University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Gengis, and Guards.
Gengis.
And is it thus that happiness and peace,
The aim of all my labours fly my search?
Ah! now I feel the heavy cares of power.
To the sad business of my tortur'd heart
I cannot give an hour. O Idamè!
For thee I wish; yet round me nought behold
But surly warriors and an irksome train.
[To his train.
Go take your station near the city walls,
Lest haughty Corea's troops attempt surprize.
They have proclaim'd this Infant, Emperor;
And with his forfeit head I'll march against them.
For the last time tell Zamti to obey;
I have too long delay'd this child's destruction.
[He remains alone.
Away. Their diligence is tedious now,
When other cares take up my soul. Alas!
To awe the vanquish'd and the victors rule,
To foresee dangers, half-form'd plots to crush,
And all the cruel business of a king,
Falls heavy on my heart with foreign woes
And other cares perplext.—O happier far
My humble fortune, abject and unknown!

SCENE II.

Gengis, Octar.
Gengis.
Well, hast thou seen this stubborn Mandarine?

Octar.
No fear or danger moves him from his purpose.
My Lord, I blush'd to parley in your name
With a vile slave whom you should sacrifice.
He view'd the torture with indifference,
And talk'd of duty to his King, and justice:
He braves his vanquishers; as if his voice
Prescrib'd them laws. Him and his rebel wife
At once destroy, nor languish for a slave.
Punish the hated pair, whose insolence
Affronts that power, which all the world obeys.

Gengis.
Amazement! what a people have I conquer'd!
Whence are they? whence these elevated thoughts,
This native grandeur of the noble soul,
Which we in our rough climes ne'er felt or knew?
To a King dead, each sacrificing nature,
One without murmur sees his son destroy'd,
The other for a husband asks to die:
Nothing can shake them, nothing move their fear.
Whence, whence is this? with steady reason's eye,
When fall'n, enslav'd, this people I survey,
Though conqueror, my captives I revere,
And praise their virtues, while I give them chains,
I see their labours have adorn'd the world;
I see them an industrious, noble people;
Their Kings on wisdom's basis built their power,
To all the neighbour nations giving laws,
And reigning without conquest or the sword.
Heav'n has allotted us rude force alone;
Battles our arts, and all our labours death.
Ah! what avails so much success in war?
Or what the glories of a world enslav'd?
We made the car of conquest red with blood:
Yet there's a greater fame, a nobler glory.
I'm jealous of their virtue, blush to see
The conquer'd soar above the conqueror.

Octar.
Can Gengis such a feeble race admire?
What boot their puny arts, that cannot save
The practisers from slavery or death?
The weak should serve the strong. All earth must yield
To toil and valour. Why then stain your power
By insults unreveng'd, and suffer slaves
To brave their conqu'ror? why, when lord of all,
Submit to bonds, to our brave race unknown?
And draw upon yourself reproach from those
Whose arms have made you monarch of the world?
Shall then the brave companions of your labours
See all those victories effac'd by love?
They blush at the mean thought, their souls disdain it;
And by my voice their clamours reach your ears.
In theirs, as the state's name, I call upon you.
Pardon a Tartar, pardon a rough soldier,
Grown grey in armour worn in your defence;
Who cannot see you a mean slave to love,
But presents glory to your dazzled eyes.

Gengis.
Let them seek Idamè.

Octar.
You would—

Gengis.
Obey.
Seek her. Your zeal grows troublesome and bold.
My subjects ev'n my frailties shall revere.

SCENE III.

Gengis
solus.
Fate will not be oppos'd; and doubtless Heav'n
Destines her for me.—What avails my greatness?
I have made wretches, and myself am wretched.
Of all the savages that fill my train,
Greedy of combat, prodigal of blood,
Has ever one spoke words of comfort to me,
Or sooth'd the anguish of my aching soul?
Have all these states enslav'd e'er given my breast
One hour of peace? Ah! no: my wearied soul
Still sought some pleasing error, to disperse
The gloomy night of care, and to afford
Some consolation on the throne of Empire.
Octar has shock'd me with his horrid counsel.
I am environ'd with a bloody train
Of fell assassins, disciplin'd to death,
And form'd for ravage; born alone for war,
And shocking to a soul, refin'd by love.
Let them fight for me, follow me to death,
But never dare my actions to arraign.
Where is my Idamè?—'Tis she; she comes.

SCENE IV.

Gengis, Idamè.
Idamè.
Are then my griefs your sport? and am I call'd
To be receiv'd with scorn? O spare a woman,
Nor add new anguish to a mother's woes!

