Osman :: :: University of Virginia Library

Osman

An Historical Tragedy

Arnold, Cornelius (1711-1757?)

OSMAN:

ACT I.

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ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Camp.
Enter Aga and Lieutenant of the Janizaries, meeting.
AGA.
Good-day, Lieutenant! Sir, what News abroad?

LIEUTENANT.
They talk of Peace; the Sword will soon be sheath'd.
Know you the Cause, the Reasons, noble Sir?

AGA.
Many assign'd—'Tis said, his Highness brooks
But ill our Order, matching not his Spirit:

Is it not strange, my Friend! that one so young,
Should thus outstrip us in the Race of Glory;
Should still be foremost in each bold Emprise,
Each hardy Toil—O! how it shameth those,
Lolling inglorious on their Mother's Lap,
Or in soft Dalliance trifling with the Fair;
While Osman in the Field performs such Deeds,
The bravest Veteran would be proud to own.

LIEUTENANT.
Surely, a matchless Youth! Name but the Task
Which Honour stamps, he wou'd atchieve, or fall
In the Attempt—and still his Courtesy
Adds Lustre to his Sword—I have been told,
E're the eighth annual Sun roll'd o'er his Head,
As many Languages did grace his Tongue.

AGA.
'Tis true; in Science as in Valour—great—
Whene'er he talks of State perplex'd Affairs,
Fond Admiration holds the Hearer mute—
Of War—each feeble Arm is brac'd for Battle.
But O the Day! had you but mark'd the Youth,
When with his single Arm, alone, unaided;
Dauntless he stemm'd the Tide of furious War—
Curse on our coward Corps! they wou'd not rally,

Not back their Emperor, who onward press'd,
And bravely snatch'd the Laurel from the Foe.

LIEUTENANT.
Amazement at his Prowess, noble Aga!
Their Faculties suspended—Shield him, Heaven!
We ne'er were bless'd with such a Prince—Farewel,
Most worthy Aga!

AGA.
Farewel, Lieutenant!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The Sultan's Pavilion in his Camp.
Osman sitting, reading a Paper.
OSMAN.
It shall be so—This beauteous Woman's Form
[Rises.
Unbends Attention to the Call of Glory—
All my Resolves of Fortitude are vain—
The Poles shall then have Peace—and I'll return
Victorious—But—in Aphendina's Love—

—Her Soul's a Stranger to the Art of Flattery—
One Set of Principles infus'd in both,
Under her pious Father's Institution,
Is the unrav'lling Clue by which we trace
The Maze and Windings of each other's Heart.
—How oft do I reflect—pleasing Review!
When as yet Children in our wonted Sports,
I cou'd not brook to gain Advantage o'er her—
Oft wou'd in Exercise retard my Force,
Rather than vanquish where she'd lose the Prize—
Nor could she joy for any Victory,
Equal to that I acquiesc'd to grant her—
How would the Blush rise mantling on her Cheek!
The sweet Confusion—

[Enter Ashad.
ASHAD.
Let not, Sir, your Slave
Break in upon his Lord unseas'nably—
If so, command me hence—

OSMAN.
Your coming's opportune;
I'm but perusing of the late Dispatch
Your Daughter sent me—faithful Aphendina!
She loves me, Mufti, sues for my Return,
And I'm resolv'd to honour her Request.

Too many Reasons bias me to Peace:
The dastard Carriage of my Janizaries
Hath been apparent thro' this whole Campaign—
Of strong Inforcement this—Yet this weighs light
With the Affection which I bear your Daughter—

ASHAD.
Her Happiness therein exceeds Proportion—
Nor shall it stain your Glory, Sir, to grant
Recess from Arms to the Vanquish'd: I've advis'd—
Nay, urg'd the Vizier to conclude the Peace—

OSMAN.
Father! My Glory's still your prime Regard—
Your Conduct I approve—Princes never
Shine more conspicuous than in Clemency—
To overcome the Lust of Pow'rs Extent—
To restore Kingdoms to their Lord subdued,
Proclaim a noble Soul, and rank us higher
Than the bare Conquest of th'Earth could raise us.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

The Camp.
Two Officers of the Janizaries.
First OFFICER.
Once more we've Hope to see the Porte again;
The Vizier's on the Spur to sign the Treaty—
Osman, neglecting too his Thirst for Arms,
Grows hourly more impatient to decamp—
All Articles are settled—and e'en now
The Deputies attend at the Divan,
To ratify in Form a solid Peace—

Second OFFICER.
I'th'North perhaps—but e're we reach the Porte,
The Head of Osman will have form'd new Projects,
To drain his Empire, and consume his Forces.

First OFFICER.

