University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Governor's Palace at Panama.
Pedrarias and his Court at a grand feast, Alphonso by his father's side. Shouts are heard as from the people rejoicing around the palace. The guests rise with goblets in their hands to welcome Alphonso.
PEDRARIAS.
Thanks, thanks, my friends and fellows in renown!
That ye who shared my dangers and my toils,
Should, with such heartfelt brotherhood, partake
My private joy, to me is doubly grateful:
Our infant state on these fair-conquer'd shores
Thrives but by brotherhood thus firmly knit.
What yet remains were as a healthful pastime
To banish sluggish ease. 'Tis but to sweep,
From these our fruitful plains, the native hordes
That still infest them.—What says my Alphonso?

ALPHONSO
(shudders, and starts from his reverie).
My honour'd father! in this o'ercharged breast
A thousand feelings strive for mastery.
I would control my wayward thoughts, and worthily
Express my thanks to these our noble friends.

[He rises, and bows with a goblet in his hand.
LOPEZ.
The holiday thy glad return has made
In Panama, were idle revelry,
Unworthy of its cause, if mark'd alone
By clamorous shouts. A nobler game, Alphonso,
Should seal our joys with blood!

PEDRARIAS.
It is well said!
[The shouts without are repeated.
Don Gusman, bear our oft repeated thanks
Once more to the glad throng without, I pray;
Go thou and give them fair dismissal.—Now
[Rising.
In this last cup, my friends, I pledge you all.
[All rise and drink.
'Twere tedious to repeat my grateful thoughts.
The evening closes fast; and, ere I rest,
The cares of state demand a thoughtful hour.
[They begin to move off with ceremony, Pedrarias comes forward.
Conduct Don Lopez to the gate, my son.
[Exeunt Alphonso and Lopez.
No longer shall your boiling spirits chafe
Within these walls, my friends. The means are mine
To trace the savage hordes to their last refuge.
Visions of conquest on your slumbers wait!
My valiant Gomez, Carlos, and Alvarez;
And you—and you—my brave companions all!
Pass without compliment.—Sweet rest attend you!

[Exeunt with proper ceremony. Pedrarias remains in deep thought. Gusman returns.
GUSMAN.
Methinks, my lord, while with such general joy
All Panama has welcomed Don Alphonso,
Some secret care has prey'd upon your mind,
Checking the tide of a fond father's gladness.

PEDRARIAS.
True, Gusman, true; greatness has heavy cares.
Those savages, who rather than submit
To slavery, would sullen die despairing—
Say, have they suffer'd torture?

GUSMAN.
No, my lord.
Pardon that still the rebel natives live.
Tortures avail'd us nothing.—We desisted.

PEDRARIAS.
Perdition! shall they live who brave my power?
Why am I not obey'd?

GUSMAN.
If vanquish'd foes
We daily slaughter thus, where shall we find
The slaves required to dig the precious ore?

PEDRARIAS.
Ye have been slack. New tortures shall compel
These slothful slaves to ply their sun-bask'd limbs
For conquerors.—Let them be rack'd—Away!

GUSMAN.
My lord, 'tis useless now. Zamori's voice,
Their fellow slave, Zamori's, has prevail'd.

PEDRARIAS.
Zamori, say'st thou?

GUSMAN.
Yes, with earnest prayer,
He sued to parley with his countrymen,
Unheard by me.

PEDRARIAS.
Thou didst not sure consent?

GUSMAN.
I did, my lord. But was not distant far,
And something caught of what Zamori urged.
He spoke of patience—of some distant hope—
A hope full sweet—some good inestimable,
However dearly purchased. There I lost
His farther speech among the mingling sounds.
Their stubborn spirits on the instant yielded:
They wept—they gnash'd their teeth, when, sudden, he
First snatch'd a mattock, and with lusty stroke
Open'd the soil. All follow'd eagerly,
With bleeding wounds inflicted by the lash,
Or limbs disjointed by the rack.—'Twas piteous!

