 | The Impostor |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
The Palace.Palmyra and Zaphna meet.
Zaph.
Palmyra!—
Pal.
Zaphna!—
Zaph.
Do I hear that voice?—
Do I then hold thee? gaze upon those eyes,
That open their returning dawn upon me?—
O my life's life!—'twas a long night of absence,
And busied in such dreams of dire distraction,
As thus to see thee could alone compensate—
Thus, thus to wake in bliss!—
Pal.
My love, my Zaphna!
My fears for you were twice my own distress;
For here, within, a friend of your's was busy,
Who guess'd your pains, and number'd all your sufferings.
Zaph.
Would you believe I could survive in pangs,
Greater than what expiring wretches feel
In the last struggle, when the soul is parting?
And yet, I know not how, some strengthening power
Whisper'd a hope, and bid your Zaphna live.
Blest be that power, for sure he meant this meeting!
And, O my Zaphna, were my choice consulted,
Better to die a thousand deaths together,
Than live to part again.
Zaph.
Part?—no, Palmyra!—
That hopes makes all my happiness on earth,
In death my comfort, and my heaven hereafter.
Well did the faith of thy foreseeing father,
Fill up his blest eternity with love—
Then, as my fair Palmyra stood before him,
He caught the vision of celestial beauty,
And drew his future paradise from thee!
Pal.
Delightful flattery!—And yet, my Zaphna!
Who knows but Heaven, indulgent to my wishes,
May, in the region of exalted charms,
Improve the pittance of Palmyra's beauty,
And make me worthy thy immortal passion?
But tell me, hast thou seen Sopheian?—Say,
Will he restore me to my wonted happiness,
Once more to liberty, to love, and Zaphna?
Zaph.
So stands my hope—the reverend sire consents
To render back thy beauties, in exchange
For his own children.
Pal.
Are they living, then?
O the good man!—Methinks I see their meeting—
The royal parent, in his tears majestick,
Suspended o'er his children; and the joy,
The extasy, my Zaphna, of those orphans,
Restored to such a father!
Ah—our souls—
How much the same! thy very thoughts are mine
And my heart melts with my Palmyra's softness.
A kindred feeling too—myself an orphan,
Dropt, as the Prophet saith, amid the storm
Of some sack'd town, the child of war and chance,
Not worth a further search; and yet aspiring
To thee, bright daughter of the Dawn of Truth—
Star of that Heaven, who constitutes thy sire
The Angel of his word!
Pal.
Thou art, my Zaphna,
Sufficient to thyself; the mighty heir
Of thy own virtues, seated firm and high
O'er all that's built upon the failing props
Of birth and empire!—Art thou not the arm
Of my great sire, Heaven's substituted bolt,
Wherewith our Prophet strikes the prostrate world?
Zaph.
There is a fear—there is a fear, Palmyra!—
The thought hath open'd such a gulph before me,
That my mind, plunging down her own conception,
Pre-occupies perdition.—
Pal.
What's so high,
Whereto my hero may not lift his hope?—
What has he, then, to fear?
Zaph.
Returning late,
From Tabuc, Dauman, Eyla, by my arms
Subdued—all flush'd, and rapid on my way,
The Prophet met me; caught me to his breast;
And, ere I bow'd myself to due prostration,
“Zaphna,” he cried, “my Zaphna, by that power
“And take thy wish.”—As sudden, I replied—
“Palmyra is the daughter of our Prophet!”—
I spoke, and sought the earth—Deep silence follow'd—
When to my lifted eye, his cheek, all pale,
Usurp'd a transient smile, to smooth his answer:
“I see,” he cried, “I see that hour at hand,
“Wherein thou wilt unthread this rash request,
“And flee whom now thou followest!”
Pal.
Ah, undone!
If Zaphna can be doom'd to such a treason.
Zaph.
