 | Alzira |  |
ACT IV.
Don Alvarez and Don Carlos.Shouts, Trumpets, a long and lofty Flourish.
Alv.
Deserve, my son, this triumph of your arms:
Your numbers, and your courage, have prevail'd;
And of this last best effort of the foe,
Half are no more; and half are yours, in chains.
Disgrace not due success, by undue cruelties:
But call in mercy, to support your fame.
I will go visit the afflicted captives,
And pour compassion on their aching wounds.
Meanwhile, remember, you are man and christian.
Bravely, at once, resolve to pardon Zamor.
—Fain wou'd I soften this indocile fierceness;
And teach your courage how to conquer hearts.
D. Car.
Your words pierce mine—freely devote my life,
But leave at liberty my just revenge.
Pardon him—Why! the savage brute is lov'd!
Alv.
Th'unhappily belov'd most merit pity.
D. Car.
Pity!—Cou'd I be sure of such reward,
I wou'd die pleas'd—and she shou'd pity me.
Alv.
How much to be lamented is a heart,
At once by rage of headlong will oppress'd,
And by strong jealousies and doubtings torn!
D. Car.
When jealousy becomes a crime—Guard, Heaven,
That husband's honour, whom his wife not loves!
Your pity takes in all the world—but me.
Alv.
Mix not the bitterness of distant fear
With your arriv'd misfortunes.—Since Alzira
Has virtue, it will prove a wiser care
To soften her, for change, by patient tenderness,
Than, by reproach, confirm a willing hate.
Her heart is, like her country, rudely sweet—
Repelling force, but gentle to be kind.
Softness will soonest bend the stubborn will.
D. Car.
Softness!—by all the wrongs of woman's hate,
Too much of softness but invites disdain.
Flatter'd too long, beauty at length grows wanton,
And, insolently scornful, slights it's praiser.
Oh, rather, Sir, be jealous for my glory;
And urge my doubting anger to resolve.
Too low already, condescension bow'd,
Nor blush'd, to match the conqu'ror with the slave!
But, when this slave, unconscious what she owes,
Proudly repays humility with scorn,
And braves, and hates the unaspiring love,
Such love is weakness—and submission, there,
Gives sanction to contempt, and rivets pain.
Alv.
Thus, youth is ever apt to judge in haste,
And lose the medium in the wild extreme.
Do not repent, but regulate, your passion:
Though love is reason, it's excess is rage.
Give me, at least, your promise, to reflect,
In cool, impartial, solitude: and still,
No last decision, till we meet again.
D. Car.
It is my father asks—and, had I will,
Nature denies me power, to answer, No.
I will, in wisdom's right, suspend my anger.
—Yet—Spare my loaded heart—nor add more weight;
Lest my strength fall beneath th'unequal pressure.
Alv.
Grant yourself time, and all you want comes with it.
[Exit.
D. Car.
[Alone.]
And—must I coldly then, to pensive piety,
Give up the livelier joys of wish'd revenge!
Must I repel the guardian cares of jealousy,
And flacken every rein to rival love!
Must I reduce my hopes beneath a savage?
And poorly envy such a wretch as Zamor!
A coarse luxuriance of spontaneous virtue!
A shoot of rambling, fierce, offensive freedom:
Nature's wild growth—strong, but unprun'd, in daring.
A rough, raw woodman, of this rugged clime;
Illit'rate in the arts of polish'd life;
And who, in Europe, where the fair can judge,
Wou'd hardly, in our courts, be call'd a man!
12
Enter Alzira.
Al.
You turn, and shun me!—So, I have been told,
Spaniards, by custom, meet submissive wives.—
But, hear me, Sir—hear, even a suppliant wife;
Hear this unguilty object of your anger,
One, who can rev'rence, though she cannot love you:
One, who is wrong'd herself, not injures you:
One, who indeed is weak—and wants your pity.
I cannot wear disguise: be it th'effect
Of greatness, or of weakness, in my mind,
My tongue cou'd ne'er be mov'd, but my heart:
And that—was vow'd another's.—If he dies,
The honest plainness of my soul destroys him.—
You look surpris'd—I will, still more, surprise you.
I come, to try you deeply—for I mean
To move the husband, in the lover's favour!
—I had half flatter'd my unpractis'd hope,
That you, who govern others, shou'd yourself
Be temp'rate in the use of your own passions.
Nay, I persuaded my unchristian ign'rance,
That an ambitious warrior's infelt pride
Shou'd plead in pardon of that pride in others.
—This I am sure of—that, forgiving mercy
Wou'd stamp more influence on our Indian hearts,
Than all our gold on those of men like you.
Who knows, did such a change endear your breast,
How far the pleasing force might soften mine?
Your right secures you my respect and faith—
Strive for my love—strive for whatever else
May charm—if aught there is can charm like love.
