University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Enter Emira.
Wearied at length by their own raging toil,
Her spirits sink to rest: kind sleep affords
The only boon the wretched mind can feel,
A momentary respite from despair.

Enter Zilia.
Emira.
Who's there?—That look alarming!—Zilia, say
Wherefore this sudden haste?—How fares it now
With Orellana?

Zilia.
Still a calm repose
Suspends the tumult of the mighty passions,
That war within. Nature quite harrass'd down
Repairs the waste of grief.

Emira.
But oh! too soon
With keener sense to waken her again
To the strong agonies that rend her soul.
How wears the night?—

Zilia.
It verges to the dawn.

Emira.
Then 'tis th'accustom'd hour, the only hour
Of all that circle time's diurnal round,
When Orellana knows suspence from pain.

Zilia.
The sun that form'd her, lent his brightest rays,
His purest elements of sacred fire.—
Hence all the virtues that but dimly shine
In breasts of common mould, in her sublim'd,
Burn to a fierce extravagance of soul.

Emira.
Yet what avails the great indignant spirit,
The gen'rous flame for Freedom and Peru?
The fever of her mind too soon must end
Her weary frame.—The live-long day it rages,
And each returning night,—when all things else
Thro' wide creation's round feel wonted rest,
She only wakes to misery:—Forlorn she sits
With streaming eyes, while unrelenting cares
Waste all within; and ever and anon
In short distracted dreams wild fancy acts
New scenes of terror in her blasted mind.

Enter Orellana.
Orel.
Horror! Protect me! Save me;—Seas of blood
Run purple round the altar—'tis my brother—
Barbarian hold!—It is Alzuma bleeds—
Inhuman murd'rers! Oh!

[Faints.
Emira.
'Tis ever thus:—
Sad visionary terrors rack her brain,—
Too wretched mourner, victim of despair!—

Orel.
Oh! 'tis too much, too much to suffer—Zilia,
Art thou there?—Ever friendly, kind, and good!—
Emira too!—why, sister virgins, why
Must you still labour with my weight of woe?

Emira.
Attending thee we but obey the call
Of duty and of love.—Dispel thy fears,
And hush this tumult of disorder'd fancy.

Orel.
Would heav'n I could!—But these imaginings
Were terrible indeed!—Round yonder couch
Such horrid phantoms rose.

Emira.
Forget 'em all—
You've nothing now to fear.—

Orel.
Alas, the wretched
Have ev'ry thing to fear—Methought Pizarro
With fury dragg'd me to the altar's foot;
There urg'd imperious to renounce my gods,
And wed Don Carlos; with apostate zeal
My mother join'd her aid;—conspir'd against me;
When, oh! distracting sight! my brother, rushing
To save a sister from the vile dishonour,
Receiv'd Pizarro's dagger in his heart.—
The altar smoak'd with gore;—the cruel Spaniard
Look'd a grim joy to see the only hope
Of desolate Peru,—a Prince descended
From a long race of Kings, ignobly fall,
And welter in his blood before him.

Emira.
Yet,
These are but fancied ills—Alzuma lives
Safe in obscurity, far hence remote.
Prostrate Peru may lift her head again,
And heav'n restore a brother to your arms.

Orel.
Delusive thought! Yet let me fondly cherish
The soothing flattery.—Oh! Sister virgins,
Should e'er the hero bless my longing eyes,
I could embrace him with a sister's love,
And in his sight forget my sorrows past.
But oh! vain hope!—He would not know me now
Thus with'ring in my bloom—As yet an infant
I number'd scarce ten years, when hence he went
To Chili's realms, ere the foe burst upon us,—
To learn the course of ev'ry orb above,
And all the myst'ries of his parent sun.
Mean time the Spaniard—but I'll not retrace
That tale of horror.—Since that hour accurst,
Ten times the sun hath made his annual circle,
Nor yet Alzuma reigns!—Alas! my virgins,
Distinction's lost amongst us, and the last
Surviving Inca of undone Peru
Sinks to a slave,—a wand'rer o'er the land!—

Emira.
Rekindle not the fury of your soul—
For lo! with purple light the orient morn
Glows in yon Eastern clime!—Don Carlos soon,
As is his wont, with early importunity
Will press his ardent suit. Be timely cautious,
Nor let him find pale grief and discontent
For ever dwell in Orellana's breast.—
'Twill rouze the Spaniard's rage—a cloyster'd virgin
With thee, I worship'd the eternal fire.—
'Tis friendship prompts, if I presume to wish
You'd not provoke the foe.

