University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

ALMEIDA, CRISANTHE.
ALMEIDA.
Yes, my Crisanthe, I confess it all,
Confess that I am happy: Still remembrance
Steals o'er my conscious heart her sweet ideas,
And in soft vision charms Almeida's bosom.

CRISANTHE.
And Hamet well deserves—

ALMEIDA.
Deserves, Crisanthe!
Not all the lavish luxury of praise
By Imans offer'd at the holy altars;
Not the rich tides of eloquence that roll
Upon the poet's tongue, by every muse,
And every god inspir'd, to grace the song,
Can pay just tribute to the soul of Hamet:
'Tis not my friend the busy breath of rumour
That pours the doubtful hint into the ear,
The dazzling sceptre, the effulgent robe,
Nor yet the vollied burst of public fame
Which stamps true splendor on the hearts of kings.
Array'd in ALL these trappings they may beat
Less fair, less friendly to the rights of man,
And fill a smaller space in nature's circle
Than the poor peasant toiling at the car,
Monarch of many a private, useful virtue,
Without the power, the dangerous power, to prove
A tyrant—o'er the rest of human kind.

CRISANTHE.
But ev'n th' untutor'd clown delighted talks
Of Hamet's princely virtues.

ALMEIDA.
Oh, he does!
Each hind may see the royal soul expand
Like some etherial light supplying fire,
That feeds unnumber'd stars with constant rays:
But, oh Crisanthe, never can he see
The soft enchantments of the tender heart,
Friendship's divine effusion, love's pure flame,
Each grace of life retired.—These shine alone
Like silent dews that shed their balms unheard;
Like planets deep in heaven, that bless unseen
The favour'd few that share the sacred hour.

CRISANTHE.
The sacred hour reserv'd for fair Almeida:
But say, my gentle friend—for still delay'd
The tale of wonder—heard but yet in part—
Did he not act like some superiour power
When he with vent'rous arm rush'd through the flames
To save thee from destruction?

ALMEIDA.
Like a god,
My guardian god! Hear then, in full, the story.
Midnight had hung the silent air in black,
Not one bright star display'd it's beamy brow,
The wat'ry-bosom'd clouds were bent to earth,
When swift the desolating light'ning's flash
Spread the far-blazing ruin thro' the palace.
Sudden it struck my venerable sire:
In vain I press'd him in these filial arms—
He fell—In that tremendous moment
Came my deliverer, my king, my Hamet,
And rescu'd child and parent from the flames.

CRISANTHE.
Gracious Heaven!

ALMEIDA.
Soon as fled sense return'd,
I saw the gentle, generous, kneeling king
Bent in soft sorrows o'er his wretched charge;
And as the deep confusion ting'd my cheek
With tender force he strain'd me to his heart;
While good Abdallah, by his care protected,
From all the hurry of the court reposes;
And still unable as the veteran is
To view the sun, or move from his pale couch
He cheery laughs, thou know'st, the hours away,
Still Hamet or Almeida by his side.

CRISANTHE.
Behold the king—The royal lover comes.

ALMEIDA.
Ah, faithful fondness—leave us, gentle friend—
Yet stay, Crisanthe—Stay, attest his kindness.