PEDRARIAS.
Gusman, thou wert of my all-conquering band.
I little thought to see thee heave the sigh
For these dull clods of earth.—Thou mov'st my scorn.
[He paces the stage, ruminating.
And would Zamori move his brutish fellows
To serve their master? What might be his motive?
Proud, uncomplaining, melancholy, stern,
I oft have mark'd this Indian's lofty mien;
And (for his carriage still rebuked my spirit)
I added e'en indignity to torture.
As rocks that from the daily whelming tide
Rear the unalter'd brow, he bore himself!
It was his firmness taught them to resist,
And is it he who schools them now to yield?

GUSMAN.
My lord, released of late from servile chains,
Nearer your person he has been advanced.
This gentler treatment in a noble nature—

PEDRARIAS.
'Twas but the nearer to observe his bearing.
There is a savage greatness in Zamori
That should awake suspicion. Much he may,
Swaying the minds of all his fellows thus.

GUSMAN.
Indeed, my lord, the slave has well deserved.
He will be faithful.

PEDRARIAS.
Faithful he shall be!
My eye is on him.—But far other cares
Engross my mind.—Hast thou observed Alphonso?
Can a few weeks have changed his very nature?
Musing he sits, and frowns as fancy works,
Or if I question him, he speaks as though
Each word involved some mighty consequence.

GUSMAN.
Perchance the thought of those who shared his sports,
And perish'd 'mong the desert wilds, may still
Hang heavy on his heart, and cloud his brow.

PEDRARIAS.
I know not what to think, nor what to fear.
—But thou retire, my friend, and charge Zamori
To seek my son, Alphonso, ere he rest,
And say I wait his coming in my chamber.
His father there would give the rein to nature,
And breathe a blessing on his son restored.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The Governor's Ante-chamber.
Alphonso and Houaco enter in conversation.
ALPHONSO.
Thee, most of all, Zamori, save my father,
I joy to see again. Yet thou alone
Hast not once deign'd to smile on my return.

HOUACO.
Joy is a stranger to Zamori's breast!

[Retiring slowly, and fixing his eyes on Alphonso, who looks kindly after him, then advances towards his father, who comes from an inner apartment.
PEDRARIAS.
My son! my loved Alphonso! shall I own
That I am almost weary of these loud
Tumultuous rejoicings? though for thee,
And thy return glad Panama thus maddens.
Nay, thou art weary too, and spiritless.

ALPHONSO.
The joy to see my father and my friends
Has something of a tender, serious cast,
That rather might to silent tears incline
Than these wild revellings.

PEDRARIAS.
Were tenderness
The character of my Alphonso's joy,
He were not thus dark, guarded, hesitating,
Whene'er a father's fondness prompts th'inquiry
Of all that has befallen.

ALPHONSO.
I will tell all
That may import a father. How the chase
Of the swift lama, and the fiercer bison,
Led on thy thoughtless son, and his young band,
The partners of his sports, through trackless woods,
O'er mountains, rocks, and wilds, till, lost their course,
O'erspent with toil, dispersed, a prey to famine—
The natives of those unknown deserts found,
Surrounded, seized, and bound thy son.

PEDRARIAS.
Bound thee!
Pedrarias' son bound by these savages!
Ha! they shall dearly rue—

ALPHONSO.
Nay, shall they rue
The noble pity lavish'd upon one
Of the fell race—
(Aside, checking himself.)
But silence, my rash tongue!
(Aloud.)
Their generous leader knew thy son, and loosed him!
He raised, embraced me, bade me say from him—
[Again checking himself.
His looks strike terror!—The good Indian's words
Would but embitter whom they might not move
To emulate his gentle deeds.

PEDRARIAS.
E'en now
Mark how your speech is broken—how you start,
And shift, as 'twere some guilty thought appall'd you.
Their chief?—say, was he a Cacique?
(Aside.)
Could he,
The bold, the patient, persevering savage,
Capana?—Would the fierce Thelasco do it?
No, no. It must be one who knows my power,
And thus would win my favour; but not one
Who has so felt that power who would release him.
(Aloud.)
Where lurks the savage chieftain with his horde?
Whence com'st thou?

ALPHONSO.
From among a generous race!
Nature's free children! By her special love
Guarded from ill! Blest in their simpleness,
To avarice they hold no fatal lure!
Rich but in worth! Oh, sacred be their peace!
[With joy and tenderness.
Thou didst lament a son, and he is here!
Is't not enough thy once loved son restored?

