University of Virginia Library

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.