 | The Fair Circassian |  |
SCENE IV.
CALED and GUARDS.CALED.
Sultan and sovereign of the world, thy life—
Thy sacred life's at hazard.
ALMORAN.
Said'st thou life?
CALED.
As at the palace gate I plac'd the guard,
Redoubling shouts assail'd my started ear;
When rushing on, with every slave in arms,
Full in the city's heart I saw a crowd
Of Persian peasants—Omar at their head—
Vollying the rights of Hamet in each ear,
'Till ev'ry gaping fool abus'd the Sultan,
And toss'd their saucy turbans up for Hamet.
Injuriate Omar cried—REVENGE—when straight,
With my own arm, I seiz'd the hoary traitor.
HAMET.
Slave, speak with reverence of that noble Persian.
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Swift, Osmyn, load the bald conspirator
With ponderous chains—Bid him expect a fate
Well suited to his crimes—then bring him to us.
[Exit Osmyn.
Well, young dissembler, but deep-learned in fraud,
Well may'st thou start; but ere the veil of night
Shall hide his shame from the attending croud
That cluster curious o'er each scene of death,
Omar, thy oracle, shall bleed before thee.
HAMET.
Insensate as I was—how could I hope?
How could I ever frame a thought so wild
As to expect from that tempestuous soul
Or truth, or justice, pity, love, or honour:
My heart, that knows thee, throbs with keen reproach
To chide its own simplicity.
ALMORAN.
'Twas truth—
Haply 'twas Hamet's justice, love, and pity,
That bade thee try the force of artful tears,
Well manag'd warmth, and counterfeited fondness.
'Twas honour taught him, like an hypocrite,
To wind his serpent arms about my neck,
To triumph in the theft of fair Almeida;
While his arch minister, the virtuous Omar,
Back'd by the trait'rous phalanx he had form'd,
Concerted measure of escape and rescue:
O flight of stratagem sublime and noble!
HAMET.
I scorn to answer thee, disnatur'd taunter.
ALMORAN.
Thou hast prepar'd for punishment and prison!
Thy heart, so skill'd in Almoran, has told thee
These guards shall drag thee instant to the dungeon,
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Slaves, leave the traitor free—Go, man of virtue,
Captivity would swell thy pride—Go, haste,
Array thy troops, and lead them on the battle—
Ev'n to this bosom bid the slaves advance,
Then see if Almoran retreats before them—
See if thy traitors, or thyself, their king,
Can awe this heart, or check one promis'd joy
It made to transport, and the fair Almeida.
Caled, unbar the gates—Farewel! my brother—
My kind, my just, my honourable brother.
[Going.
HAMET.
Hold—yet hold—Ah, Almoran, forbear!
If there is courage, pride, or manhood in thee,
Yet—yet desist—I charge thee by the pangs—
The bitterest pangs of conscience and the soul,
Not to invade—Turn back, base ravisher;
Thus on my knees—
ALMORAN.
What, at thy arts again?
'Tis thus I answer them—I'll talk no more.
[Exit, closing the gates against him, he falls.
| The Fair Circassian | |