I fear some other Schemes engage his Mind—
You've heard how he digested our Defeat—
How he exclaimed against our Cowardice,
(So free to term it thus.)—Can he imagine
Our Lives of so mean Value, to be lavish'd

In careless Pastime at our Leader's Nod,
Without an Argument to push us on—

What did the Poles to us, or our Allies,
That should demand th'Effusion of this Blood?—
Mere hot-brain'd Frenzy!—Have we not lost thousands?—
Wasted our Strength in traversing steep Mountains!
In passing Rivers at the utmost Peril!
And all to gratify a Child's Ambition—

Second OFFICER.
The Sultan's present Treatment of our Order,
Treasures Disgust in ev'ry wary Breast.
When I approach'd him for the Nightly Word,
His low'ring Brow, collected to Resentment,
Flashing Contempt and Indignation at me,
Bespoke the inward Rancor of his Soul—
—I dread the Consequence at our Return—
But see, th'Embassadors—The Treaty's sign'd—
And they're in March t'his Highness's Pavilion.

SCENE IV.

The Camp.
Zoravinze, Sobieski, and two Joint Deputies, with their Train.
ZORAVINZE.
We must remit the Article of Decampment
To the Grand Signior's own Determination—
The Prospect of our famish'd Troops, may raise
New Difficulties to retard the Peace;
Excite our Enemies to fresh Resolves,
And finally complete our Overthrow—

SOBIESKI.
Our General Lubomirski this foreseeing,
Order'd the Cossacks to repass the River,
Where from the Mountains you behold their Tents;
And Osman's Camp resounds with our Retreat—
This Article will therefore prove no Bar—
What else they can demand, we shall accord.

ZORAVINZE.
That Artifice may save our Credit—

SOBIESKI.
Doubt it not—

SCENE V.

The Sultan's Pavilion.

The Capigy Bassa, and his Corps with Maces, preceding the Embassadors, pass and repass the Stage, 'till they come to the Hall of Audience, which opening, discovers the Sultan on his Throne. The Mufti, Vizier, Beglerbegs, Bassas, on each Hand; Registers fronting it: They are presented to the Sultan, and kiss his Robe.

Sobieski delivers the General's Letter to the Junior of the Bassas, who hand it from one to another, so to the Vizier, who, on his Knee, lays it on a Cushion before the Throne.

VIZIER.
His Highness is prepar'd to hear your Excellencies.

ZORAVINZE.

Most mighty Lord—Renowned Osman!
Our gracious Master's Aim hath ever been,
To cultivate firm Friendship with your Highness;
Transmitting Deputies amidst his Forces,
As well prepar'd for Terms of Peace, as War.
This—having rag'd, till Death itself was gorg'd:
That—thro' the prudent Conduct of your Vizier,

Now lays us prostrate at your Highness's Feet;
Craving a Confirmation of our Happiness—
Whilst here we swear the punctual Execution
Of every Clause on our great Lord's Behalf;
Nor question we, its sacred Conservation,
From you, illustrious Sir! in whom combin'd
Each generous Virtue of your Ancestors,
With matchless Lustre eminently shine—

We dread, great Sir! t'approach your Majesty,
Devoid of Off'rings worthy your Acceptance—
Your rich Dominions, and extensive Rule,
Prevent our adding to your Highness' Treasures:
But Love and Dread are equally discern'd—
In lowest as in highest Things, regarding
The Disposition of the Offerer—
Whilst here in Arms, far from our native Homes,
War's Instruments proclaim our only Riches—
Accept these, Sir, as Symbols of Affection—
[Presents two Silver Javelins, &c.
May all your Enemies by them subdued,
In Prosecution of your Highness' Glory,
Bring daily to your Mind the friendly Poles.

OSMAN.

My Lords, with Pleasure we confirm this Peace;

Your Presents we accept—and Sulisczouii—
T'attend our Person to the royal Porte.

I hear your Forces are repassing Tyre—
'Tis well—or I had urg'd it to be done.

[The Embassadors retreat backwards, and the Scene closes upon the Room of Audience.

SCENE VI.