Orel.
I know thy truth,
Thy constancy approv'd;—and Carlos too
I grant has qualities that claim respect.

Emira.
Tho' other gods he worship, yet in him
Religion wears a gentler mien, nor serves
To sanctify rapacity and murder.—
'Tis love perhaps,—for sure he fondly loves—
'Tis love perhaps,—not virtue,—that allays
His fiercer passions,—but whate'er the cause,
He is our shield from stern Pizarro's rage:
To him unnumber'd millions lift their hands,
And thank him with their tears for life preserv'd.—

Orel.
'Tis true, Emira—oft I've known him check
The rage of wasting war—oft at his voice
Ev'n Persecution rests upon her altar,
Thirsting for blood in vain.—And yet this heart
Was never form'd for him—yon radiant God,
Tho' each revolving day he rise to view
His once lov'd region, now a land of slaves,
To see the Spaniard triumph in his guilt,
Nor rolls th'avenging thunder o'er his head,
Nor sends the rapid light'ning down to blast him,
Tho' he disdain not still to shine alike
On vice and suffering virtue—Ha! no more—
'Twere impious madness—thou creat'st us all,
Thou glorious luminary!—Thou the source
Of light, and life, and universal good!
From thee we issue, and to thee return!
Thou mighty parent! (kneel down)
Thou bright orbit, Thou
Still inexhausted lead'st the radiant years,
Thro' all creation pour'st thy golden flood,
Thy vivid energy—without thee nought
Or fair, or useful springs—to thee all nature
Wafts up her orisons;—to thee I swear
Whate'er shall prove the fate of Orellana,
Thy sacred beams shall never,—never see her
Leagu'd with her country's foes; shall ne'er behold her
A vile apostate from her holy vow.—

Enter Ezmont.
Emira.
Ezmont, why sudden thus—and hark! unfold—
[A flourish of trumpets.
What means that musick, that triumphant joy?

Ezmont.
With early zeal Pizarro seeks the altar
To celebrate his foreign rites.—

Orell.
And fire
His unrelenting heart to new exploits.

Ezmont.
A captive band from various prisons led
Walk in his train, and follow to the temple,
There to abjure their country, and their gods,
Or meet their instant doom.—

Orel.
And does my mother
Attend the guilty pomp?

Ezmont.
She does—with her
All their whole courtier-band attend Pizarro,
All but Don Carlos;—with a lover's speed
This way he bends his steps;—my swiftest zeal
Could scarce outstrip him.—

Orel.
Leave me virgins, leave me—
Ezmont I thank thy care. (they go out.)
Now summon all
Thy calmest patience, and thy firm resolve.

Enter Don Carlos.
Carlos.
Let this auspicious morn dispel thy cares,
And each successive hour on balmy wings
Bring peace, bring health, and beauty's roseate bloom;—
Does Orellana shun me?—hither turn
Thy gracious aspect; let those azure eyes
Beam with their gentlest radiance.—

Orel.
Those eyes
With galling tears have long since lost their lustre—
They, like the daughters of rapacious Spain,
Have not yet learn'd to gild the cloud of woe,
Inspire the look, and animate the glance,
While misery lays desolate the heart.

Carlos.
Let love diffuse his cordial o'er thy spirits
Soon shall each grace awaken, soon thy heart
Beat sprightly notes of rapture and of joy.

Orel.
Oh! talk not, Carlos, to a wretch forlorn,
And lost as I am,—do not talk of joy.
No more shall pleasure visit this sad form,
This breathing statue of despair.

Carlos.
Despair
But ill requites th'indulgent care of heav'n,
That now invites thee to enjoy with me
Your share of love, and empire.—

Orel.
Take again,
Take back your vows of friendship and of love.—
I do entreat you take 'em—bear 'em hence
To the bright dames that grace your native land—
Worthier they'll listen to you—they have hearts
Prone to thy soft impressions—they have hearts
That never bled to see the ruthless sword,
Thy sword, Don Carlos, lay their country waste;—
Thou hast not injur'd them;—but oh! respect
A captive wretch,—a wretch that has full cause,
Yet pours no curses on thee!—

Carlos.
Wilt thou thus,
Relentless fair! wilt thou then wound me thus
With stern reproach?—Under a father's banner
I wag'd the war; and if her purple wing
Propitious victory wav'd o'er my head,
The world can witness, who by me have fall'n,
All bravely fell in the embattled field,
Not naked and disarm'd—In me the vanquish'd
Have found a friend—'Twas Orellana's will.—
Her conqu'ring eyes have half aveng'd her country,
And made the victor beauty's willing slave.
His laurels bloom for thee;—he lays his trophies,
His scepter at your feet—thy native realm
Wooes thee to sov'reign sway, and bids thee rule
The western world, when to her softer clime
Spain shall invite thy mother.—

Orel.
Name her not—
I would not think upon her crimes—become
The conqu'ror's wife,—oh! shameless guilt!—become
The frantic votarist of Spanish gods,
She fires his haughty soul to tenfold rage.—
This day prepares new victims—oh! my Lord,
If your religion does not quite suppress
The voice of nature, save the lives of wretches;
Plead thou their cause;—let me not see again
The streaming blood of innocence.