—Forgive me: I shall be betray'd by fear,
To promise, till I Lover-charge my power.—
Yet—try what changes gratitude can make.
A Spanish wife, perhaps, would promise more:
Profuse in charms, and prodigal of tears,
Wou'd promise all things—and forget 'em all.
But I have weaker charms, and simpler arts.
Guileless of soul, and left as nature formd me,
I err, in honest innocence of aim,
And, seeking to compose, inflame you more.
All I can add, is this—Unlovely force
Shall never bow me to reward constraint.
But—to what lengths I may be led, by benefits,
'Tis in your power to try, not mine to tell.
D. Car.
'Tis well.—Since justice has such pow'r to guide you,
That you may follow-duty, know it first.
Count modesty among your country's virtues;
And copy, not condemn, the wives of Spain.
'Tis your first lesson, Madam, to forget.
—Become more delicate, if not more kind,
And never let me hear the name I hate.—
You shou'd learn, next, to blush away your haste,
And wait in silence, till my will resolves
What punishment, or pity, suits his crimes.—
Know, last, that (thus provok'd) a husband's clemency
Out-stretches nature, if it pardons you.
Learn thence, ungrateful! that I want not pity.
And be the last to dare believe me cruel.
[Exit Don Carlos.
Emi.
Madam, be comforted—I mark'd him well;
I see, he loves; and love will make him softer.
Al.
Love has no pow'r to act, when curb'd by jealousy.
Zamor must die—for I have ask'd his life.
Why did not I foresee the likely danger?—
But has thy care been happier?—Canst thou save him?
Far, far, divided from me, may he live!—
Hast thou made trial of his keeper's faith?
Emi.
Gold, that with Spaniards, can outweigh their God,
Has bought his hand—and, so his faith's your own.
Al.
Then Heav'n be bless'd, this metal, form'd for crimes,
Sometimes atones the wrongs 'tis dug to cause!—
But, we lose time—Why dost thou seem to pause?
Emi.
I cannot think they purpose Zamor's death.
Alvarez has not lost his pow'r so far,
Nor can the council—
Al.
They are Spaniards all.
Mark the proud, partial guilt of these vain men:
Ours, but a country held to yield them slaves:
Who reign our kings, by right of diff'rent clime.
Zamor, meanwhile, by birth, true sovereign here,
Weighs but a rebel in their righteous scale.
Oh, civiliz'd assent of social murder!—
But why, Emira, should this soldier stay?
Emi.
We may expect him instantly. The night,
Methinks, grown darker, veils your bold design,
Wearied by slaughter, and unwash'd from blood,
The world's proud spoilers all lie hush'd in sleep.
Al.
Away, and find this Spaniard. Guilt's bought hand
Opening the prison, innocence goes free.
Emi.
See! by Cephania led, he comes with Zamor.
Be cautious, Madam, at so dark an hour,
Lest, met, suspected honour should be lost;
And modesty, mistaken, suffer shame.
Al.
What does thy ill-taught fear mistake for shame?
Virtue, at midnight, walks as safe within,
As in the conscious glare of flaming day.
She who in forms finds virtue, has no virtue.
All the shame lies in hiding honest love.
Honour, the alien phantom, here unknown,
Lends but a length'ning shade to setting virtue.
Honour's not love of innocence, but praise;
The tear of censure, not the scorn of sin.
But I was taught, in a sincerer clime,
That virtue, tho' it shines not, still is virtue;
And inbred honour grows not, but at home.
This, my heart knows; and, knowing, bids me dare,
Should Heav'n forsake the just, be bold and save him.
Enter Zamor, with Cephania, and a Spanish Soldier.
Ah, fly! thy hopes are lost; thy torturer's ready.
Escape this moment, or thou stay'st to die.
Haste—lose no time—be gone: this guardian Spaniard
Will teach thee to deceive the murderer's hope.
Reply not; judge thy fate from my despair;
Save, by thy flight, the man I love from death;
The man whom I have sworn t'obey, from blood;
And a lost world, that knows thy worth, from tears.
Thy country calls thee; night conceals thy steps.
Pity thy fate, and leave me to my own.
Za.
Thou robber's property! Thou christian's wife!
Thou, who dar'st love me, yet dar'st bid me live!
If I must live, come thou, to make life tempting.
But 'twas a cruel wish—How could I shield thee,
Stript of my power and friends, and nothing left me,
But wrongs and misery?—I have no dower
To tempt reluctant love. All thou canst share
With me, will be—my desart—and my heart.
When I had more, I laid it at thy feet.
Al.
Ah, what are crowns that must no more be thine?
I lov'd not power, but thee: thyself once lost,
What has an empty world to tempt my stay?
