitted
To secret Conference, in the Royal Closet.
I left the Presence strait; and hasted hither;
Impatient for your Counsel, how to act.

Selim.
'Twas wrong: I shou'd have been advis'd with first,
Ere you had giv'n that Paper.—(Guide me, Heav'n,
To find some swift Prevention of this Ill!)
They say, Sizangar, when Caimantha, first
Was banish'd, you attended her; I think,
I never heard her Story perfectly;
As it relates to this unhappy Man,
'Tis needful, I shou'd know it.—This gains time!

Sizang.
My Lord, I am well vers'd in all that Tale,
And will, at large, instruct you.—When Caimantha
Was first made Empress, she engross'd the Heart
Of our Great Monarch: and continued lov'd,
'Till, having borne the Princes, first Omalco,
And then young Zarodin, she grew at last,
A third time pregnant: Then it was, that Uncham
Made that rash Vow, that if a Son was born,
Himself, who gave it Life, wou'd give it Death.

Selim.
Ay! but the Cause? Why made he that rash Vow?

Sizang.
Our Monarch, in his youth, was apt to dream,
And, oft, his Dreams were fatal: Thrice, one Night,
His Sleep was broke, with the repeated Vision
Of hoary Charilac, the God of Groves;
Three Times the Emp'ror kneeling, ask'd, what Fate
His Reign shou'd end in? And, as oft, distinctly,
The visionary God, thus answer'd loud:
“Curs'd for thy Crimes, Caimantha bears a Son,
“Whose prosp'rous Virtue shall attain thy Crown,
“And give thee Death, deserv'd by bloody Deeds.

Selim.
The sport of Fancy!

Sizang.
Yet, so much it mov'd him,
That, publickly, he bow'd before the Sun,
And made that solemn Vow; I told but now,
At large, what follow'd: By a dead-born Daughter,
Which made the Ill he fear'd impossible,
'Twas hop'd, his Mind wou'd strait recover Ease;
But Fate refus'd it; and, from that curs'd Dream,
Caimantha lost his Love; and grew more hated,
Till he decreed, at last, her Banishment.

Selim.
What Place appointed he, for her Reception?

Sizang.
Remote from China's Coast, there lies an Isle,
Whose Shores are wash'd, by the Bornæan Seas;
Astran, I think, its Name; Desart, and Wild!
Fit scene of Sorrow; and a Seat for Woe.
Bound towards this dismal Isle, with sev'n Attendants,
A small, but faithful Train: A prosp'rous Gale
Swell'd our spread Sails; and, right afore the Wind,
We plow'd the foamy Billows: 'Till, one Night,
Sailing by Moon-light, close along the Shoar
Of huge Sumatra's high, and rocky Coast;
Far, in the East of Heav'n, appear'd a Cloud,
Of Form unusual: 'Twas, in Magnitude,
Like a young Moon; an Edge of angry Red
Glow'd round its dusky Centre: Long we gaz'd;
And long 'twas motionless; but, on a sudden,
Dreadful, it spread; and darken'd all the Sky.
A rattling Show'r pour'd heavily upon us;
And the Sea swell'd, with angry Jealousy,
As if another Sea were emptying on him.
Still, as the Rain increas'd, so rose the Wind;
And loudly whistled through our bursting Sails,
From ev'ry Corner of, the gloomy Heav'ns.
A thousands Tempests blew, a thousand ways,
And ev'ry single Tempest seem'd a thousand.

Selim.
Methinks, I feel the Storm: 'Twas, sure, most dreadful!

