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—
Last call'd, yet first regarded!—see ye not,
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.