Gengis.
Be not dismay'd. Your husband may atone
His past offence, and still receive our pardon.
I have already bid my vengeance sleep,
And you alone could move my heart to mercy.
Perhaps 'tis not without high Heav'n's decree,
That fortune has conducted me to you.
For surely Idamè was form'd by fate,
To make a conqu'ror stoop, enslave a master,
And melt in me that stubbornness of soul,
The rough distinction of my native clime.
Then be advis'd, and mark me well: I reign
Within these walls, yet you may reassume
Dominion o'er me, though perhaps your scorn
Might rather warrant fury and revenge.
Our law permits divorce; submit to that,
And make the conqu'ror of the world your slave.
If he is odious, yet a throne has charms,
And royal wreaths may wipe your tears away.
The int'rest of the State and of the City
Forbid you to refuse my proffer'd love.
Of love to parley now, may move your wonder:
The man, who overturn'd your Monarch's throne,
And all your Kings has mingled with the dust,
Was scarce expected, while his furious arm
Was dealing death, again to fall before you.
But you was robb'd of your too easy heart,
And a base rival has usurp'd my place.
You owe it to the conqu'ror of mankind,
Who now with twenty sceptres is return'd,
To claim that love, once due to Temugin.
You fix your eyes on earth, nor can I guess
What you resolve. Forget my pow'r, forget
My fierceness, well reflect, and freely speak.

Idamè.
Still to new changes ev'ry hour condemn'd,
Yet I confess that you have mov'd my wonder.
But if I can recal my scatter'd spirits
My answer shall amaze you more. That time
You may remember, and that humble life,
In which Heav'n once obscur'd your future fame.
You was not then the terror of the world,
But lowly Temugin: whole nations then
Bow'd not beneath your sovereign command.
Then, when your hand was pure, 'twas proffer'd to me,
And know, that then I would not have refus'd it.

Gengis.
What do I hear? O Heav'n! and did you love me?
Did you—

Idamè.
I own, against your sighs and vows
My subject soul would never have rebell'd,
Had not the virtuous pair, that gave me life,
Resign'd its duty to another Lord.
The pow'r of parents over us, you know:
They are the image of the God we serve,
And we for ever owe obedience to them,
This fallen Empire, on parental right
Was founded, on the solemn marriage faith,
On honour, justice, and respect of oaths:
On these 'twas built; and though beneath your arms
It sink for ever, yet the noble spirit
Which taught us these, shall never, never die.
Your fortunes are much chang'd, but mine remain
Unalter'd, and the same.

Gengis.
And did you love me?

Idamè.
What though I did? that very love were now
A threefold bar against our union,
Another reason I should now refuse you.
My marriage-bonds by Heav'n itself were form'd;
My husband sacred; to say more, I love him.
Before yourself, your throne, and all its greatness
I would prefer him. O forgive this warmth
That flows from honest love; nor think I boast
My conquest o'er your heart, or mean to brave
Your anger, or take pride in these denials,
Which rise alone from justice and my duty.
I sigh not for a throne; some other fair
Make happy with your sceptre and your love,
Withdrawn from me, who know not how to prize them:
And O let me beseech with earnest pray'r,
That Zamti know not of your proffer'd love,
He'll be less proud o'th' triumph, than enrag'd
At this new outrage offer'd to my faith.

Gengis.
Concerning him my firm resolve you know,
And he'll obey, if life is precious to him.

Idamè.
He will not do't, he never can obey:
And if the cruel agonies of torture
Could shake his soul from its integrity,
My faith and duty should sustain his weakness.
I would support his fainting heart, and plead
Those sacred bonds his baseness would dishonour.

Gengis.
What do I hear? can I believe it? Gods!
Can you thus love him after what has pass'd,
When the barbarian husband would have giv'n
Your child to certain death?

Idamè.
Barbarian husband!
'Twas virtue in him; I admire him for it;
Though I felt all the weakness of a mother.
And was I so unjust, to hate him for it,
My pride would not permit me to desert him.

Gengis.
Still all you say amazes, and distracts me;
Those virtues I adore, I wish to hate.
I love you more, the more you scorn my love,
At once you make my heart a slave, and rebel.
Fear me: for know, that spite of all my love,
My fury may outstrip my tenderness.

Idamè.
I know your pow'r, and that you my exact
Death, or obedience to your dread command.
Yet the Laws live, and are above you still.