Sizang.
Above our frighted Heads, loud Thunder roar'd:
Below, the yawning Deep out-roar'd the Thunder.
Now rose th'unguided Ship, above the Hills,
By which we sail'd: Now fell, beneath their Roots:
Till shooting down a steep, a watry Vale,
Tremendous Depth! a Mountain Wave roll'd in;
O! Horror! After this, she rose no more.
The helpless Hull lay found'ring in the Deep,
When, by a sudden Glare of crooked Lightning,
Which, with a swift, a momentary Flash,
Darted Distinction through the horrid Gloom;
I saw the Empress grasp the tott'ring Mast;
And wildly staring, with loud Shrieks, implore
Impossible Assistance; till the Sweep
Of a huge Billow wash'd her from her Hold.
I know not by what Means, but, when the Ship
Was broke, I fasten'd on a friendly Plank,
And, scarce alive, was driv'n ashore, and sav'd:
The only, who escap'd that horrid Wreck.

Selim.
Unhappy Lady!

Sizang.
Much I pitied her:
And, had she liv'd, the Secret I disclose,
Had been a Secret still.

Selim.
I love thy Honesty;
And, as I seek thy Int'rest, will advise:
Methinks, thou shou'dst not—

Enter Arbanes, with a File of Soldiers.
Arbanes.
Sir, the Emperor,
Transported with a sudden Storm of Rage,
Sent me to seek you: Something he has heard,
Moves him unusually; and he commands,
That we permit you not to waste a Moment.

Sizang.
What can this mean?

[Offers to go.
Selim.
Sizangar, stay.

Arbanes.
Great Sir, the Emperor's Orders,
Sudden, and fierce, oblige us, instantly,
To bring Sizangar to the Royal Closet:
And, as we left the Court, Orders were giv'n,
That you, Lord Selim, shou'd attend him strait.

[Exeunt Arbanes, Sizang. and Soldiers.
Selim.
If I should force his Stay? Oh! 'twou'd discover,
Twou'd ruin all. O! Earth! and Air! This Day,
This Hour—
Enter Orontes, like a Moor, with Ipanthe in the Habit of a Man.
Orontes! pity me. O! sweet Ipanthe!
I meet you not with Joy, as I design'd:
I cannot now secure your wish'd Escape;
Swift Danger interrupts my pious Aim,
And, 'stead of saving you, I lose my self:
My Son, my best lov'd Son, is doom'd to die!

Orontes.
An Eunuch's Son!

Ipant.
Your Son? what mean you, Selim?

Selim.
I am no Selim. Pity me, Ipanthe,
I am a Woman: An unhappy Woman;
My Name Caimantha; and the Wife of Uncham.

Ipant.
The shipwreck'd Empress!

Selim.
Shipwreck'd as I was,
The Gods preserv'd me, for a Woe more great.
Oh! you have heard of Uncham's bloody Vow,
What shall I do! my Tenderness deceiv'd him,
He then was absent; warring with the Tartars.
Help Heav'n! I gave it out; and he believes,
I bore a lifeless Daughter'—'Twas a Son:
I hope, still living—Haste, Orontes, with me,
Thy Valour, or thy Eloquence, may save him.
Haste, ere he dies—fly, fly, and, as we go,
I will inform thee—

Orontes.
But Ipanthe's Safety!
How will that be expos'd!

Ipanthe,
Amazement chills me.

Selim.
Amidst yon Rocks, observe a pendant Tree,
Which seems to over-hang the upmost Cliff:
Beneath its Shade, you see a lonely Cave;
There lives a Hermit, void of worldly Cares,
Old, Good, and Wise; tell him, Lord Selim sent you;
Orontes, haste.—Thither, when we return
We come, to seek you.

Ipanthe.
Never, till this moment,
Felt I such inward Horror!

Orontes.
Royal Maid!
Accuse me not, that I neglect your Safety,
When I thus leave you, all expos'd to Chance;
Humanity, and Gratitude, combine,
And, indispensibly, require this Absence:
But, if the Pow'rs—

Selim.
O! waste not Time, in Words,
The vast Importance of the Danger calls;
And only Haste can give me back my Son.

Orontes.
Make to the Cave; and, be the Gods your Guide.

