 | Zobeide |  |
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ACT III.
SCENE I.
ATHAMAND, HASAN.ATHAMAND.
I knew it was—I could foresee it all—
Gods! could it be Zobeide?
HASAN.
At your approach
Fear and amazement shook that beauteous form,
And life itself stood trembling on her cheek;
But in those moments with a fault'ring voice,
She tenderly pronounc'd the name of Media.
A Scythian told me this—a hardy youth,
Who once beneath our honour'd banners fought.
The father and the husband now are with her.
ATHAMAND.
The husband! Who?
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The valiant Indater,
The hope and glory of this fam'd republic,
To Zobeide here he swore eternal ardor,
Beneath the cypress shade—at this rude altar;
As you advanc'd she sunk o'erwhelm'd with terrors;
But then a fair attendant crowd press'd on,
And bore her weeping to yon rustic roofs.
ATHAMAND.
No more, my friend; I can endure no more—
My griefs pour in so fast, I cannot pause
To separate the tortures that surround me.
Why should she tremble when she touch'd the altar?
Ah! why indeed!—She knew my glaring crimes,
She knew an altar could not yield protection,
She saw her father most unjustly banish'd,
Herself too driv'n to these inhuman desarts,
The sum of all her woes was present to her,
And I the fatal hated cause of all.
HASAN.
Her father—
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Had the proud exile read my heart,
He then must have appeas'd the woes I suffer'd,
He then had pardon'd, and thou might'st have sooth'd me.
But now I rave—O pity my distraction!
The fire-ey'd transports of tyrannic love!
Hell is in ev'ry thought.—But say, my Hasan,
Did she not faintly name her native country?
HASAN.
No doubt she still must love—
ATHAMAND.
She loves it not.
She love her native land?—She weds a Scythian.
I see him in her arms—O hold my brain!
She twines him now with unrepining rapture.
Seize him this instant, Hasan;
Go, cloud the honours of the fell barbarian;
Tell him, his life shall dearly pay the price—
Crimes damn'd like these shall feel a monarch's vengeance.
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O think, my prince, you're not at Ecbatan;
Your voice decides not here—here may you perish;
Are you not now within those curst domains,
Where many of your ancestors have bled?
ATHAMAND.
Here too I'll bleed. [Flourish.]
What martial sounds are those?
Whence are these rustic troops, who, high in air,
Brandish their threat'ning spears?
HASAN.
Such are their sports;
'Tis thus they celebrate the festive day,
By nature fond of valorous exploit.
But O retire! at distance I descry
The ling'ring bride—as yet we're unobserv'd;—
Let prudence guide you now—the time's at hand,
Remote from all, you may again behold her,
And speak the troubles of your lab'ring breast.
[Exeunt.
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[Returning from the altar.]
Now the Rites are all complete,
All their Views, their Actions pure,
Honour, Truth, and Reason meet,
Love created to endure.
ZOBEIDE, SULMA.
Re-enter ATHAMAND.
ATHAMAND.
My life, my love! O stay, my better angel!
ZOBEIDE.
What will my fate do with me? Ah! my Sulma,
This storm will overwhelm me—'tis too much.
Cease, thou false persecuting prince;
What would'st thou add to all the woes I've suffer'd?
ATHAMAND.
Hear but a moment—
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Ought I, barbarous man!
Consider where I am, and what would Athamand?
ATHAMAND.
By love conducted from the Persian throne,
I come to cast an empire at thy feet;
By Smerdis' death I'm lord of half the world;
I'm lord of all, if Zobeide smiles upon me.
ZOBEIDE.
What hast thou said? too cruel! Why from afar
Com'st thou to plant new troubles in my breast?
When first I listen'd to the soothing tale,
No king, enforcing Hymen's awful rites,
Had doom'd thy hand to one more worthy of thee.
But now—
Without a crime thou canst not share my heart,
Without a crime I cannot listen to thee:
Those hallow'd rites have bound my humbler choice;
Take pity, and respect the gentle Indater—
ATHAMAND.
A Scythian!—so low—so vile—
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Despise him not,
He far surpasses Athamand in virtue.
ATHAMAND.
Who could surpass me, had I power to charm thee?
Thy love alone would stamp immortal fame;
Thy love is fate to me—it caus'd my crimes;
And love must free me to a gazing world.
ZOBEIDE.
If thou hadst sooner felt this generous flame—
Now 'tis too late.
ATHAMAND.
This is the pressing hour,
Fly hence, partake the glories of my reign;
O! fly with me, to dignify dominion.
ZOBEIDE.
May'st thou, remote, far, far from these sad eyes,
Behold thy reign most favour'd by the Gods!
ATHAMAND.
I will not reign without thee—Robb'd of thee,
Empire itself's a curse.
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O think!—your glory—
ATHAMAND.
My glory 'tis to love you.
ZOBEIDE.
Ill-fated hour!
When first you swore fidelity and truth.
ATHAMAND.
In these vile haunts, can Zobeide waste her days?
ZOBEIDE.
My days were all beset with hideous terrors,
'Till Indater became my kind protector;
If then I live a prey to sullen grief
Or wan despair—'twas Athamand's decree,
For he alone condemn'd me to the desart.
ATHAMAND.
I sue to snatch thee hence; thy hand as yet
Has not confirm'd this most dishonour'd union.
ZOBEIDE.
I've made my vows to heav'n.
