 | The Fair Circassian
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SCENE IV.
THE GARDEN OF THE SERAGLIO; THE MOON ABOUT
TO SET.
Enter HAMET.
At length, by many a maze, I've reach'd the garden,
Scal'd the high walls, and pass'd the sentinels.—
Ha! at yon window flames the distant taper!
There! there! e'en now, perchance—O! hold my brain!
No more will I arouse the sons of Persia,
But my own cause with my own arm avenge.
Omar, e'er this, has breath'd his latest prayer—
Almeida too—I will not think—Almeida!—
O! never more this sabre will I sheathe,
Till on its point a brother's blood!—Forgive—
Forgive me, gods!—Ye have not form'd me sanguine:
Wrongs, wrongs have wrought me to this dire extreme.
Nor shall I strike a brother, but a tyrant.
Remote from notice will I wait the morn,
Till Almoran, as is his custom, walks
To the seraglio, from the palace—then
Shall injur'd Hamet pay th'important debt
He owes himself, Almeida, and his country.
[Exit.
| The Fair Circassian
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