[Exeunt Orontes, and Selim.
Ipanthe.
How shocking this! where we expected Selim,
We find Caimantha! Thought is lost in Wonder!
You Heav'n alone, who knows the Cause of all,
Foresees the dark Event. But, ha! what Hazards,
May good Orontes, by his Honour led,
Run, in a Stranger's Cause! What's this I feel,
As if Orontes' Danger mov'd me, more
Than all the Woman's Fears, which just now, shook me?
Has my chang'd Dress inspir'd my Breast with Courage,
Becoming what I seem? Or, is it—Heav'n!
What was I naming?—yet, he's brave, and great,
And, shou'd he fall, (I cannot ask my Soul
That dreadful Question) what were Life without him?
[The Hermit appears, at the Mouth of his Cave, and comes down the Hill, reading.
The Hermit that:—his venerable Form,
And that abstracted Sanctity of Air
Declare him. Happy he! his humble Fate
Gave him no Royal Father to lament;
No ruin'd Country to deplore; no Birth,
To check his Wishes; and, perhaps, no Wishes:
He looks, as if he knew not what Love means.
He sees me not; and hark! I think, he speaks.

[The Hermit comes forward.
Hermit.
Ha, ha, ha—
'Tis pleasant, to observe the busy Impotence
Of mad Geography! How like our World
Is theirs! The Universe is all the same.
The East, West, North, and South, united Parts
Of one prodigious Brotherhood of Folly.
Why, what a Pother does this flatt'ring Wretch
Make, with his Alexander! what was Alexander?
A lucky Thief, who, scaping Punishment,
Grew proud of Guilt; and triumph'd in his Shame:
A Man, who, scorn'd of Wisdom, courted Fortune;
And, wanting Judgment, to distinguish Dangers,
Rashly subdued 'em: But so ill a Judge
Of Nature's Meaning, that he broke his Rest,
And made his own Life wretched, for the Pow'r
Of giving others Misery! Pray Heav'n,
This Alexander's Soul mislead not Uncham!
[Exit Hermit.

Ipanthe.
He goes; the good, old, Man! I'll follow him:
And, from his sage Discourses, gather Balm,
To cure the wounded Quiet of my Breast.
[Exit Ipanthe.

Trumpets within.
Enter Omalco; and Zarodin, follow'd by a Band of Soldiers.
Omalco.
'Twas through this Eastern Gate, they saw 'em pass;
Which way they bent is doubtful. Zarodin,
What think you, if the Guards ascend the Mountain,

Zarodin.
'Twere proper; for the Road which leads to Menan,
Lies just o'erthwart its Brow.

Omalco.
[To the Soldiers.]
Command the Horse
To form two Bodies; one, let Arcan lead:
The other, Saraphil: By diff'rent ways,
Let 'em surround the Martabanian Rocks,
And meet at Ocris; while, with heedful Eyes,
You climb, from Cliff to Cliff, and search the Hill.
[Some Soldiers go out, and others ascend the Hill.
It shocks me, Zarodin, to think, Sizangar.
Cou'd prove a Traitor; yet, I fear, 'tis so.

Zarodin.
'Twere most ungrateful! Much our Father loves him,
Or had not given Ipanthe to his Care.
But, tell me, By what strange Suspicion led,
Made you this great Discovery?

Omalco.
Oppress'd
With sad Remembrance of our dreadful Vow,
And painfully reflecting what shou'd move
So black a Purpose, in a Virgin's Soul,
I trembled, at a sudden Flash of Fear,
For our great Father's Life: For Women's Passions,
More violent than ours, and less control'd
By Reason, hurry on; and, often, find
Prodigious Means, to act prodigious ills.
Shock'd at the likely Danger, I resolv'd,
Once more, to visit the enrag'd Ipanthe,
That so, if possible, I might discern
Her true Intention; but I found the Prison
Unstrictly guarded, and the Prisoners fled;
Yet not so secretly, but they were seen:
Pursuing them, I met you, at the Gate,
Reviewing, luckily, the Tartar Guards:
I sent our Father Notice, and advis'd him
To seize Sizangar.

