University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Sopheian and Caled meet.
Soph.
Joy, Caled, joy! they're known, they're known, my Caled—
O such a pair!

Cal.
Whom?

Soph.
Brave Moawias,
And my fair Ayetia—
My Zaphna and Palmyra!

Cal.
O grace! what of them?

Soph.
Even my little ones.

Cal.
Say you?

Soph.
The same—the news hath made me strong
As in my prime of May—O haste to find them—
The dear young traitors have escaped their bounds,
And roam at large—I to the Caaba,
Toward Mahomet's pavilion thou—
O haste, haste my kind friend!—

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

Enter Palmyra.
Pal.
What may this bode?—I am undone—betray'd!—
Thrice did I meet him; thrice, with courteous action,
Woo'd him to conference; and thrice he started,
As tho' his eye had caught, within its glance,
A sudden basilisk—so struck with horror,
He from my presence shrunk, and vanish'd—Haply,
Some mood of his new jealousy—There,
Lo where he comes again!—sunk deep in thought,
Some grievous thought—within himself shut up,
And wrapt from every object—Stay I would not,
To give him more offence—first break my heart,
Wanting his healthful presence!

[Retires.

SCENE III.

As Palmyra retires slowly, and looks back, Zaphna, enters.
Zaph.
Upon the rack, stretch'd to the utmost point,
That time allots mortality!—No respite—
A long, whole life of anguish!—'tis too much—
Thought will not bear it; and the fact commands
Dismission from above—Prophet accurs'd!—
But well the conscious fiend avoids this arm,
Train'd by himself to murder—Wretched Zaphna,
From what a height, to what a depth of guilt,
Hath the swift current of one headlong hour
Hurried thee past repeal—from parricide,
To incest!—'twas the price—my sister's bed,
Bought with my father's blood!—which unenjoy'd,
I lose my purchase, and damnation comes
Shorn of its profits—Soft—forget her!—that—
To plunge at once the deep Lethean gulph,
A thousand fathom from the sense of things—
A mercy, next to bliss!—Ha, there again!—
Heaven would not, to the very teeth of guilt,
Impel temptation thus;
But that the fates, as though already past,
Have laid the deed to come—Palmyra!

[While Palmyra advances slowly, and with diffidence, Zaphna speaks.
Pal.
My Zaphna!

Zaph.
O, Palmyra!—

Pal.
What would my love?

Zaph.
Didst thou hear aught?

Pal.
Of what?

Zaph.
Of something strange—

Pal.
No.

Zaph.
Of yawning earthquakes, and of deserts waste;
Of tempest-beaten gulphs, whose opening womb
Hath swallow'd all, nor left one mark behind
For fortune's future stroke.

Pal.
These are sad words—
Pity for whom they point at!

Zaph.
Wheresoe'er,
Heaven shield thy peace! for from this spot, Palmyra,
We part, to meet no more—

Pal.
Save me, ye powers!—
Ah, Zaphna, wild are all thy words—thy looks,
Unform'd as clouds—and, as the rushing winds,
Unknowing whence they rise, and why they sweep
To desolation!

Zaph.
No, Palmyra!—fix'd
As earth's foundations, are the words I utter,
And sure as misery and death to mortals!

Pal.
Yet sure as misery attends on man,
We must not part, my Zaphna!—where thou goest,
Thither will I; the ground that bears thy couch,
Shall be a watchful pillow for my head;
Thy joys shall be my joys, thy griefs my torture:
In death conjoin'd with what of thee is mortal,
There will I make my grave; and with thy spirit,
Whate'er the lot, demand my Heaven hereafter.

Zaph.
Why, of what kin art thou to me?

Pal.
Is love,
That sooths the warring elements, and tunes
The world to order, of no kindred then?
And am I not beloved?

Zaph.
Too well, too well!—

Pal.
Ah, tell me not. Man knows not how to love—
And but the blush of maidenhood forbids
The fond unfolding, I could tell thee, Zaphna—
That where thy sex adventures but a step,
We go a league in love, and I the farthest.

Zaph.
What wouldst thou do?—ha! wouldst thou dare—

Pal.
Yes—

Zaph.
Fearlessly?

Pal.
Without a limitation.