Forbear, my love!—to me wouldst thou impute—
Urge not to frenzy—To thy other creatures,
Give other blessings, Heaven! thou know'st that Zaphna
Can taste but one—In her, as in the grave,
Is every sense absorb'd—to my Palmyra
To this sole point, whate'er I build for hope,
Here or hereafter, comes—sap me this prop,
Heaven, earth, and all, are hurried from existence,
And Zaphna sinks for ever!
Pal.
Then, what more?
Since that our hearts are ratified above,
Ere aught below should wrest the sacred knot,
I'd prove a parent to my own affections,
And give where Heaven appoints.
Zaph.
Wilt seal that compact?
Pal.
Yes.
Zaph.
Nearly?
[Opens his arms.
Pal.
Dearly seal it!
[They embrace.
O the rapture!—
I doubt my time—the Prophet's on his way—
He will'd me to attend him 'ere his entrance,
And thence return the hostage of his faith
To Mecca's chief.
Pal.
What here?
Zaph.
To thee, my love!
Pal.
Let it be soon, my Zaphna.
Zaph.
Soul of my soul, even wing'd by my own wishes!
Adieu—
Pal.
May the good angels quit all other charge,
To take thee to their keeping.
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE II.
A Street in Mecca.Several Peasants enter.
1st. Peas.
What says Maister Gubbin to this?
—What says our friend, Maister Gubbin?
Gubb.
As for me, neighbours—look ye—I am
out of the point. I have a dispensation from religion
—my grandfather was a nobleman's bastard,
and I am a freethinker by descent.
2d Peas.
O, here comes the doctor! he'll truss
you, and discuss you, from the twirl of a thread to
the twist of a cable.
Mob.
Welcome, doctor; kindly welcome, doctor—
Doct.
Good morrow Mr. Gubbin! A jovial
company, friends—how got you together?
Gubb.
Like geese to a pond, doctor; they
come to be dabbling—The affair, as they tell me,
to them, post from heaven, on a great hobby-horse;
and as he comes so long a journey, and on
an errand from their betters, they seem inclined to
give him a civil reception—
Mob.
Ay, ay, that's it, that's it!—
Doct.
But neighbours—do you know on what
errand it is that this same Mahomet comes?—
1st Peas.
I think, some say, it be religion—
Mob.
Ay, by all means, religion—it is religion.
Doct.
But what is religion, my friends?—
Neighbour Dolt, what sayst thou to it?
Dolt.
Why religion is—as tho'f I should
say of honest Hobson here, that he is, do ye mark
me—a religious man—or indeed, and as if it were,
a man of religion—
Gubb.
Ha, ha, ha!
Doct.
Most specifically defined—And truly,
Mr. Dolt, I find thou hast as much learning by
nature, as I got from logics and all the universities
—religion, in general, is, as thou sayst—But
can any of you define me his own religion?—What
is the religion here in Mecca.
Gubb.
Now you pose 'em, doctor.
Mob.
No, no, that we cannot.
Dolt.
That were a moot point indeed—crack
me that nut who can—
Doct.
Go to then,—that can I—the religion of
Mecca is a suit of cloaths.
Mob.
A suit of cloaths!
Doct.
Ay marry is it, and the priest is the
taylor—
And the priest the taylor!—Good—good
—very good—
Doct.
Now you, who can afford no better, may
have but one suit of the same cut and fashion for
life; there's not a thread in it but appears to every
eye—you eat, you work, you sleep in the same;
and where it does not keep you warm, it will certainly
shew your nakedness.
Mob.
That's true, doctor—that's very true, indeed—and
ingenious.
Doct.
Well, what shall I say then to the religion
of your betters, but that it is cut out and
prank'd into infinite disguises? it seems fashioned
for the adorning of nature, but is used for the hiding
of deformities.—In the law, it is truely a long
suit, a suit whereof the lawyers have stript their clients;
behind the counter, it is a covering for knavery;
to the ass of state, it is a robe of solemnity; and
is, indeed, sincere in none, save your gallants of
the mode, who are themselves, as their dress,
things of shew, or—nothing.