Zarodin.
Haste we, tow'rds the Wood,
Our Horses wait us there. Swift let us be,
The least Delay in us, may give them Safety.

Omalco.
Ha! Zarodin! The guiding Gods have sent
Ipanthe hither. See! the artful Maid!
'Tis she. Love knows her, through her weak Disguise.

Zarodin.
What bearded Animal is that, who walks
So near her?

Omalco.
'Tis the old Acandrian Bramin;
Whose Virtues all Men speak of: Stand we close,
Behind this jutting Rock; so, shall we hear,
What they discourse; perhaps, Orontes follows.

[They retire, behind a Scene.
Re-enter the Hermit, with Ipanthe.
Ipanthe.
'Tis wond'rous moving, Father, all you say!
Methinks, the World, instructed by your Precepts,
Might learn to judge of Happiness, like you:
But you neglect Mankind; and, living, thus,
Retir'd, and lonely, few can see that Worth,
Which, seeing, all, perhaps, might imitate.

Hermit.
Alas, good Youth! Thou hast not learnt to know,
That Man is feeble, not averse to Virtue;
For Virtue cannot woo the Soul in vain:
But, indolent, and all enslav'd to Sense,
We see the Pleasure-baited Hook of Sin,
And, seeing, gape, to swallow it. We know,
But, knowing, will not toil, to shun, the Net,
That bitter-hearted Sweetness spreads, to take us.
Supinely thoughtless, all misled by Appetite,
We judge Things good, or ill, not as they are,
But, as they quadrate with our wild Desires.
'Tis not the Task of such a Worm as I,
To influence the World, with Sense of Virtue:
Then only Reason charms, when link'd with Pow'r:
Aw'd to Attention by the last, the first
Prevails insensibly: But humble Truth
Wants Height to be conspicuous, 'midst a Croud
Of tow'ring Falsehoods, and the Pomp of Sin.
Stay, gentle Youth, I slake my daily Thirst,
At yon clear Spring, which, gushing from the Hill,
Falls murm'ring on the Grot, that lies below:
The Path is craggy; and I ghess your Feet
Unus'd to rugged Ways. I'll strait return,
And lead you to my Cave.
[Exit Hermit.

Ipanthe.
Charm'd by the Virtues, which adorn this Man,
I grieve with Shame, that I, so long, mistook
The Pride of Courts for real Happiness.
Now Judgment widens; and I see with scorn,
That Rich, and Poor, the Vulgar, and the Great,
Are false Distinctions. 'Tis the Mind alone,
Shou'd give the Man deserv'd Preheminence.
'Tis strange to think, how Heav'n distributes Blessings!
Had China's Throne a good, great Monarch in it!
How happy were the Nations he commands!
Instead of that, it bears a Wretch, whose Height
Of Station serves, but to direct his Eye
To far-spread Mischiefs, and more wide Oppression.
While, here, a Man, whose Virtues, on a Throne,
Wou'd bless the Wretched, and make glad the World,
Sleeps on a Bed of Stone; and drinks cold Water!
Save me! surround me, all ye pitying Pow'rs!

[Going out, meets Omalco, and starts back.
Omalco.
To try her Strength of Soul, I'll, yet, conceal
That I discover her. Whence comes it, Stranger!
That you, a Man, and arm'd, start at a Man?

Ipanthe.
Not at a Man, I start! I know not Fear:
But it surpriz'd me, in this lonely Vale,
To meet the mighty Heir to China's Throne.

Omalco.
You know me then! To me your Person seems
A Stranger. Tell me, what you are, and why,
Alone, and frighted, as you look'd, but now,
Tread you this craggy Way?

Ipanthe.
A Friend to Thought,
And Contemplation, oft, I thus retire:
Muse on the Woes of Life; and shun the World.

