University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Zaphna and Palmyra on one side, and Sopheian slowly on the other.
Zaph.
Joy to our generous host—peace and her train,
I trust, are near!—Ha, if I judge aright,
Joy hath no dwelling here—they are the characters
Of grief and deep dismay, that may be read
Throughout that reverend form!—Say, royal sir,
Have you not met?

Soph.
Yes, Zaphna.

Zaph.
Treated?

Soph.
Yes.

Zaph.
And how?

Soph.
What boots the tale?—

Zaph.
I doubt, my lord—
Pray pardon,—that your port hath haply seem'd
Too much aloft, unbending to our Prophet;
For I did hear him, with an ample heart,
Speak of dear terms, and purposed good toward you.

Soph.
I did descend beneath a low man's level;
Besought, with tears besought him, for my children,
Even at his knee.

Pal.
O grace!—and what hath chanced?

Soph.
Perhaps even now my son is on the pale;
And the chaste honours of my dearer daughter,
Thrown to the public camp.

Pal.
And did you then,
Forget Palmyra—when the chains of one
Might ransom both your children?

Soph.
I did add
Even all my treasures in exchange.

Pal.
Ah, Heaven!—
I have then no father—Zaphna, thou art all,
The only friend that's left!

Zaph.
Royal Sopheian—
I am your hostage; and, where I'm known, my honour
Unquestion'd as the light. I am more than hostage,
Bound from my soul to your best vantage ever—
I have served our Prophet from the earliest hour,
That arms e'er cloath'd an infant; a slight boast,
To say he's yet my debtor. I will seek him,
I will invest me with your suit—meanwhile
My faith remains your surety.

Soph.
Generous youth!
Go—and the blessings of a forlorn father
Still wait on thee my son.

Zaph.
Peace be your guest!
A quick return shall meet your amplest wishes.

[Exit Zaphna.
Pal.
Alas! my lord, and hath my once fond father
Cast off his child? could a short absence thus
Efface great nature's impress?

Soph.
Though I menaced—
Heaven knows how distant from my heart!—to use thee
Below thy least deservings.—

Pal.
Could I think it?—
When memory goes back to its first stage,
It meets his kindness there, which thence came onward,
Encreasing as my days. My prate alone
Could cast his care, new form his face to smiles;
I seem'd his little mint for daily pleasures,
Lived at his knee, and grew but in his eye.
Can I forget with what continued rapture,
He since hath caught and held me to his bosom,
As from his being I were once again
To take new root?

Soph.
He knew, he knew, Palmyra!
Nature, tho' turn'd to savage, could not hurt thee:
Thence grew his confidence—And yet, sweet maid,
Would I might wean thee to my own affection!
For much I fear thy father—much I fear,
No child of mine shall close my eyes in death,
Twice born, and now twice buried.

Pal.
O, my master!
Should a hair fall that hangs upon your peace,
On his own daughter, even upon myself,
I'll do you vengeance.

Soph.
Generous, gentle heart!—
Come, my best child, and while our Zaphna's absent,
Let's wear the hour, and mingle hope with tears;
Weep where we must, but smile whene'er we can,
Since woeful is the state ordain'd for man.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Mahomet's Pavilion.
Mahomet and Caab.
Maho.
No, Caab—If I forgive him!—
No more—his doom is seal'd; for on his head
My greatness can alone take future growth,
Or needs must wither. Didst thou mark?—

Caab.
I did—
The imbitter'd envy of his taunts, the insolence
Of his imagined triumph.

Maho.
Curse on his triumph! it shall sink him, Caab!—
My friend, I'll tell thee of this same Sopheian:
From the first pluming of my young ambition,
He check'd its flight; in war, in prophecy,
My deadliest lett! In vain I sought his friendship;
He mock'd my dreams, and vilified my person.
'Twas needful, yet, to win him by my arts,
Or crush him by my arms. The last was doubtful—
And, therefore, to retain within my hands
A certain pledge of our projected amity,
I seiz'd the lucky vantage of an hour,
And stole his children—

Caab.
Whom!

Maho.
Be secret then,
Till time shall speak—even Zaphna and Palmyra!—

Caab.
Say you, my lord, the children of Sopheian?