Zaph.
Fit those limbs for travel?

Pal.
Yes—with thee.

Zaph.
What—to the brink?

Pal.
And onward—

Zaph.
O ye powers?
Think—to forego dominion, pomp, all quality
And softness of thy sex!

Pal.
Slight obstacles—

Zaph.
O'er-journey'd then, or toil'd with such rude tasks
As penury enjoins—to lay thee down
On the cold healthless ground; the welkin wide
And dark, thy drizzly curtain—

Pal.
Hard, indeed—
If thou the sharer, Zaphna!

Zaph.
Hunger-clinch'd,
Or scant of such rude viands as do strive
With appetite—

Pal.
Yet, cherish'd at thy side,
This were a festival.

Zaph.
Resolved! determin'd!—
Thy hand then—come, at once—why dost thou linger?
E're this we should be wing'd upon the way,
To leave reflection and remorse far off,
The laggards of our journey.

Pal.
But Zaphna—

Zaph.
O trifler—fare thee well—

Pal.
I will—Come on—
Who lingers now? Away—but thou art so rash,
So full of starts, that sally up to frenzy—
'Tis this that frights me.

Zaph.
Take me to thee then,
And mould me as thou wilt.

Pal.
Yes—witness Heaven!
In lieu of all, I take thee—hence, and ever,
[Embrace.
My lord, my husband, father, brother!

Zaph.
Ha!
Off, hold thee off—Perdition on the name!

Pal.
The matter—what—why Zaphna—on my knee,
Wherein have I offended?

Zaph.
Who inform'd thee?

Pal.
Of what, my life?

Zaph.
Thy life!—O angel innocence—
Thy death, thy deep damnation!—Nay, hold off,
Nor touch pollution—Villain that I am,
Thy honour's grave, the gulph that would devour
The worth of thine eternal soul—Thy brother?—
I am—indeed—thy brother!—

Pal.
Shield me, Heaven!

Zaph.
Saidst thou not, father too?—Alas, Palmyra!
Thou hast no father—

[Weeps.
Pal.
What's befallen?

Zaph.
Just butcher'd—
Even by these hangman's hands.

Pal.
My father?—

Zaph.
Murder'd—

Pal.
It is too much—O Zaphna, cruel Zaphna!—

Zaph.
The good, the kind old man—the sacred source,
That lent us both a being—stopt for ever!—
The generous, great Sopheian!

Pal.
Ah, my Zaphna,
Thy health is shaken much, o'ersway'd by crosses—
I too have caught the malady—my brain
Begins to turn.

Zaph.
Omnipotent! whose pardon over guilt
Reaches a length immense, be near me now—
O save me from that presence!—Down, Palmyra,
Low as the earth, before the sacred shade
[Kneel.
Of thy great sire—'Tis just—I feel his vengeance,
Forerunning his approach—it bears upon me—
It whelms, it crushes me!—

SCENE IV.

Enter Sopheian in haste, He runs and embraces them.
Soph.
They're here—They're found—
O let me fold them, let me wrap them inward;
Return them to the womb of yearning love,
The heart's warm seat of life! there feed my young ones,
And cloath them with my vitals—My Palmyra—
My Zaphna—my Palmyra—my long lost—
O children twice conceived—the happier birth,
To greet my years—new infants of my age—
I have it not in words—'tis here—'tis here—
The welcome of my babes!—Kneel ye, my children?
Now all the blessings of the dews that fall
In our Arabia, all the sweets that rise,
Be in you, and about you, till your virtues
Grow as in paradise, matured to Heaven,
Without a blossom dropt—These arms are aged,
In fondness overstrain'd—Nay, rise, pray rise,
And bless me also—

Zaph.
That which is not to be, and that which is,
Struck from the rank of things!—
It must—yet cannot—
These are the very megrims of existence;
The dizzy rounds of thought, that foundering drown
In their own whirlpools.

Soph.
How, my son!—Why Zaphna—

Zaph.
Nay—by your pardon, sir—I will dispute it
Against all tricks of sophistry—To say
That things without, are not within us—lo,
Those racks, those wheels—there's no such thing—'tis here!—
'Tis the mind's bed whereon the body lies,
Stretch'd out in anguish!

