University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

Mustapha, Zanger.
Zanger.
Mustapha!

Mustapha.
Zanger!

Zanger.
Brother of my love—
O greatly, dearly welcome!

Mustapha.
O my Zanger!
My heart has sicken'd to transfuse itself
Into thy faithful bosom. Friendship mourn'd,
And found himself unblest for want of thee,
Thou soul of tenderness, to wake anew
His holy flame, and light it into rapture.

Zanger.
O more than brother! O my nobler self!
I swear by honor, by the sacred instinct
That nature kindled in my infant breast,
That taste improv'd, and reason makes immortal;
My soul that languish'd for thee, finds her powers
Restor'd to health and vigor in thy presence:
Nor more refreshing are the dews of heaven
To Araby's dry desart, than to me
Thy sight and wish'd return!

Mustapha.
May fame renounce
And scorn my name, if I not prize thy love
Beyond renown; beyond th' applauding shouts
Of myriads in the lawrel'd front of war.

Zanger.
O thou hast fir'd my soul! thy voice recalls
The days of glory, when I trac'd thy steps
Thro' honor's rugged paths to noble danger!
The watch by night; the weary march by day;
The battle's open rage; the dark assault,
Where unknown perils dwelt; the sum of toils,
That fame imposes, and ambition courts!

Mustapha.
Ah, Zanger—those blest days are fled for ever!

Zanger.
What says my friend?

Mustapha.
Alas! I am no more
That brother of the war, whose honest name
Thy partial love has lavishly adorn'd.
Zanger, in me thine eyes behold a slave,
Disgrac'd! disarm'd!

Zanger.
O my presaging heart!
The Vizir—

Mustapha.
He.

Zanger.
Blue plagues upon him!—yes,
I have of late, I have observ'd his visage
O'ercast with dark reserve; his speech ambiguous,
Broken, and shifting quick, or pausing short.
Even when he talk'd no more, fell mischief lour'd
And boded in his silence. But I thought not—
How could fair Honor think, his hell-born arts
Took aim at you?—It is not, cannot be.
Our father loves you to your worth's extent:
Then who dares be your foe?

Mustapha.
I have not learnt
By what pernicious tales the Sultan's ear
Hath been abus'd: nor can thy plainness think,
Thy honest soul, what arrows of the dark
Close Hatred shoots with; various, secret, sudden,
And fatal every shaft. Some three moons past,
A present of delicious fruit was brought me,
The first and fairest of the bounteous year;
Season'd with complements of high regard,
And profer'd love. I bad the bearer taste
What seem'd most exquisite. 'Twas sure my genius
That gave the strong alarm. Th' unwary slave
Ate freely—But, O heaven! the lightning's flash
Scarce swifter kills. His ghastly eye-balls roll'd;
Convulsions shook his frame—he groan'd! he died!
Expir'd before mine eyes!—O noble Zanger,
The hand from whence that mortal present came
I must not, will not guess!

Zanger.
Do not, my brother:
Lest I should spurn all human ties, and curse
Whom nature bids me reverence. Filial virtue!
Forgive the direful thought that wakens here—
Away—to harbor it were parricide—
Alas! my brother, friendship makes me impious!
And now, thy sight, whence I had hop'd all joy—
Thy sight distresses me—Why didst thou come?
O cruel rashness!—wherefore art thou here?
To heap damnation on their heads! on mine
Horror and sure despair!

Mustapha.
Look on me, Zanger.
Thy virtuous softness, while it charms, distracts me.
Let me not see thy tears—they melt away
My firmer heart—Indeed I am to blame
To wound thy gentle nature with this tale—
I am, by heaven—I should have lock'd it up
Even from my own reflection for thy sake.
Turn this way, hear me, friend.—Had I not come,
Not paid obedience to a father's order,
I had avow'd a guilt that fled the light,
And merited the fate I meanly shun'd:
Nay more, had furnish'd to my honor's foe
Sure arms against my self; to stab me, Zanger,
Thro' all succeeding ages, in my fame?
And what are thousand temporary deaths
To one, one cureless wound that bleeds for ever?
Well, Osman.