The Sultan's Tent.
Osman, Vizier, and Soldiers.
OSMAN.
Vizier, give Orders for our speedy March;
I mean t'encamp at Choczim—Strike the Tents;
Let nought remain by the Ninth Hour of Day.
Have my Commands brought the Sultana Queen,
And Prince my Son?—Have you (as suits) prepar'd
Triumphal Entry for us at the Porte?
You've heard my Will—retire—I would be private—
Too lovely Maid!—Illustrious Aphendina!
[Sultan rises.
This short Recess I consecrate to Thee—

Thy Charms have Power beyond the Force of Glory;
Nor can I muse on any Arms but thine—
How am I rapt to contemplate the Joy
Thou wilt receive on News of my Return!—
At thy Command too, for in Truth 'tis so,
Whate'er Disguises I've been forc'd to wear,
To palliate this hasty Change for Peace:
But I'll advise thee of it instantly.
[Sits to write.
What shall I say to shew how much I love?
—Ideas crowd so thick upon my Mind,
That like a routed Multitude they press,
Nor can pervade the Portals of the Sense—
Is it impossible for me to pen,
What I could breathe into her Soul, if present—
It must be so—then take, dear Ravisher!
The Heart itself, o'erladen with thy Praises:
I will but therefore say I love—and leave thee—

[Folds the Letter, and Exit.

SCENE VII.

Abroad.
Two Officers of the Spahis.
First OFFICER.
This Eagerness to turn our Faces home,
Exceeds the Preparations for the War:
My Men have scarcely loaded all the Beasts,
But they must mount unfed, and quit the Field.

Second OFFICER.

'Tis true; we've had a toilsome Task to-day:
But cloudy Visages and buzzing Murmurs,
Distract my Mind with Sense of future Ills.

It is amazing to behold a City
(For lesser Name can't comprehend our Camp)
Of vast Extent, shining in pompous Pride,
At the Third Hour of Day, depopulated,
Raz'd to the Ground, no Traces left behind,
All in full March, Miles from its Situation—
E're the same Sun, which found it flourishing,
Hath three Fourths pass'd of his Diurnal Arch.

First OFFICER.
The Sight is strange; but why this urgent Speed?
This sudden Change in Osman's Resolution?
Had but his Highness study'd Victory,
No Time like this hath ever been afforded:
The Polanders and Cossacks press'd with Famine,
Grown sickly and consum'd with three-fold Toil,
Are scarce a twentieth Part effective Men—
Then why this Speed—this, I may almost say,
This Flight precipitate from certain Conquest?

Second OFFICER.

Sure, thour't inform'd of Osman's old Amour
Wi'th'Mufti's Daughter—Beauteous Ashada
Still claims her Conquest o'er the Sultan's Will.

He's young and amorous, and can't withstand
The Force of Love—Tho' such a Prize as this,
Might warm the Heart of the most rigid Dervise—
But see, our Troops are on the Stretch to Choczim,
And we must wing it after them apace.

SCENE VIII.

Camp at Choczim.
Mirza and Phesalie.
MIRZA.

Propound no Comfort to my tortur'd Mind;
'Twere endless to engage in such a Task—
Observ'd you not the affected Complaisance
He forc'd upon himself? “Madam, you're welcome—
“No Happiness subsists without Allay—
“Your Messenger informs—Iv'e lost my Son—
“I'm sorry for it—but we all are mortal—
“You'll make your Entry with me to the Porte”—

I had prepar'd a Thousand tender Things,
To 'suage th'expected Sorrow for his Son,
And raise Affection in his Breast for me.

I languish'd—look'd—oft I essay'd to speak,
But turning from me with contemptuous Air,
He gave Command a Chiaoux should attend,
On some Dispatch, I know not what, and left me.

PHESALIE.
My Queen, you injure Osman by these Thoughts;
He's just arriv'd from the Fatigues of War;
A busy World engrosses all his Care—
It's plain, 'tis not Neglect makes him indifferent;
For had his Mind been vacant from Engagements,
No doubt his Son had forc'd some Sorrow from him.

MIRZA.

Alas! my Son—Thence, thence my Source of Woe—
Had he but liv'd!—

Some fresh Amour m'engage my Osman's Heart,
And send me wretched, childless to the Grave—
Our only Hopes are built upon an Heir—
They're gone—they're vanished—Mirza is now
Despis'd, neglected, and the Queen's no more.

PHESALIE.
Madam, you're young, and may have many Sons
T'engage our Sov'reign's Heart by stronger Ties.

MIRZA.

Name that no more, dear Phesalie; my Grief
Would then exceed its present Limits far—
O! could I live to see my eldest Hope
Secure his Sceptre by a Brother's Blood!—
The captious Soldiery are so imperious,

That while a Branch remains o'th'Ott'man Stem,
To fill his Place, no King can sit secure:
For tho' they durst not quite dam up the Spring,
They dread not to divert it from its Course.

Which Way soe'er I turn, I meet Distress—
Unhappy childless—lost, if more than one.

