 | The Impostor |  |
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.
35
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?—
36
[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 | |