Gubb.
Ha, ha, ha!—
Mob.
A wise man—a parlous wise man!—
Dolt.
But, doctor—
Doct.
Ay neighbour, what sayst?
Dolt.
Did this same Mahomet drop from the clouds?
Doct.
Marry, and that he did—while he was
snug at home, and asleep in his bed.
Dolt.
Now that's very straynge!
Mob.
Very straynge and wonderful!
Dolt.
Pray ye, what was this same Mahomet?
Truely he was once a man of little
weight, a carrier of some light peddling fooleries;
but now he will carry you nineteen kingdoms upon
his own shoulders.
Mob.
Main strong—a main strong man!
Dolt.
But, doctor—
Doct.
Say it, good fellow.
Dolt.
Is he not—mercy on us—what call you
it, that tells all past fortunes?
Doct.
O, a prophet, a prophet—
Dolt.
Ay, what says the prophet? what says
he, pray you?
Doct.
That if you will not believe in his doctrine,
he will knock out thy brains—and that now
is marvellous, how he should know thou hast
any—
Mob.
He—he—he!—very marvellous; very
marvellous, indeed.
Dolt.
But have you any inkling of this Prophet's
doctrine, as they call it?
Doct.
Ay—there truly he comes near me, as it
were, in my own profession—He tells you that
the mind of man is subject to many diseases and
weaknesses.
Mob.
Ay, which be they, doctor? which be
they, good doctor?
Doct.
Even the weakness of your poor hearts,
that keep a foolish kindness for your neighbours;
a bit for the hungry, and a tear for the afflicted.
Mob.
Ay, heaven help us, we are wicked souls,
to be sure!—
Gubb.
Alas, good creatures—
All these now he cures by contrary habits
and exercise: he teaches you to cut throats,
plunder houses, ravish maidens, sack towns, waste
provinces; and, when you are perfect in all these
virtues, he leads you to his own paradise, where you
are to rant, and drink, and whore, for ever.
Dolt.
Whoy!—Heaven may be vast koind in all
this, to be sure; but it goes sore against the grain
of us poor sinners.
Gubb.
This comes of your want of education,
my neighbours, which is a great misfortune to
you. Now we, who draw near to higher life,
as they call it, shall lack but little reformation.
Dolt.
But has he no arguments, doctor? One
would be glad to hear a little reason, as the saying
is.
[Drums and Trumpets.
Doct.
Here he comes—Do ye not hear reason
in the sound of his trumpets! Why, he has a hundred
thousand arguments at his back, the least of
which will decide against the keenest casuist in all
Arabia.
SCENE III.
Mahomet carried in a triumphal chariot by several slaves crowned, his captains, &c. attending. The Mob divide, and, as he advances, range on each side of the stage, and fall prostrate.Maho.
People of Mecca, rise!—your day is come.
Ye favour'd of the Heavens—my chosen brothers—
As at the prayer of our primæval sire,
Of Adam, first of men, your Caaba,
Your temple, once of golden architrave,
Dropt by the wondring stars in sheets of light,
Fram'd by angelic builders—see ye not
Like glory now descending!—Long in night,
More dark and blacken'd by the guilt of man,
Did Mecca lie entranced, even from the flood,
Wherein her sacred temple was o'erthrown,
With nature suffering wreck—till Abraham,
Great father of our father Ishmael,
Directed by a star, the holy Sheckinah,
As twilight glimmering through a dusky world,
Here built again your sacred fane, restored
Of gross materials—true—but more debased,
By future profanation—pagods foul,
The abomination of the times!—Yet, Mecca!