Far in the depth of thy sad desarts, trac'd,
My heart will seek thee. Fancy, there, misleads,
13
And preys upon my solitude; there leaves me,
To languish life out in unheard complaints;
To waste and wither in the tearless winds;
And die with shame at breach of plighted faith,
For being only thine—and yet another's.
Go, carry with thee both my peace and life,
And leave—ah, would thou could'st!—thy sorrows here.
I have my lover and my fame to guard,
And I will save them both—Be gone—for ever.
Za.
I hate this fame, false avarice of fancy;
The sickly shade of an unsolid greatness;
The lying lure of pride, that Europe cheats by:
Perish the groundless seemings of their virtue!
But shall forc'd oaths at hated christians' altars,
Shall gods, who rob the gods of our forefathers,
Shall these obtrude a lord, and blast a lover?
Al.
Since it was sworn, or to your gods or theirs,
What help is left me?
Za.
None.—Adieu—for ever.
Al.
Stay—What a farewel this!—Return,
I charge thee.
Za.
Carlos, perhaps, will hear thee.
Al.
Ah, pity, rather
Than thus upbraid my wretchedness!
Za.
Think, then,
On our past vows.
Al.
I think of nothing now,
But of thy danger.
Za.
Oh, thou hast undone
The tend'rest, fondest lover!
Al.
Still I love;
Crime as it is, I love thee. Leave me, Zamor,
Leave me alone to die—Ha! cruel! tell me,
What horrible despair, revolving wildly,
Bursts from thy eyes, with purpose more than mortal?
Za.
It shall be so.
[Going.
Al.
What would'st thou? Whither go'st thou?
[Holding him.
Za.
To make a proper use of unhop'd freedom.
Al.
By Heav'n, if 'tis to death, I'll follow thee.
Za.
Horrors, unmix'd with love, demand me now.
Leave me—Time flies—Night blackens—Duty calls.—
Soldier, attend my steps.
[Exit hastily.
Al.
Alas, Emira!
I faint—I die—In what ungovern'd start
Of some rash thought he left me?—Haste, Emira,
Watch his fear'd meaning; trace his fatal footsteps;
And, if thou seest him safe, return, and bless me.
[Exit Emira.
A black, presaging sorrow swells my heart!
What could a day like this produce, but woe?
Oh, thou dark, awful, vast, mysterious Power,
Whom christians worship, yet not comprehend!
If, ignorant of thy new laws, I stray,
Shed from thy distant heav'n, where'er it shines,
One ray of guardian light, to clear my way:
And teach me, first to find, then act, thy will.
But, if my only crime is love of Zamor,
If that offends thy sight, and claims thy anger,
Pour thy due vengeance on my hopeless head;
For I am then a wretch, too lost for mercy.
Yet, be the wanderer's guide, amidst his desarts!
Greatly dispense thy good with equal hand;
Nor, partial to the partial, give Spain all.
Thou canst not be confin'd to care of parts;
Heedless of one world, and the other's father;
Vanquish'd and victors are alike to thee;
And all our vain distinctions mix before thee.
Ah, what foreboding shriek!—Again! and louder!
Oh, Heav'n! amidst the wildness of that sound,
I heard the name of Zamor!—Zamor's lost—
Hark!—a third time!—and now the mingled cries
Come quick'ning on my ear!
Enter Emira, frighted.
—Emira, save me!
What has he done?—In pity of my fears,
Speak, and bestow some comfort.
Emi.
Comfort is lost;
And all the rage of death has sure possess'd him.
First, he chang'd habits with the trembling soldier;
Then snatch'd his weapon from him.—The robb'd wretch
Flew, frighted, toward the gate—while furious Zamor,
Wild, as the fighting rage of wint'ry winds,
Rush'd to the public hall, where sits the council.
Following, I saw him pass the sleeping guards;
But lost him when he enter'd. In a moment,
I heard the sound of voices cry, He's dead.
Then, clam'rous calls from ev'ry way at once,
To arms, to arms!—Ah, Madam, stay not here!
Fly to the inmost rooms, and shun the danger.
Al.
No, dear Emira; rather let us try,
Whether our weakness may not find some means,
Late and unlikely as it is, to save him.
I, too, dare die.
Emi.
They come—Protect us, Heaven!
Enter Don Alonzo.
Alon.
Madam, you stir no farther—I have orders
To seize your person. 'Tis a charge unwish'd.
Al.
Whence dost thou come? What fury sent thee hither?
What is become of Zamor?
Alon.
At a time
So full of danger, my respect gives way
To duty—You must please to follow me.
Al.
Oh, fortune, fortune!—This is too severe!
Zamor is dead, and I am only captive!
Why dost thou weep? What have a Spaniard's tears
To do with woes, which none but Spaniards cause?
Come; if to death thou lead'st me, 'twill be kind.
There only, weakness wrong'd, can refuge find.
[Exeunt.
| Alzira | |