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Heav'n heard them not;
Kind heav'n was deaf in pity to my love.
ZOBEIDE.
Think on the ills your faithless love has caus'd;
Think I was driven from a parent soil,
Where ev'ry joy press'd onward to my wishes;
Think what I suffer'd, when o'er trackless wastes
I wander'd all expos'd—When north-winds rag'd,
And hideous monsters howl'd their fell complainings:
Where can the wretched find a peaceful shelter?
Ah! where indeed? When he, her only hope,
Forsook, despis'd, abandon'd, and betray'd her.
ATHAMAND.
No more, my love, at this important hour,
But melt thy father's heart with soft persuasion—
Say to him—
ZOBEIDE.
Never, O! never—choice is made;
I and my friends are destin'd to misfortune;
Urg'd on by Fate, my honour shall not shrink—
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His long-try'd virtue shudders not at dangers.
ATHAMAND.
He is the fatal cause of all our woes.
ZOBEIDE.
Thou art alone to blame—again to see me,
Again to plead and drive me to distraction:
Leave me, my Prince—Be just to wretched Seyfel;
O! leave us here to linger out our days—
My father comes—Begone—this moment leave me.
ATHAMAND.
No, let us bend him from his stubborn purpose.
ZOBEIDE.
I'th'name of love, by all our past misfortunes,
By all that poisons my remaining days,
Fly, nor afflict him with thy cruel presence.
ATHAMAND.
Love plays the tyrant, and commands respect.
Gods! who behold the tortures I endure,
Second my love, or guide me to my vengeance.
[Exit.
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SEYFEL.
This hated foe again! to glut his rage
Must I resign my life?
ZOBEIDE.
He seeks it not.
Dear father, he regards us both—But I,
Spite of his vows, would never see him more.
SEYFEL.
A worthy Scythian now is thine—thy choice
(For I controul'd thee not) receiv'd his homage.
ZOBEIDE.
I knew your will, and never would offend you:
The son of Hermodon was dearest to you.
SEYFEL.
'Tis true he was—a gentle, noble youth,
Most generous and humane—And yet reflect,
There is a harshness in the Scythian manners;
No faults, when known, escape their punishment.
ZOBEIDE.
Why should you seek to terrify my mind?
If I have patient borne for four sad years
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I've made a sacrifice of love to duty;
If I in aught have fail'd, I will atone;
But will not fear a father or a husband.
SEYFEL.
Think not thy father labour'd to reproach thee—
Thy husband was thy choice—he sure is dear:
O may thy peace be henceforth undisturb'd!
Give up this day to merriment and joy!
Forget thy ills—I hasten to the festival.
[Exit Seyfel.
SULMA.
Ah! cruel festival!—You then resolve
To suffer joyless life in these abodes!
ZOBEIDE.
Gods! Gods!
SULMA.
Your native country, friends, the Persian court,
A gen'rous prince—who has charm'd perhaps your heart—
All you abandon without fear or pity!
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I give up all; my destiny demands it.
SULMA.
Can you for ever hate your court and country?
ZOBEIDE.
Unfortunate! they never were so dear.
SULMA.
If I deserve it, open all your heart.
ZOBEIDE.
All there is anarchy and dread confusion,
Thy heart would bleed to know how mine's afflicted;
There are all stor'd the chequer'd ills of fortune,
And greater far those ills ourselves create;
But when with exile, shame, disgrace, they gather
And crowd so fast—after the happiest days—
When all these fierce assaults at once unite,
A heart—a feeble heart can not support them.
SULMA.
Ecbatan—a great prince—
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Ah! fatal Athamand!
What dæmon led thee here? why to discover
This dagger long conceal'd, which must destroy me?
Ah! why renewing my disgrace—thy injuries—
Must all my former wounds now bleed afresh?
SULMA.
No longer yield to those inhuman laws,
By which a cruel parent would enslave you;
If you're his comfort, ought he to oppress you?
Protect his age, but never be his victim;
The bravest troops which Persia's pride can boast,
Ev'n to these forests have pursu'd your steps,
Led on by warlike Athamand—Athamand
Above all—Is he not your master?
ZOBEIDE.
No.
SULMA.
In his fair climes high heaven gave you birth;
Hath he not pow'r to break this fatal chain,
This foul reproach to you, your prince, and Persia?
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If you have long accompanied the flight
Of an old parent—lead him back to glory!
Let him renounce his hatred to a court;
Let not his stern destructive rage prevail,
To draw down vengeance on a guiltless head!
ZOBEIDE.
I scorn thy erring counsel.—Such resolves
Would cause much blood-shed—plunge us all in ruin;
My father would expire with grief or rage:
In short, my fate is fixt—I'm doom'd to slav'ry—
Time may alleviate many weighty ills,
Or custom fortify the mind to bear them.
SULMA.
Meanwhile you weep—with horror you review
These barb'rous wilds, where from the pomp of courts
I see you shrink a prey to want and mis'ry;
Repentance then may come too late to aid you;
What will remain, alas! to you?
ZOBEIDE.
Despair.
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Weigh'd down with cares, what can you do?
ZOBEIDE.
My duty.
The honour to fulfil it—that evidence
Which conscience ever gives to virtuous claims,
That shall sustain me to my latest moments,
And crown these conflicts with immortal glory.
END OF THE THIRD ACT.
| Zobeide | |