PHESALIE.
'Tis true, your Majesty with Danger treads
The Ice-glaz'd Path of slipp'ry Greatness:
But Custom, reaching out her friendly Hand,
Sould reconcile to Reasons of the State:
Nor ought we sorrow, till th'Event arrives.
Might I presume to advise your Highness,
It should be to shake off this Heaviness—
Resume the gay, the bright, the sparkling Mirza;
(The Charms which first subdu'd the Sultan's Heart)
They may rekindle Osman's waining Love;
Still make you Mother of his first-born Son,
And spite of your Dejection, Valida .

MIRZA.
I know you love me—I will be advis'd:
Our Prophet aid me—Yet, I know not why,

I feel a Trembling seize upon my Heart,
Which, maugre my Resolves, bodes ill Success.

[Exeunt.

Mother of the Sultan's first Son.

SCENE IX.

Osman's Tent.
Sultan sealing a Letter. To him Ashad.
OSMAN.
Father! I'm sending to my Aphendina.

ASHAD.
I just receiv'd Commands to attend your Highness.

OSMAN.
I sent the Vizier, for a Conference with you.
You know, my Father, my Design to enter
Constantinople's Gates, in martial Triumph.

ASHAD.
I do, my Lord, and all Things are preparing,
In the most pompous Guise, t'advance your Glory;
The Vizier's noble Soul hath e'en exceeded
Rome's antient Pomp in forming for the Eye,
And ev'ry Sense, Gratification infinite;

Nor is aught wanting fully to illustrate
Consummate Grandeur and Magnificence.

OSMAN.
You seem to think the Pageantry complete,
That no Addition can extend its Prospect;
You err, my Father, 'tis a Trifle all—
I've seen the Vizier's Plan, admit it great;
But still it suits not with his Emp'ror's Soul—
I have a View beyond Dilaver's Reach,
To introduce a so much more superb
And glorious Scene, as shall eclipse the rest,
And of itself alone compose a Triumph;
Nay—e'en your Sultan grace it as a Captive.

ASHAD.
I know your Majesty, as by your Station,
Aloft remov'd above your humble Slaves,
So no less by your Genius and Discernment:
But still, my King's mysterious—nor can I,
With utmost Penetration, sound the Depth
Of his Designs—Or what can add such Grandeur
To Dilaver's Device, that all should seem
To wait on that, my Emperor in view—

OSMAN.
'Tis thy fair Daughter, Mufti, Aphendina!
I mean to have her drawn in open Chariot,
That all the World may hail the Sultan's Choice.
And should she hint it, follow as her Slave;
This Letter is to bring her to my Camp;
Should her nice Virtue form no Scruple to it,
And that she may not, I have sent for you,
Desiring your Permission, to oblige me—
She'll not decline Obedience to her Father.

ASHAD.
My Lord, your Highness' Bounty to my Daughter
Reflects the highest Honour on your Slave,
And claims the gratefullest Returns from both.
—Should aught arise from Aphendina's Conduct,
To give the least Displeasure to my Lord,
Charge the old Man with all the Blame, not her;
She's young, unpractis'd in the World, and forms
All her Resolves from Principles infus'd
In earlier Days by me—Your Highness knows,
My sole Delight hath been, t'imbue alike
Your Mind and her's with Virtue's strictest Precepts;
She keeps severely to the rigid Letter;
Then blame not her—those Scruples you call nice,

Arising only from the Dread of Error.
Your Majesty shall be obey'd—I'll let her know,
It is your Pleasure and my Will she comes.

[Mufti writes, musing.
OSMAN.

I thank you, Father! Send me a Courier.

[Exit Mufti, and enter Courier.

Away with these Dispatches to the Mufti's;
Into his Daughter's Hand deliver this:
When she has read it—This—observe her Looks
At each Delivery, and return with Speed.

COURIER.
I shall, my Lord.

OSMAN.
Without there, who attends?

[Enter Vizier.
VIZIER.
Great Sir, your Slave—

OSMAN.
Dispatch two hundred Horse
T'escort the Mufti's Daughter to our Presence;
Let them conduct her to her Father's Tent:
Be instant then—
[Exit Vizier.
Mirza's disconsolate!
Would she were not—but she is mine no more—

Nor shall I grieve the parting from my Boy,
If lovely Aphendina brings me one.
I must possess her, but use no Constraint;
Nay—should she ne'er comply, I can't compell:
What View have Men in Love, but to engage
The charming Object, by all winning Arts
And gentle Means, to render Love again?
Avaunt Constraint! thou art a Contradiction;
Love but consists of Generosity—
I know my Pow'r to force—'tis base to use it.
I'll once more try—tho' oft I've been repuls'd.
If she will enter my Seraglio,
She shall have new created Honours paid her.
I will engage eternal Constancy:
For her alone, I'll the whole Sex resign,
And only live while Aphendina's mine.

End of the First Act.