Carlos.
I move
By thy command alone; and oh! bright maid,
The pity I extend, will surely claim
The soft return of thine.

Orell.
Alas! My Lord,
Much I esteem thy goodness; much I honour
Thy many virtues—but a holy vow
Forbids my love; and tell me, should I grant it,
Would'st thou receive an interdicted wretch,
With counterfeited smiles to thy embrace?
Believe me, sir, who dares renounce her gods,
Will dare be false to man.

Enter Pizarro, Orazia, attendants, &c.
Pizarro.
Come near my son,
Thou seest thy father with assiduous care
Spreading the glories of his king and God
O'er this new world.

Carlos.
My father's fervent zeal
Shall stand time honour'd in the rolls of fame.
Vanquish'd Peru thro' all her cities mourns
Thy vast renown in arms; it now were time
That weary conquest should abate her rigours,
And peace begin to harmonize the world.—

Orazia.
As yet, young warrior, our untutor'd race
To thee is little known—an Indian mind
Is wrapp'd in errors mist's; from fabling priests
Hears impious legends; in each falling show'r,
Each cloud that sails upon yon azure deep,
Conceives the present deity; in dreams,
Which fever'd fancy forms, still thinks it hears
Loud oracles, commercing with its gods.
The Dæmons and the human faculties
Are then in dark conspiracy, and all
Is bigot rage, and cruelty and horror.—
This gloom must be dispell'd; and force, my son,
'Tis force must execute the holy work.

Carlos.
And think we then our duty unperform'd
Unless we imitate with furious zeal
Heav'n's vengeance, not it's mercy?

Pizarro.
Justice calls
For vengeance on a blind offending world.
I know my mission here—beneath the tropic
The holy cross I've borne, and in that sign
Pizarro still shall conquer—be it mine
To stretch the ray of truth, and bid the Indian
Kneel and adore!

Carlos.
Almagro's conqu'ring arm
In Chili's realm hath crush'd the savage war.
The western world hath heard the hideous ruin,
And suppliant courts the yoke.

Pizarro.
But still Alzuma
Lives for new tumult—

Orazia.
Lives to bid his mother
With tears and burning blushes hear his name.
Proud, uncontroulable, and fierce of spirit;
Ev'n in his earliest youth, his boyish days,
When the grim tiger from the thicket rush'd,
Did he once fly?—Did he not ev'n then
Dare the encounter?—the fell monster gor'd
His youthful breast, and if his father's arm
Had not transfix'd the savage to the earth,
Alzuma then had died.—Since that he bore
The tiger's mark, and ere the down of manhood
Sprung on his cheek, went from his mother far;
Grew up implacable of soul, and now
With dire alarms shakes all the Western World.

Carlos.
And if our crimes provoke—

Pizarro.
Our crimes, my son!

Orazia.
That thought to Orellana owes its birth;
In soft captivity she holds him bound;
Her beauty leads him with a single glance,
Moves with a sigh and softens with a tear,
And love and grace by turns dispute his heart.

Pizarro,
Hear Orellana—say, thou beauteous mourner,
How long shall tears and slow consuming grief
Deform thy native graces?

Orel.
Pardon, Sir,
If the rough manners of my native clime
Form'd me in plain simplicity—unskill'd
In all the studied elegance of feature,
I only know to look my honest meaning;
An artless savage, a forsaken wretch,
Whom joy has long forsworn!—

Orazia.
In Cusco's court,
Where ev'ry face but thine is deck'd with smiles,
Such persevering sorrow ill befits
Orazia's daughter—while your mother still
Ev'n with the victor shares her ancient sceptre,
You have full cause of joy.—And tell me, does not
That gen'rous youth, Pizarro's gallant son,
Breathe gentlest vows, and languish for your love?

Orel.
Ay, Madam!—Love and tenderness he brings,
But sighs and tears are all I have to give.—

Orazia.
Away with vain excuse—thou trifler hear;
Spain's pure religion calls—this moment yield,
And rank thee with the faithful.—

Orel.
That command—

Orazia.
Must be obey'd.