Soph.
I am lost to this.

Zaph.
But have you heard the like?

Soph.
Of what, my child?

Zaph.
Perhaps a fable—Clytemnestra too
Was but a mother, and the story says
A bad one—in his father's quarrel too
He struck—O wretched son!—and he ran mad for't—
I have not read of any son so lost,
As to assault a father—if you have,
I'll list—and weep the while.

Soph.
Alas! Palmyra.

Pal.
My lord.

Soph.
Dost thou know aught of this?

Pal.
In truth,
I am myself beside the sense of things.
You say, you are my father—Pardon, sir;
Your goodness makes you such to every orphan—
But, if I claim you by a nearer title,
Then who is Mahomet?

Soph.
A murderous faulcon!
Who seizing on the nest of my delights,
Bore off the mother with her little ones,
And left me reft indeed—How fares my Zaphna?—
His eye is much distemper'd.

Zaph.
Within the map of our mortality,
Is it not to be found—the land of sleep?—
Or if a stranger, and in foreign climes,
I have dream'd thus—would it were morning!—O—
My head—light, light—thy arm, sweet sister.

Soph.
His health—kind Heaven, be it thy care!—My daughter,
Lead him to some repose—

SCENE V.

Zaphna goes out led by Palmyra. Hercides enters hastily to Sopheian.
Hercid.
Beware, my lord, the surety of your person!
The moon doth wax in labour; all abroad
Is bustle, all confusion; throughout Mecca,
Each house is left the watch of its own fires,
And the wide air is peopled.—

Soph.
What is forward?

Hercid.
Some cry, The Prophet, where's the Prophet? Each
Inquires th'alarm, none answers—this way now,
And that again, the tide of concourse flows,
Unknowing why. To Mahomet's pavilion
I flew; affright and busie consternation
Was visaged in his train. I press'd to enter;
When Abdoramen barr'd me with his hand,
And to my ear—“The Prophet is intranced—
“To Heaven, perhaps, upon a second embassy”—
He murmur'd and retired—Is Zaphna safe?

Soph.
Here, in my palace.

Hercid.
From what perils scaped—
Amazing providence!

Soph.
But much displaced,
By constitution, or ill rest; and somewhat
Tending unto delirium—he did talk
Of actions dire, dark treasons, and of parents
By savage children slain—

Hercid.
Ha! pause awhile—
It did occur—I have it—On my soul
The impostor is no more!—I do remind me—
Slain by mistake—as mercy shall o'ertake me,
Fallen in the toils he pitch'd!—

Soph.
Who, Mahomet?

Hercid.
Even so—I do remind me—Every noon,
Was't not your use to worship at the Caaba?

Soph.
It was—

Hercid.
There was your hour of slaughter fix'd—but then
This Prophet for the fiends, being ill-assured
Of his young votary, not vers'd in blood;
In person hath adventured, and so fell
Even by his own appointment.

Soph.
I do think,
It bears a face.

Hercid.
Upon my life, a sure one!
When in the temple I did warn your son
To spare a father, I do mind the horror,
The wild astonishment his eye did utter—
As though the deed had overrun prevention,
And caution came a laggard.

SCENE VI.

Enter Caled.
Cal.
Health to the prince of Mecca! may his reign,
Peaceful and late, know every night like this,
Without a rival!—Mahomet, 'tis thought,
Is fallen—for certain, fled. His votaries,
As people all appall'd, converse in murmurs;
And sudden rumour thins his host.

Soph.
O friend—
Come to my breast, and share its exultation.
[Embrace.
'Tis else too mighty; this concurring flood—
Peace, and my children too!—

Cal.
What—found? restored?
The same, and both?

Soph.
How kind this social transport!—
Yes, Caled, both, the long lost little ones,
The individual pair—Hercides here
Confirms the wondrous blessing.

Cal.
Ha—Hercides!—
Soft—let me view him well—I would not rashly—
The blood of innocence, 'tis dear above—
The same, by all my hopes.—Villain accurs'd!
[Seizes him, and draws a poniard.
Be short—if that thou own'st a prayer—if Heaven
May list to sudden penitence—this instant—
'Tis all the wealth thou hast, wherewith to quit
Thy manifold incumbrance.