Maho.
The same; and for that purpose brought them up
With all due preference; nay, loved them, Caab—
And from the dawn of young Palmyra's beauties,
Won by I know not what of infant sweetness,
I mark'd her for my bed; a favourite consort,
To give age appetite. But now, my Caab,
I hate them both, the hostile progeny
Of that old canker'd stock! yet, for Palmyra,
There is a sort of malicious kindness,
That suits our hatred well. I must enjoy her—
I else come short of my own paradise,
A Prophet to no end.

Caab.
My lord!

Maho.
Say, Caab.

Caab.
Think you, but if Sopheian knew the honours
You did intend—

Maho.
No more! I see 'tis vain.
The fellow is in earnest; has ta'en up
Whims of I know not what, call'd truth and honesty—
A fool, and bigot!

Caab.
Yet, such weak propensities
Have mainly serv'd our Prophet.

Maho.
True, my oracle—
Though rancourous enemies when once attack'd,
They make fast friends. Why, what a deal of people
Have we religion'd into mischief, Caab—
To what the dictates of plain nature call
Theft, murder, rapine, sacrilege!—yet these
Have fashion'd all our heroes, set at gaze
The demigods of old.

Caab.
Now, from my soul,
I do adore you; worship you with heart
Of true recognizance. Your wisdom sums
Whate'er of power, or elevated attribute,
Is fabled in divinity.

Maho.
Mark, Caab!
Would'st thrive on earth, appear to look at Heaven,
As that were all thy bent; the seeming saint
Still makes the prosperous sinner.
'Tis therefore, that, Prometheus-like, I've robb'd
Heaven's altar of enthusiastic fire,
And have my fasts, my prayers, my zeal, and cant,
Spread hands, and whited eye-balls—morals too,
Good morals, Caab! that have made good men.
My godship to a bett, but I, hereafter,
May have my martyrs too—What say'st thou, Caab?
For, on my soul, I do begin to think,
I have but dream'd of sleighting on the world,
And that I am sent indeed.

Caab.
Most high and mighty!
'Tis better as it is—for Heaven, belike,
Had given less latitude.

Maho.
Say'st thou, old chronicle?
Ha, ha, ha, ha!—But to our theme, my friend.
What with Sopheian?

Caab.
Bring your army on.

Maho.
That has its hazard.

Caab.
Poison then—

Maho.
A dagger—

Caab.
A gentle cup—

Maho.
Blood, Caab, blood!

Caab.
My lord, you know I'm for the cabinet;
The sword's too bare a province.

Maho.
Yet, my Caab,
Thou couldst persuade—

Caab.
Whom?

Maho.
Ali—no—what thinkst of Abdoramen?

Caab.
It will not do; he's not enough of saint,
Nor yet of sinner for it—Say, 'twere Zaphna.

Maho.
Ha!—yes—I do conceive—O glorious mischief!—
Come to my arms thou prophet of thy prophet!—
Zaphna hath such a gallantry of zeal,
Bid him but on, and in the name of Heaven,
He'd strike at Heaven's Supreme—This way, this way,
More from the light—until I pour into thee,
The horrors that are brooding in my soul,
To whelm our foes withal.

Caab.
Pardon, my lord—
I did not think—this will be parricide.

Maho.
Out fool—the nobler vengeance!—Further, Caab,—
I have a lure to bow this youthful eagle,
A tempting lure—he loves Palmyra—so,
The sister's body for the father's blood!
It is a bargain seal'd—But ere he seize
His quarry, we must gorge him—there's thy task—
'Tis but the sweet'ning of the sacred chalice,
The cup of our commission, and all's safe—
Then Caab we shall mount as free as air,
To love and empire.

Caab.
I do think, my master,
If Zaphna does the feat, it were not safe
He live to rue; they both must fall together.

Maho.
Right—This once done, thou art thy master's master.
Ha! by my mission—to our wish—he comes—
Keep thee aside, my Caab.

[Caab retires.

SCENE III.

Mahomet retires to his chair; and, as Zaphna enters, affects to be wrapt in a vision.
Maho.
Thy will!—in patience I resign me to it—
What, Zaphna! is it Zaphna thou hast chosen,
To be the voice, as now he is the arm
To propagate thy word?—I envy not—
I pity—Zaphna—O my son, my son,
The toils that win the trophies!—thou art young,
Unequal—pardon, Heaven—thy might, it is
Sufficient to him—What a combat first
Must wring his heart!—torn from itself—the will,
Self-will rent from him—by the will above
Supply'd—I see—he draws the sword of Heaven—
He strikes—The foe is fallen—'tis finish'd!