Gengis.
The Laws! what Laws dare contradict my will?
Here are no Laws, but such as I impose:
I, a rough Scythian, your King, your Conqu'ror.
The Laws you follow have been fatal to me.
Yes, when e'er while our fortunes here were equal,
Our thoughts, our hearts were mutually inclin'd,
(For spite of all your scorn I now believe it)
When all united us, those Laws I hate
Ordain'd my shame, and your accursed marriage.
I make them void; I speak, and they're annull'd;
Thou, with the subject universe, obey.
Those manners, usages, and Laws you boast,
Are criminal, if they oppose my will.
I've order'd it; your husband must resign
Into my hands, your Emperor and You.
Their lives shall be the pledge of your obedience.
Think on't, you know how far I may revenge:
Think at what price you may appease a King,
Who loves you, and yet blushes at his passion.

SCENE V.

Idamè, Asseli.
Idamè.
Or death or infamy—no other choice—
O Royal Infant! O my dearest husband!
When in my hands I hold your destiny,
My voice without one doubt pronounces Death.

Asseli.
Ah! rather re-assume that pow'r, which Heav'n
Has given to virtuous beauty: re-assume
That pow'r, which makes this Scythian bend before you,
And own your influence. A word sometimes
Can soften anger, and disarm fierce rage.
Try; they can ev'ry thing, who know to please.

Idamè.
That I have pleas'd, is now my greatest grief.

Asseli.
Yet that alone can give the vanquish'd rest.
In our calamities the bounteous Heavens
Have ordain'd you to check the tyrant's rage.
You saw how soon his irritated soul
Lost all its fierceness, and was hush'd to peace;
Else long ago in Zamti he had destroy'd
A hated rival: Zamti brav'd his rage,
And yet he lives; he lives too unremov'd
From you his wife; they tender you in him.
This conqu'ror, though he has laid waste the world,
Still honours you; you may remember too
That he first wrought upon your virgin heart:
His passion formerly was pure and lawful.

Idamè.
Peace; say no more; 'tis baseness but to think on't.

SCENE VI.

Zamti, Idamè, Asseli.
Idamè.
Am I then still, 'mid all our woes, your wife?
And are we still permitted thus to meet?

Zamti.
Permitted? 'tis the tyrant's sov'reign order;
And to his rage I owe this happy moment.

Idamè.
Have they inform'd you at what horrid price
The tyrant would grant your's and th'Orphan's life?

Zamti.
O mention not, consider not my life:
A single citizen's a trivial loss.
Forget it then: But O remember, Idamè,
That 'tis our duty to preserve our King.
To him our lives and services we owe,
And ev'n the blood of children born to serve him;
But owe him not the forfeit of our honour.
Yet certain death awaits the hapless Orphan
Whom I've secreted in that dark asylum,
Where all our ancient monarchs are intomb'd;
And where, unless we can afford him aid,
He'll with his fathers share the sleep of death.
In vain the generous Prince of Corea
Waits the dear charge, my zeal has promis'd him.
Etan, the faithful guardian of his life,
Loaded with chains, my cruel lot partakes.
You are the Orphan's only refuge left.
'Tis you alone that must his threaten'd life,
Your son, your glory, and my honour save.
We will obey our tyrant's dread commands:
I'll give them up my son: I'll give up more.
Freed by my death, go, soothe the ruffian Tartar:
Pass o'er my grave to this barbarian's arms.
Yet now I first behold grim death with horror,
Since it abandons you to this usurper.
But my King asks it, and I expiate
By my just death this impious sacrifice.
Wed, with these horrid auspices, the tyrant,
And with a mother's care still guard your King.
Reign, that your King may live, and husband die.
Reign at this price. It shall be so—

Idamè.
O hold!
Do you then know me? think you, I would buy
A throne with shame, my Zamti, and thy death?
Or do you think I'm less a wife than mother?
Alas! you dream, and your too rigid virtue
Twice in one day hath sinn'd against itself,
Scorning the cries of nature and of love.
Ah! cruel to your son, to me more cruel,
Do you forget that I'm your wife, and love you?
All-righteous Heav'n has better taught my soul;
I'll save my King, yet not dishonour you.
The tyrant, be it love, or be it scorn,
Constrains me not, nor watches my designs.
Within these walls, with bloody gore o'erflow'd,
I still am free, nor are my steps observ'd.
The Prince of Corea by the secret path
May reach the tombs, wherein this precious charge
From the destroyer's eye now lays conceal'd.
I know each winding passage of the place;
I fly to give him timely nourishment,
To render him to China's faithful friends,
Within my arms among their warlike ranks.
To carry him, a gift from Heav'n, their aid.
That you must die; I know but, full of glory,
Our memory shall ever be rever'd.
When equal to the noblest we shall rise,
O judge, if Idamè has stain'd your fame!

Zamti.
Heav'n! that inspirest, with thy arm sustain her!
O Idamè! thy virtues o'ertop mine.
Haply for thee from ruin Heav'n may save
Thy Country, and thy Monarch from the grave.