Soph.
Friend!—Hercides!—
What may this mean?

Cal.
Away, Sopheian—
He dies on thy approach!

SCENE VII.

Enter Zaphna and Palmyra.
Zaph.
My gracious lord, if malady may plead
[To Sopheian.
For errors not of will—

[Hercides kneels.
Hercid.
Ah, Zaphna—will you,
Will you behold the fosterer of your youth
Butcher'd by sudden hands?—your fond preserver—
The breast whereon your infancy was laid,
Rent in your presence?

Zaph.
Who avows a deed
So horrid?

[Lays his hand to his sword. Sopheian prevents him.
Cal.
Off, rash boy!—thou mayst avenge,
Not save him—who advances, by my life
But quickens his perdition!—Patience, friends,
You know him not—this caitiff—Come, to shrift—
It boots thee not to hesitate—dispatch
Thy villainies at large!

Hercid.
Oh, Heaven already
Hath heard the deep detail—

Cal.
Know'st thou this prince—

Hercid.
My first, and worthiest master.

Cal.
Had a brother?

Hercid.
Ay, sir, the noble Joseph—you do press me,
Even to the quickening of my crimes.

Cal.
O wretch,
How didst thou find them natured to each other?—
Of souls adverse—or twined in amity,
As brothers should?

Hercid.
No loom of shuttled threads
E'er wove so close a web.

Cal.
How grew their difference?

Hercid.
Shame would suppress the memory—'Twas then,
When the profane impostor first commenced
His dream of Heaven, into my secret soul
He warp'd his gliding legends—I did think,
That evil was the blessed act of saints,
When hallowed in the purpose.

Cal.
Hear you that, Zaphna?

Zaph.
I do hear it feelingly.

Hercid.
This my dread lord, and his all noble mate,
This bond of brotherhood, this brace of pillars,
On whom Arabia built her nest of odours,
Was I instructed to divide.

Soph.
O Heavens!

Hercid.
To him I forged a tale of pregnant lust
And treasons, working in the faithful breast
Of his most loving brother—while, to Joseph,
I framed suspicions dark, and deeds of blood,
Thro' envy stirr'd of his superior virtue.
Thus the thrice valiant Joseph was o'ersway'd
To flee the place of his respect and safety;
And by the absence of his potent arm,
Left the usurper free in his career
To lust and to ambition.

Cal.
Fare thee well—
The tale is told—Heaven take thee to his mercy!

Soph.
Pernicious slave—O treason to my peace!
'Tis lost for ever—Fool, most credulous fool,
Fit stuff for knaves to work upon—O brother,
Then thou art wrong'd, dear brother of my soul,
Wrong'd past the reach of penitence!—Ha, caitiff,
This youth and maiden too?

Hercid.
My gracious lord,
I do confess, to form them in the faith,
Young proselytes for Heaven, I did assist
To tear them from thy arms—yet, Heaven alike
Will witness for me, that my love to both,
Did pass a parent's fondness—from their infancy,
Oft in my arms, and never from my heart,
I watch'd their ways, and warded all their dangers;
Yea, to this day, when on the verge of death,
From Zaphna's lip I dash'd the poison'd cup,
Even in the tyrant's presence.

Cal.
Good, my lord!
Such deeds as these, to nature's not impassable,
Have a strong pleading.

Pal.
Might I find acceptance.

Zaph.
Let my knee speak.

Soph.
O Zaphna—O my children!—
You know not whom—it is a sum immense,
That counts our losses; uncle, brother, father,
All the dear ties!—thy precious father, Zaphna,
Shorn by this slave.

Zaph.
O grace, O earth, O Heaven!
Am I not then your son?

Soph.
Thou art indeed,
Son of my soul, loved heir of my adoption;
But he thy nobler, more exalted sire,
By nature as by worth.

Zaph.
Your servant ever—
Hear'st thou, Palmyra?

Soph.
'Tis a tale, my children,
Full of fond tears, and we will pay them amply.

Pal.
to Cal.
If, sir, you deem me worthy of a claim
In that dear kinsman; pardon my inquiry—
You seem no stranger to him.