While Mahomet speaks, Zaphna stands amazed and agitated with various emotions; then speaks, and falls prostrate.—
Zaph.
Thine and thy prophet's will,
Behold your servant!

[After a silent pause, Mahomet pretends to awake, and seeing Zaphna, seems surprized.—
Maho.
How—Zaphna!
What dost thou here, young man?
Thou art a hostage—

Zaph.
'Tis therefore I am come, my gracious master,
A suitor for my host—

Maho.
Rise, Zaphna!—No—
'Tis strange—'tis mystical—'tis wond'rous all!—
Thy doing!—no, my child—for thou art come
Wide of thyself; thou know'st not when, nor why—
Invisibly conducted.

Zaph.
Lo, great Prophet!
Your servant's soul is wrapt in energy—
Strain'd to her wing, and panting for the flight,
Where you and Heaven appoint.

Maho.
What wouldst thou? ha!—

Zaph.
The scythe-drawn sword, to dart amid the legions,
Mow'd as the summer's weed—to plunge the flame—
To ride the whirlwind—cramp'd within the pole,
To freeze, to shiver, in the eternal bite
Of thawless winter—
Or boldly striding on the boist'rous surge,
My watry Pegasus wing'd by the winds,
To scale the pale-ey'd regent of the night,
Revealing wonders!

Maho.
Apt—but foreign quite!—
Imagination hurries thee, my son,
A thousand leagues aside—'Tis not the plume
Of new-fledg'd youth, the riot of the blood,
Nor fiery sparks that mount upon the blaze
Of hot ambition; fond conceptions all,
The quickening of mortality!—No more—
Heaven is not in them—'Tis a will debased,
Sunk from itself; old nature turn'd and strain'd,
From wonted bendings; judgment quelled, and reason
Led as a muffled babe—

Zaph.
O take me then,
Crush me into oblivion, that no thought
May rise to further ferment!—

Maho.
'Tis amazing—
Prodigious, what's ordain'd for thee, my child!
The greater heights, the lowlier thou must sink,
Prepared for future soaring; be a thing
Of scorn to what is call'd thy nobler nature,
In thy own eye a base one.

Zaph.
O, pronounce!—
I am already all that Heaven would have,
Or nothing—

Maho.
That Heaven thou servest, hath a foe.

Zaph.
A foe?

Maho.
A dog!

Zaph.
Perhaps, devoted—

Maho.
Stab him.

Zaph.
Whom?

Maho.
Sopheian!

Zaph.
Ha!

Maho.
A scoffer—

Zaph.
Alas!

Maho.
A blasphemer of our law,
Cursing the earth he treads!—Thou musest, Zaphna.

Zaph.
Not I—no—muse, my lord?—I would, I would
Be all obedience.

Maho.
Take this poniard to thee;
'Tis consecrated steel—and thou the priest
Appointed to the sacrifice!

Zaph.
His children?—
I trust not compass'd in the sire's offences.

Maho.
No, they are ta'en to grace—Away, dispatch,
Or thou art lost for ever!
Follow him, Caab—should he fail, enforce him.

[Exit Mahomet speaking to Caab.
Zaph.
Ha!—Thoughts be still—A traitor—murderer—
A dark, a secret villain!—there's the merit!—
Down, down, rebellion!—Nature, who art thou
Whose sense would kick at Heaven? thou must thyself
Be slain, the previous victim; else this steel
Recoils, no purpose on the point. Help, Heaven!—
Quick, Zaphna!—or the combat fought within,
Kills the whole man; and power will be as weak
As will, to this most dreadful task—O misery?

[Exit Zaphna.

SCENE IV.

Sopheian's Palace.
Sopheian and Caled meet.
Soph.
Friend, are our gates secured, our guards disposed—
All measures ta'en against surprize or treachery,
Where such an inmate nestles?

Cal.
All is done,
What diligence could act, or prudence dictate.—
The danger is not ours.

Soph.
How's that, my friend?

Cal.
The common croud, who ever loved your person,
Wean'd of their superstitious awe of Mahomet
By your last conference, have caught a rumour
Touching your long lost children, and the danger
That threatens at their life—All fired, they run
To corners, and in sudden whispers plot
The fall of the Impostor and his followers.