Orel.
Alas! full well you know
Force has already dragg'd me to your altar;—
There while the censer wreath'd its fragrant clouds,
While pealing organs swell'd the solemn note,
And through deep lengthen'd isles consenting choirs
Harmonious hymn'd their god,—not to your heav'n
My pray'rs were offer'd—No! ye holy pow'rs
Whom long Peru hath worshipp'd,—in that hour
You rush'd between me and their Christian pomp,
Bore my rapt soul to your own orbs on high;
And shrines, and burning lamps, grew dim before me.

Enter Gonzalez.
Orazia.
Invincible in ignorance.

Gonzalez.
My Lord,—
The slaves remain obdurate.

Pizarro.
Ha! reject
The terms of proffer'd life!

Gonzalez.
Their eyes intent
Gaze on two leaders, from whose fierce demeanour
They gain new courage, obstinate in guilt.
Their chiefs, by my command, attend your presence.—

Enter Alzuma, and Ozmar.
Pizarro.
Say, what art thou, who with indignant spirit
Has dar'd to mock our laws?

Alzuma.
One born in freedom!
One, who while yet he lives, like freedom's son
Will dare to think.—

Pizarro.
Reflect, rash youth, and take
New life frōm this auspicious day.

Alzuma.
The day,
That sees a man crouch in ignoble bondage,
Sees ev'ry virtue lost.—

Pizarro.
Beware, thou slave!
Know'st thou that instant death awaits you both?

Alzuma.
We know it—we expect it—we invoke it—
'Twill end our misery.

Pizarro.
Thou insolent!—
All gracious heav'n, that still delights in mercy—

Alzuma.
Mercy!—delights in mercy!

Pizarro.
Yes;—his word
Gives life and peace to all—

Alzuma.
And darest thou then,
Thou fell destroyer!—Ravager of earth!
And dar'st thou then in horrid contrast stand
To infinite benevolence?—

Pizarro.
No more
I'll parley with obdurate guilt—Gonzalez,
Guard thou those miscreants; see they suffer death,
And by their torments warn an impious race.—

[Exit with Orazia, and attendants.
Orel.
Oh! Carlos—gen'rous youth! If any spark
Of love dwell in thy nature, quickly fly,
Pursue your cruel father, haste, prevent.
The horrid murder—what have they committed?
What is their crime?—Oh! do not see them bleed,
For daring to be true to heav'n.

Carlos.
I go,
Thou gen'rous maid, to execute your will.

[Exit.
Orel.
Or gain their liberty, or else the hour
That sees 'em fall, will end this wretched being.

(Exit after Carlos.
Alzuma.
And are there feelings here for human woe?

Gon.
Guards, lead your pris'ners hence.

Alzuma.
Spaniard a word.—
Wilt thou indulge one moment to the wretched?—
I thank thee—Ozmar, we have walk'd together
The rugged paths of honour;—to the last
Grappled with fate,—against the foe have strain'd
Bold virtue's nerve;—Oh! let it never slacken,
But bear us strongly up like men, who boast
Souls ever prompt for liberty or death.

Ozmar.
Sunk as we are, our country bleeding round us,
Our cities sack't, our very gods dishonour'd,
Death is relief, is victory and triumph.—

Alzuma.
But let us entertain our doom, my friend,
In silent dignity:—Amidst our pangs
Let no dejected passion tell the Spaniard,
Alzuma dies in me!—

Ozmar.
Not all the tortures
Their vengeance can inflict, shall e'er extort
One secret from me.

Alzuma.
Let him shudder still
With dire conceptions at Alzuma's name;
Still let him think Alzuma roams the forest,
Climbs the steep mountain's brow, or down the lake
Glides in the swift canoe to rouze the war,
And call the nations to a great revenge.
Let that pursue him still—Oh! let that thought,
And the dire furies of detested guilt
With ceaseless pangs inhabit in his heart.
Alzuma dies content!—

Ozmar.
The tyrant's pow'r
Is short liv'd o'er us, and his murd'rous rage
But sets the hero free.—

Alzuma.
His pow'r may shackle
These mortal limbs; but the unbodied spirit
Shall bear its native liberty along,
To the bless'd vale behind the cloud capt hill,
The silent region of departed souls,
That region undiscover'd by the Spaniard!—
Where our forefathers in unfading bliss,
Prepare the roseate bow'r, and weave the chaplet,
For deeds heroic done in life; for all,
Who firm in honour, by distress unconquer'd,
Have smil'd in woe, and to their graves have carried
The sacred charter of the free born mind.