University of Virginia Library

SCENE VIII.

Leonora, and Lucinda.
Leonora.
The gloom, Lucinda, darkens more around me:
Thy consolation, and thy sympathy,
Are losing, now, their charming power to soothe me.

Lucinda.
What new distress, big with uncommon evil,
Alarms a heart, too tremblingly alive?

Leonora.
But now, that wretch, our grand inquisitor,
Whose first delight, is, to torment mankind,
Hath left my father; from those prejudices
Of nation, and religion, which contract
The minds of both; but chiefly, from the stern,
And unrelenting soul of Torquemada,
I must infer the worst calamity.
And should that fiend, with all his life consistent,
Pleading Heaven's warrant, perpetrate some deed,
Destructive of my peace, and of my love,
The prospect of redress from Ximenes,
Is, by a strange fatality, precluded.
That god-like man, who seems to have been born
To punish tyrants, to protect the helpless,
And from the tortured breast to root out pain,
Has, with absurd, with cruel toleration,
Which, to it's cause, acuteness ne'er could trace,
Indulged the frantick zeal of Torquemada,
In barbarous deeds licentious: then, what hope,
What faintest gleam of hope can rise to me?

Lucinda.
My Leonora, with advice elaborate
To pall thy sick, and agitated mind,
Would be imprudent; yet let me intreat thee
To summon to thy aid the powerful comforts
Which innocence affords afflicted minds;
And every Christian's task, with fortitude
To bear the evils of this transient life.

Leonora.
Not yet these awful, salutary objects
Are torne from my distracted memory.
But oh! thou Father of the universe!
[She kneels.
Omniscient Authour of the human frame!
By whom strong hopes, and fears; love, and abhorrence,
Are there infused; the private agonies
For self; the generous pains for others!
If a weak woman hath not force of soul
To rule the feelings of humanity;
To check the impulse of a noble passion;
Wilt thou forgive me! Thou, who must distinguish
Frailty from will perverse! I trust, thou wilt;
Or I shall now incurr divine displeasure!

[She rises.
Lucinda.
I'd sooner die than offer thee vain hope,
The source of future, and severer grief.
But 'tis the genius of imagination,
With it's precursive, and unbounded action,
To magnify all human good, and ill.
Check the wild ranger with the curb of reason;
Use, for thyself, that heaven-descended talent,
Which to another's fate thou would'st apply
With powerful energy. Besides, thy father,
And Torquemada, might confer on business
Not relative to Zaigri, nor to thee.

Leonora.
This boding heart, Lucinda, is pressed down
With a presentiment, which rudely foils
Thy sympathetick aid.—My noble Zaigri,
Had thy great soul been reared in mean estate;
Had I been born in similar condition;
And had not partial, and tyrannick laws,
From simple truth repelled our ancestors,
We had been happy! My plain, honest father,
Untainted with the art, and pomp of life,
Would have acceded, with more ease, to reason,
And owned the universal ties of nature!
Our humble cottage would have, then, escaped
The watchful bigot's dark, and tearless eye!
That faithful cot would have done all it promised;
It would have kindly sheltered peace, and love!
Oh! why, Lucinda, does the gorgeous palace
Mock, and insult us with it's proffered pleasures?

Lucinda.
Would that thy pleasing, and instructive pictures
Owed less their style pathetick to thy sorrows!

Leonora.
Those sorrows grow more pungent by reflexion!
How shall I combat our impending danger!
Shall I implore my father?—Could I soften
His prejudice, and pride, this feeble hand
Might, next, remove an Atlas. Shall I kneel,
A suppliant, at the feet of Ximenes?
As little, even from him, the great, the good,
Can I anticipate our preservation!
He, now, for years, from some mysterious cause,
Or, from supine indulgence, inconsistent
With all his other active, generous life,
Hath borne inquisitorial tyranny.
When the relentless flood sweeps us to ruin,
The slightest shoot of an impending osier
Instinctively we seize.—Shall I, ignobly,
Persuade my gallant Moor to change his faith?
But, then, no longer should I find him Zaigri!
How could I love him, with his glory faded!
'Tis less afflicting to a generous breast,
To have the body in perpetual durance,
Than to enslave the soul!—What horrid scenes
Do I anticipate! I see thee, Zaigri,
Seized by the ministers of Torquemada!
Immured, for life, in a dark, noisome dungeon,
Where courage as determined as thy own,
Must be appalled, and sink! I see thee pining,
And from the loss of glorious light, and freedom,
Suffering a slow, and heart-consuming death!
I see thee, yet more dreadfully, the victim
Of horrid superstition, and revenge.
Imagination puts me on the rack
Inquisitorial!—How it wrings my heart,
And almost fires my brain!—That horrid stake
For him is not intended;—nor that fire;
Not for pure honour; for humanity!
Which ne'er approached distress, but to relieve it;
And when it saw my grief, just as the sun
Beams from a watery cloud, with cheering smile,
Reproved the tear of it's own sympathy!
How shall I calm my mind!—I fear, my reason
Will suffer, in this wreck of happiness!

Lucinda.
May Heaven thy lost tranquillity restore,
Which friendship strives, in vain, to re-establish!

Leonora.
Go with me to the arbour, there support me;
Help me to meet, or to escape these ills!
—What shall I do, my friend, to be at peace!
Advise me, good Lucinda!—Shall I quit
This bustling, noisy, miserable world!
Seek a still convent; kiss the holy veil!
—Oh! ignominious thought!—What, steal to quiet,
While racks, or faggots, are prepared for Zaigri!
—I must atone, by some heroïck deed,
If coward nature but obeys my zeal,
For this high treason to deserted love!
—I'll tell thee what I'll do.—Yes—should my lover
Be sentenced to an agonizing death,
I'll follow him to the last point of fate.
I will attend the heinous execution;
And seize the virtue of an Eastern dame.
When the dire apparatus is compleated;
The last criterion of his dauntless mind;
I, too, like him, will have my pyle funereal,
Which I'll ascend, with Indian majesty:—
They who refuse the pains their lovers feel,
Are strangers to the omnipotence of passion!
I, once, will emulate a Zaigri's courage,
And, once, the rigour of a Torquemada!
I'll prove my constancy, as genuine gold
Is proved, and die, my own inquisitor!

[Exeunt.