Soph.
Ah Caled! wherefore do I know this business?
Which known, I must prevent.

Cal.
'Tis therefore told,
To be prevented—

Soph.
Does Christianity
Enjoin such heights, stupendous to our natures?

Cal.
It does—whate'er of worth, truth, candour, honour,
Can be selected and sublimed from things,
Through the whole man it raises and expands—
No out-let for evasion, no compounding!
Your faith is pass'd; and, to your stretch of power,
You are now the guardian of your foe.

Soph.
Yet, yet,
I could have wish'd—

Cal.
To what effect, Sopheian?
The Almighty Faith of which thou art now professor,
In the suspended arm of feeble man
Arrests all power; and to itself assumes
The scope of all events, even to a hair,
Which on the unbonneted or hoary head
Gives comfort against cold.

Soph.
And is it so?

Cal.
All known, all noted, balanced, and adjusted,
As in a chymist's scale!—Man may intend—
That is his freedom, that his power—no more!—
Nor, from creation, hath the bustling world
E'er sway'd Eternal Wisdom from his line,
An atom's deviation.

Soph.
If the end,
Must be, as it must be; what boots it, then,
To swerve from excellence?

Cal.
Only to earn
The guilt, but not the issue of our purpose.
For will or nill, the same effect subscribes
The over-ruling dictate. Fear not, then,
What the spectator man may strive to warp
Amid the works of Heaven—Go thou straight on;
And do, as honour bids.

Soph.
'Tis right, 'tis great,
'Tis glorious!—and my wish, so prompt of late,
Shrinks back ashamed, nor dares abide the beam
Of such illumination. Haste, my Caled,
Our word hath past: our children let us leave
To Heaven—let's haste, my friend, let's fly to save,
To rescue their destroyer.

Cal.
I go, my lord.

Soph.
Soft, Caled—first a word—

SCENE V.

As Sopheian and Caled confer, Zaphna enters at a distance.
Zaph.
He's there—the accurs'd of Heaven and of his Prophet!—
The trampler of our law, the victim due!—
Come, ye associates of the close assassin,
Dissimulation, smooth-faced cruelty,
And lurking treason!—aid my pious purpose—
That I may smile and talk, and smile and stab,
For Heaven, and for the word!—

[Exit Caled.
Soph.
Zaphna, welcome!
O doubly welcome now; for I began
To fear for thee, my son!

Zaph.
For me, my lord?

Soph.
Yes—the unruly mob are ripe for mischief;
And, in their fury, bent to massacre
Your Prophet and his train.

Zaph.
A tale worth listening.

[Aside.
Soph.
But, thanks to Heaven! thou art return'd in safety.
My children—do they live?

Zaph.
They do.

Soph.
Alas!
I see thy plea hath been but half a winner:
But my Palmyra kindly hath engaged
To urge the dear petition to her father,
With all her winning rhetoric—Thou, my Zaphna,
Stir not to tempt the danger of the hour;
Already have I sent, and now I go
To quell this tumult.

Zaph.
Wherefore—why, my lord,
Wherefore to quell? does not your soul desire
Perdition to our Prophet?

Soph.
Front to front,
Or in the field, where open honour leads,
Yes, to the death I'd cope him—but not sap
By mineing treachery.

Zaph.
O Heaven!—But think—
Check fortune now, and what may follow?—ha!
Do you not hate, do you not fear him?

Soph.
No—
My towering faith informs, that guilt alone
Is real evil—What can man do, more
Than Heaven gives scope? in that my trust is pillar'd.
I fear him not, therefore I cannot hate him—
The armed hand may stroak the cockatrice,
Admire her speckled crest, and pearled scale,
When fearless of her sting.

Zaph.
That strikes a light—
But O, from me how distant!—just of force
To dazzle, not to warm me.

[Aside.
Soph.
I must hence.
'Till my return, this roof is thy asylum—
Would it were ever so!

[Going.
Zaph.
Indeed, my lord!—
And do you wish my safety?—'tis too much—

Soph.
Ah, Zaphna, how unkind that question!—Yes,
Thou generous youth, would I might ever hold thee,
By all the twining bonds of dear affection!
Those children that thy Prophet would impose,
Perhaps—I know not whom—a foreign offspring—
O Heavens, that I might win thee but from this—
I will not do thy ear offence, my son,
To name him by his merits—why that sigh?—
That thou, I say, and thy Palmyra, here,
Might reign with me in Mecca; share between ye
My heart, my wealth, my scepter!—What, in tears!