[Throwing himself on his bosom.
PEDRARIAS
(putting him from him coldly).
'Tis not enough, if thus my son return
Alter'd, estranged,—haply with savages
Leagued to betray—

ALPHONSO.
Oh, check thy cruel speech;
Or if thou canst suspect my loyalty,
Treat me as one attainted; fasten fetters
On thy son's guiltless limbs, within a dungeon
Cast him, and prefer thy accusation.
What is my crime, my father?

PEDRARIAS.
Disobedience
To the vicegerent of thy king, young man,
And to thy father.

ALPHONSO.
Load me then with chains—
Proclaim me traitor—send me thus to Spain:
Were it not better to be falsely branded,
Than in my secret bosom feel the sting
He needs must feel who can indeed betray?

PEDRARIAS.
Ungracious boy! and is it thus I find thee?
What tortures shall my just revenge devise
For him who robs me of my son?—The savage!

ALPHONSO.
Is he the savage who feels others' woes?
Who breaks the captive's bonds, and bids him live?
Is he the savage who forgives his foe,
And renders good for ill?—Pardon, methinks
He is the Christian!

PEDRARIAS
(confounded).
(Aside.)
I have gone too far—
I will try gentler means.
(Aloud.)
A Christian, say'st thou?
And has thy friend embraced our holy faith?

ALPHONSO.
The Christian's deeds are his.

PEDRARIAS.
Then as a brother
I'll fold the generous Christian to my bosom!
I was too warm, my child; my spirit brook'd not
A heathen should have held my son in bondage,
Nor own'd the debt of gratitude to one
Bending at idols' shrines, with rites abhorr'd.

ALPHONSO.
Pardon, my father, if I have offended.
Oh! now I feel I am thy son again,
For now thou look'st on thy Alphonso kindly,
As in those days of childish happiness,
When, from the heavy cares of state retired,
Thou would'st assume the boy, and share his sports.

PEDRARIAS.
Oh yes; and I would thank the Indian chief
That he restores my boy, as in those days,
Simple, ingenuous, obedient, duteous!

ALPHONSO
(earnestly).
And art thou grateful to the gentle Indian?
And would'st thou prove it?

PEDRARIAS
(with impatience).
Yes, I would—I would.

ALPHONSO
(taking his hand affectionately).
He and his friends ask but to be forgotten.

PEDRARIAS.
Nay, nay; thou would'st not that my miser heart,
Thankless and cold, should hoard its selfish joy.
Come, boy, come, guide me to the Indian Christian,
And let me lock him in a friend's embrace;
The debt were painful should I nought dispense
Of good, for all the mighty good received.

ALPHONSO.
And what canst thou dispense to one above
The idle wants of pride? A little maize
Feasts him, the dimpling brook allays his thirst;
The palm-tree bowers his bed of reeds, and forms
His canopy of state; the bank beneath,
Gorgeous in nature's 'broidery, his throne;
His empire, in a people's love, is vast:
The God he serves—with rites however rude—
A God of Mercy, and how truly serves,
Thou know'st.

PEDRARIAS
(impatient).
'Tis well—yet nam'st thou not thy friend,—
Thy Christian friend,—nor tell'st me his abode.

ALPHONSO.
I cannot. I beseech you, urge it not.

PEDRARIAS
(resuming his anger).
By thy allegiance, I command thee tell me.

ALPHONSO
(with firmness).
I owe my king th'allegiance of a subject:
My services are his—my sword—my life!
But there's a secret rectitude within,
Stamp of the soul free-born, that will not own
Control from aught of earth; nor can a king
Command me that I act the villain's part.

PEDRARIAS.
Ha! dost thou brave me thus in every way?
Leagued with the rebel natives to defy
My delegated power! with impious foot
Trampling on nature's first, most sacred tie
Of filial duty!
[Paces the stage in great agitation.
Yes—how I have loved thee
Thou know'st, ungrateful boy!—but I—I, too,
Alphonso, can be firm. If, on the moment,
Thou answer not to all I shall demand,
I banish thee for ever from my sight,
Doom thee to wander, with a father's curse,
Among the savages thou hast preferr'd
To him who gave thee being.