Arise as from the tomb—thou favourite city,
Arise as from the tomb!—Thy hour is come,
When this, thy hallow'd temple, shall be cloath'd
With more than pristine glory!—Toward the sun,
As when the Persians eastward bend their heads
To his uprising beam, so, turn'd to thee,
And to thy Caaba, the nations round,
East, west, and north, and south, a prostrate world,
Shall bend the distant knee!—Behold—the light,
The light is come upon ye—born by me,
Heaven's present Angel!—
The Mob shout, and cry, A Mahomet! a Mahomet! a Prophet! a present Prophet! and again fall prostrate.
SCENE IV.
Enter Sopheian.Soph.
O profanation!—Hell, thy minister
Usurping godhead, and prostration due
But to the highest!—Can I bear it?—Shall aught
That's mortal, sway to this?—My children, pardon!—
You are but two—these thousands, these seduced,
My people, and my children too—Away,
Conforming baseness! duty, to thy task—
Let Heaven provide events!
Mahomet descends from his throne and advances toward Sopheian.
Maho.
Hail to the prince of Mecca! thrice all hail
To Heaven's appointed, to our future Prophet,
Assumed to sacred ministry, the seal
And brother of our word!
Soph.
Away, impostor!
Confusion to thy greeting!—Is it thus
Thou didst propose to treat? by sap and lure,
Thou subtle miner? didst thou hope, vain man!
I'd barter truth for treason?—never, never!—
I will not set my subjects to the sale,
Sons of my trust, for whom my years have travail'd!
Out of my realm, thou scepter'd vagrant—hence!
Maho.
Stop, stop the bolt, ye ready ministers!
Nor strike mistaking blasphemy—O stop,
I do arrest your arm!—Know you not, then,
That Heaven hath steel'd the heart of this his chosen,
By quick conversion?—
Soph.
O wily serpent!—but I'll cross thy windings,
Even in their proper maze—My gentle people!
List not to this bad man—I am like yourselves,
Simple and plain, and of such level sense
As Heaven gives honesty.—This arch-deceiver
Doth say he's from above; so you, or I,
Might say with equal right—who saw him go,
Or come from thence? If this is Heaven's ambassador,
Ask him for his credentials—Who so simple,
To give the slightest value of his purse,
Less the rich worth of his eternal faith,
Upon a wordy tale, no character
No token vouching?—Bid the juggler shew,
At least, some tricks, some slightings of his art,
To dust our eye of reason.
Maho.
The deep Serene moves not at idle breath;
Nor will Heaven deign, by frolic, to indulge
The wantonness of man. His Prophets come,
Each vested in the proper attribute
That doth attest his mission. Noah so
Came cloath'd in justice, and in clemency
The son of Amram; Solomon in wisdom!
But, vested in the wonders of his power,
The last and mightiest, I!
Soph.
His power!—wherein exprest?
Maho.
The world hath felt the lightning of my eye,
And thunder of my arm!
Such was the claim of Ammon's boasted son;
Such Nero's, when he ript his mother's entrails,
And laughing set his native Rome on fire;
Prophets and plagues alike!—Bend, bend, my people!
Kneel to this pestilence, this fiend sent forth
To blast fair nature.—Heaven! thy worshippers
Do thank thee for creation—who is, then,
This image of thy power revers'd? his task
To uncreate; depopulate and waste
The beauty of thy works!
Maho.
Defamer, no!—
For to the faithful I promulge glad tidings,
Due trophies, glory won of high exploits;
Good things on earth, and endless joys hereafter.
Soph.
Have we then chaced thee to thy paradise,
Thou jolly Prophet?—still, the flowing bowl,
The feast, the rolling eye, and wanton touch,
To stir decaying appetite above!—
Yet art thou just in this; thy followers,
First taught to cast humanity aside,
Are then rewarded with the bliss of brutes—
Fit heaven to fit earth!—lust, earn'd by blood!
Maho,
Curse on thy sophistry!—Dost thou not know,
The ways of sense are all the avenues
That lead to knowledge? all the modes, whereby
Or earth or heaven can be reveal'd?