Zaph.
Oh, pardon—

Soph.
Nay, I must prevent thy knee;
It is not in thy noble nature, Zaphna,
To want a pardon—but that I do love thee,
Let this, and this, be witness!—Fare thee well—
[Embraces.
May grace and honour guard thee!

[Exit.
Zaph.
Guard me?—
That was his gentle prayer—O no, my father!
Fiends catch me first, and may the Heavens guard thee
From traitors such as Zaphna!—Said I, Heaven?
Heaven! what is Heaven?—a prompter to ingratitude?
To breach of faith, close couching treacheries,
And murders?—Zaphna then will none of Heaven—
He'll to the infernals first, the place opposed
To such a Heaven, and dwell condemn'd to virtue.

SCENE VI.

Enter Caab cautiously.
Caab.
Zaphna!—my lord, my lord Zaphna!

Zaph.
Caab!—What dost thou here?

Caab.
O, my good lord—the Prophet—

Zaph.
Damn the Prophet—
Thee, and his other instruments of practice,
The word he utters, and the heaven he worships!

Caab.
O the good angel!—Zaphna!—Mercy take us!
Where have you caught this frenzy!

Zaph.
Out, thou slave!
Thou under serpent, poisoning as thou goest
By curs'd insinuation; leaving still
Thy venom in the track.

Caab.
What this will cost!
When you shall know—what grief, what penitence

Zaph.
I care not—I renounce thy sect—thy master,
And thee thou image of his dross; his vile,
His worst impression.

Caab.
What hath chanced? I hope—
I hope you have not—I am sent dispatch,
To intercept the stroke—and bring you to him.

Zaph.
To intercept it, say you?

Caab.
Yea, my lord—
Sopheian hath sent terms of due submission,
Of suit and humble prayer to be received
To grace and to the law.

Zaph.
Sayst thou, of suit?—
And terms—what terms, good Caab?

Caab.
Nay, I know not—

Zaph.
Pardon a young man's rashness—Say, my friend—

Caab.
In sooth, 'tis but surmise.

Zaph.
Of what? unfold—

Caab.
It were not well.

Zaph.
Kind Caab—

Caab.
Have you e'er
Remark'd a sort of kindness in Sopheian,
Touching our sultan's daughter?

Zaph.
Often—yes—
He doth confess as much.

Caab.
I only know,
The man hath eyes, desires, and appetites;
Whether the lady hath temptations too,
That I know not.

Zaph.
Thou hast a further cause.

Caab.
No more in truth, than what my distant ear
Caught of brief accents, when with Mahomet
He held a private conference.

Zaph.
In private?

Caab.
Yes.

Zaph.
And what didst gather?

Caab.
There, my lord,
Your pardon—
My soul's best worth could scarce abide the charge
Of such a revelation.

Zaph.
He did shew,
A face and port of such an open tendence,
I could not stray—I think—
If he doth hold me fair, and play me deep;
I will have such atonement of his treachery,
Such merciless account—

Caab.
O, let not me,
Be author of ill thoughts—I may have err'd.

Zaph.
Where shall I turn?—If I look up to Heaven,
I am confounded from his attribute,
Nor know the power I pray to—if on earth,
Design, and craft, and covert policy,
Lie ambush'd in the social face of friendship,
And trip at confidence.

Caab.
Take patience to you.

Zaph.
Why was I born?—O, what is man?—a thing,
Form'd for the sport of some facetious deity!
A vessel fill'd with adverse elements,
Wherein his chymist would experiment
The wantonness of warfare.—In his infancy,
The bud how tender!—should he scape the frost,
How short the blossom!—bring him to the fruit,
He ripens into rottenness!—Away
With such an insignificance—an edifice,
Built for the blast, a voyage but for the wreck—
A voyage? no—that hath its chart, its compass,
A star whereby to steer, and haply may
Attain some haven—man is but a skiff,
Toss'd out to chance; his boasted pilot, reason,
A sluggard set to argue, not to act
Against the tempest of contending passions.
Now here, now there, he's thrown; nor knows a steerage—
No ground to anchor, and no skill to guide;
The driving butt of every wind and tide!

[Exeunt.