Omalco.
I doubt, young Man, those Thoughts are oft employ'd,
On Themes illegal; and I, thence, command you
To follow me to Court,

Ipanthe.
Command me, Sir?
Your sceptred Father has not Pow'r for that;
I serve not China: Born in free Pegu,
I boast a Native Liberty; a Liberty,
The Man, who wou'd destroy, must conquer first.

Omalco.
Thou wou'dst dispute it then?

Ipanthe.
Proud Prince, I wou'd.
Be thus convinc'd,
[Draws.]
Orontes! if I fall,
Thou wilt revenge me. Better die, unknown,
Than be a Slave, discover'd.

[Aside.]
Omalco.
Hold, brave Maid!
Forgive me, that I dispossess your Hand
Of this ill-mang'd Sword. Those killing Eyes
Have deeper wounded me, than this cou'd do.
I know Ipanthe's lovely Face, too well
To be deceiv'd by Dress. Thou cruel Charmer!
Why did the Powers, who made thy Form divine,
Not give thy Mind a softness!

Ipanthe.
Am I known?
And treated thus, by one, who, lately, swore,
He lov'd Ipanthe? Boast, unmanly Wretch,
Your mighty Courage has o'ercome a Woman.
But, thou art Uncham's Son, and, in that Name,
I call thee all, that all thy Crimes deserve.
O! hadst thou heard, but now, an old Man's Thoughts,
Thou wou'dst have trembled, to compare thy Deeds
With what thy Deeds shou'd be.

Omalco.
That old Man's Thoughts
I shall, at Leisure, hear; nor hear unpleas'd:
My Brother seiz'd him, as he went from you;
And leads him to the Town. But, now, Ipanthe!
Where is Orontes? Lay aside this Rage,
Which ill becomes your Fortune, or your Sex:
Forget the bloody view of your Revenge;
And, if I must not call my self your Lover,
Receive me, as the Servant of your Will.

Ipanthe.
If, conscious of base Guilt, from me you fear
The dire Revenge, your Father's Crimes deserve,
Your Fears are needless: Vengeance is not mine,
The Gods will pay it: But those Gods have, now,
Try'd you, by fair Occasion, to disclaim.
Your Father's Vices; so, renouncing Guilt,
You shun their Anger: Wretched, and forlorn,
You see a helpless Orphan, in your Pow'r.
What hinders, but you give me back a Liberty,
Whose Loss can only gain you the Reproach
Of Tears, in anxious Bitterness of Soul.
By acting thus, Omalco proves his Mind
Gen'rous, and Noble: All the World will join,
To bless that Hand, which makes the Wretched happy.

Omalco.
Charm'd by the magic Force of mournful Beauty,
I half forget, my Father's Life depends
On her Confinement, O dissembling Maid!
Remember, how your artful Cruelty
Misled my Passion to a bloody Vow.
How know I, but, even now, Orontes seeks
Occasion, to compleat your barb'rous, Wish!
Disclose the Place, in which he lies conceal'd,
And, by my Great Forefathers awful Names,
My self will set you free; and see you reign,

Ipanthe.
Shall Siam's Princess sell a brave Man's Life?
What greater Villany con'd China do?
Shame on your proffer'd Grace! Load me with Chains:
And, that my woe may be, at once, compleat,
Insult me, hourly, with your horrid Love.
I'll bear it all, unmov'd Orontes, free,
Shall make you tremble; and revenge my Wrongs.
Ere this, beyond the reach of your Prevention,
He sends his Name before him; rowses Siam,
And arms the Vengeance of an injur'd People.
Now, lead your Captive; and enjoy your Triumph:
I will not shrink from Fate. Or, see, I'll lead
The way; and bid my Conqu'ror follow me.
Exit Ipanthe.

Omalco.
How I admire this Woman's haughty Soul!
Curse on the needless War, which made us Foes.
These are thy Trophies, O perplex'd Ambition!
What Man, when he begins to practise Ills,
Can fix a Point to end at? Siam's Fall,
Productive of a thousand rising Woes,
Gives China Curses; and Omalco Scorn.