University of Virginia Library

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,
In him to shew the wonders of his might,
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!

Soph.
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!
His senses, appetites, his body, all
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—
The morrow's sun beholds the truce expired,
And Mecca in the dust!—Go—leave me—

[His attendants retire.
Soph.
Go, my people!

[Peasants retire.