Cal.
True, kind maid!—
And yet to speak the wonders of his pilgrimage,
His wrecks, his scapes, vicissitudes extreme,
And feats in foreign climes atchieved, the burden
Would charge a wakeful listener—Foot by foot,
Together have we trod the maze of fortune;
And arm in arm, with frost upon our helms,
Abode the tentless field—The rest is mournful—
Let his last charge suffice—“Since Heaven,” he said,
“Forbids these eyes the prospect of a brother,
“More long'd than light—be thine that blessing, Caled!
“Convince him of his servant's faith—his innocence—
“But no reproof, my friend!—And in thy sojourn,
“If thou shouldst meet with some unhappy orphan,
“Heir to his sire's misfortunes—then, my Caled—
“Think of my child, and take him to thy bounty!”

Zaph.
It is not to be born—

Soph.
Enough, enough!—
This strikes at life.

Caled.
Alas, his visage turns!—
I have gone too far—My lord, my royal master,
Pardon the fond deceit!—he lives—your servant,
Your Joseph lives—ill meriting such goodness.

Soph.
Sayst thou, great oracle?

Caled.
He stands before you.

[Throws off his disguise; Sopheian, Zaphna, and Palmyra stand some time amazed: then Sopheian rushes to his arms, while Zaphna and Palmyra kneel beside them.
Pal.
Ah—

Zaph.
Heavens!—

Soph.
The mighty powers of grace—I have him!—
Off—
Let my eye make him sure, that every sense
May seize its proper bliss—'Tis he, 'tis he—
Hear it, ye tribes of Ishmael!—Lo, Arabia!
Lo, thy returning Phænix—O, my Joseph,
No more of parting—never cross my ear,
Croak such a raven more—but thus, still thus,
[Embrace.
Even in the sleep of death, together wedded,
Till the last peal shall wake the world.

Caled.
These sobs—
These tears arrest my utterance—let them answer.

Soph.
Joseph—behold thy children!—

Caled.
O sweet maid!—
[Embraces Palmyra.
May Heaven enfold thee with a love like mine,
And clasp thee to his grace—Zaphna my child!

[Embrace.
Zaph.
O, sir—

Caled.
Why weeps my boy?

Zaph.
Unwonted feelings these, that wring the heart
With such a straight embrace.
Sons, brothers, sires, to me new comers all!
Yet nature knows, and opens for their entrance;
But answers to them with a voice so loud,
It tears the mansion inward!—Late, your Zaphna
Wanted a friend—and now, he has a father!—

Soph.
Joseph, thy compact—take Palmyra to thee;
And when thou wouldst prefer the maid in marriage,
I claim her for my Zaphna.

Zaph.
Sir—to speak—

Soph.
I see, thou canst not; thy too grateful heart
Is overcharged—O Joseph, O my brother,
Thus, like two confluent streams, in these our children,
And theirs descending, we shall flow together,
Smiling through time, and reach into eternity.

Cal.
Heaven, thou art mighty and confess'd in this!
With what an arm, through what a mortal maze,
Hast thou led forth thy servants?—Rise, Hercides!
Errors that meet reluctance in the will,
Give place for reformation—Still be near,
And let thy Zaphna find a father in thee.

Pal.
But what, alas, your censure of Palmyra,
Whose life hath been one error?

Zaph.
This, my love—
That from our present sense of previous slidings,
We gather cautious steps, and upright treading—
Zaphna hath taken a lesson from his faults,
Beyond all rules of stern philosophy—
Untutor'd as I am, and new to learn,
Where, or to whom, revealing Heaven hath sent
His outward lumination, sure I am
His inward is to all men. Is it reason?
No—'tis the Bosom'd God, the Living Sense,
That feels, not argues upon guilt or goodness.
'Tis our Internal Chymist, skill'd to try
The bullion'd dross, or gold, of every faith,
By the quick touch of his approved assay.
If that All-actuating Power, who form'd,
And fills mankind, hath stoop'd to their instruction;
'Tis to refine the principle he gives,
And not to quell the native sense of goodness.
In vain we would The Eternal Unit part—
One in the Heavens, and in the feeling heart!
His laws to his impressions must be kin:
Where GOD's without, he speaks the GOD within.