Soph.
'Tis false.
The man is soul alone; a living soul!
Scarce a thin surface to his deep existence;
His slaves, detach'd for gross intelligence
'Twixt him and this slight world, his petty neighbour.
His proper faculties are inward, all
Internal to himself; the eye of reason,
The touch that thrills humanity, the taste
The appetite for goodness, whereupon
This embryon angel feeds, as in his shell,
Till fledg'd for Heaven—
Said I, the senses were the slaves of man?
Too oft his tyrants, enemies at all times,
To be opposed, subjected, and represt;
Soul against sense to wage perpetual war,
'Till Heaven shall quit the lumber: 'tis the character
That severs man from beast, and—such a Prophet!
Maho.
Damnation!—Fiends and fire!—Down, down, ye thunders,
Crush the blasphemer quick!—Mark me, ye nations!
Let late posterity attend—I come not
In the weak coil of words, but strength of power;
To quell with arms, not fence at argument.
The world is warpt, and bids our flag expand,
The bloody impress that shall seal our law,
Even to the end of things!—Who carps, who cavils,
I give his tortured carcass to impalement,
His damned spirit to the deep!—Away—
To arms, brave Ali!—to our host—lead on—
And Mecca in the dust!—Go—leave me—
[His attendants retire.
Soph.
Go, my people!
[Peasants retire.
SCENE V.
Mahomet and Sopheian for some time continue silent, Mahomet looking stern, and Sopheian with a contemptuous smile.Soph.
Prophet, thou art moved—
Maho.
Sopheian!
Soph.
Say.
Maho.
I came to thee in peace—thou hast murder'd peace!
I did intend thee honours, that might strain
The eye to upward gazing—Thy loved children,
Even as my own, I've foster'd—
Soph.
That, indeed, bends to thy service.
Maho.
Hell! dost talk of service?
Thou hast exposed and set at nought my mission!
There's but one way—
Soph.
Declare.
Maho.
Embrace it instantly—
Soph.
If not—
Maho.
Thou art a wretched father!—
Soph.
Ha!—
Maho.
And that lone trunk descends into the dust,
No twig surviving.
Soph.
Thou art not such a devil.
Dost thou not know me?
Soph.
O, too well!
Maho.
Enough—
Soph.
Thou wouldst not yet—thou art, thyself, a father!
Thy child too in my power—beware of that!—
Maho.
Fool, fool, to tempt me so—I dare thy utmost;
For thou art good, and can'st not swerve a hair
From the kind milk of nature.
Soph.
Art inexorable?
Take back thy child; with her my gems, my stores—
Strip all, save that which will not profit thee,
A little truth to cloath me.
Maho.
'Tis in vain—
Soph.
Let me but see them—'tis not much to grant—
But once to fold them in a father's bosom,
A first and last embrace!
Maho.
Yes—when thy son is writhing on the pale,
Wound up to agony; and thy chaste girl
To my licentious soldiers cast abroad,
As prostituted air—then—
Soph.
O miserable!—
Idol of terrors, mighty fiend, yet hold—
[As Sopheian speaks, he catches at Mahomet, and bends towards him in a supplicating posture.
Maho.
What! have I found thee
At my feet, mine enemy?—
[Exit.
Soph.
The powers of hell are pitiless; and Heaven,
Where pity is, we make our last resource,
When else no arm can aid—O children, children!
Your fate is urgent; and the bolt once launch'd,
What prayer can intercept?—Yes, to Omnipotence,
That instant may be spun into an age,
For grace to intervene. O, then, be quick—
Let thy swift power fill up my weak dependence!
Upon him, down! o'ertake him in the midst
Even of his proud career! his broad blown glories,
O blast them, blast the tyrant! staunch the sluice
Of the wide bleeding world, this day, this hour!
And let the faith of erring mortals know,
'Tis Heaven that winds thro' every path below.
[Exit.
| The Impostor | |