ALPHONSO.
Oh, forbear!
Reverse the dreadful sentence thou hast pass'd,
Or take my worthless life.

PEDRARIAS.
Nor fancy thou
I cannot hunt the natives down, and sweep them
From earth, if thou assist not. Would'st attempt
To shield the pensile warbler from the swoop
Of the huge condor that has mark'd his prey?
Thou know'st what I can do when simply led,
Like other men, by thirst of fair renown,
But hast not mark'd Pedrarias' dread career
When urged by sense of wrong—by strong revenge!
Hadst thou but trusted to a father's heart,
It might have pleaded for the man who spared thee.
Look to it now.—Thou—thou would'st have it so.
'Twill soon be proved who is most powerful,
Or thou to save—or I to crush a foe.

[Going.
ALPHONSO
(clinging to him).
Oh stay! my father, stay!—Behold my breast—
Yes, let my blood atone his fault who spared it,
And thus made gratitude a crime.

PEDRARIAS.
Away!
Thou know'st how best to prove thy gratitude:
It rests with thee to save thy friend.

ALPHONSO.
Then hear me.
But first—Oh, swear thou never wilt molest
His peace, nor seek his place of refuge—Swear—
[Aside, perceiving Capana's token.
What am I doing?—Come, thou sacred pledge,
Rouse, in this trying hour, my sinking courage!
[Aloud, with resignation and firmness.
I am resolved, and bow me to my fate!
Farewell, my father!

PEDRARIAS.
Then my curse be on thee!
Fly an offended father's presence, rebel!
Hide thee in caverns, far from haunt of man,
Or, in dread loneliness, bleak deserts roam,
Where hope is dead, where pity may not find thee,
Where sound of life is none, nor answering echo
Gives back thy groan in horrid fellowship!
Thy father's heart for ever casts thee off!

ALPHONSO.
Guiltless I go.—But when destruction follows,
As sure it will, e'en thou, though late, may'st prove
A father's anger cannot last for ever.

[Exit.
PEDRARIAS.
Away! nor think to lull my just resentment.
Foil'd in the object of my glorious labours—
Braved by my child—Told by a beardless boy
The brutish savage was the better Christian!—
Yes, he shall drain repentance' bitter cup
E'en to the dregs!—Away, parental weakness!
I will know where the native hordes are hived.
Ten years of bloodshed and of toil are lost,
If in their fastnesses secure they breed,
And swarm forth on us.—But the means—
(Calls off the stage).
Hoa, Gusman!

Enter Gusman.
GUSMAN.
My gracious lord, what has befallen? Alphonso
In strange disorder—

PEDRARIAS.
From my presence banish'd,
Name not the traitor.

GUSMAN.
Has he not declared
Where rally from defeat the natives?

PEDRARIAS.
No;
With obstinate defiance he persisted,
Nor would betray his friend, the gentle Indian,
The Christian, as it seems.—Ha, baffled thus!
I have it, Gusman—His pretended faith
Shall prove their bane.—Banish'd, he sure will seek
His Indian friends—My spies are skill'd—

GUSMAN.
Yet think,
My lord; each danger, he so late has 'scaped,
Besets Alphonso in his pathless way,
And doubly foil'd if aught of ill befall.

PEDRARIAS.
Ha! doubly foil'd?—'tis true.—But how secure
From peril—and yet free his will perverse
To follow, unsuspecting of the snare?—

GUSMAN.
The slave Zamori; you have proved him faithful;
He has done you service since his chains were lighten'd.

PEDRARIAS.
Yes, as the native tames the baneful snake,
And bids him wind in glossy folds, around
His limbs, innocuous, extracting first
The tooth beneath whose fang the poison lurks—
So to my service the proud slave's subdued.

GUSMAN.
And more; your son affects him, for that once
From death Zamori rescued him, unconscious;
He may again avert impending ill—

PEDRARIAS.
And guide his steps; for, led by nature's self,
The slave will find, instinctive, their retreat.
His very love will give them to my vengeance!
Thanks—thanks, my friend! I hold Zamori's faith,
For well he knows that thousands of his fellows
Will bleed if he but swerve. 'Twill do—'twill do.
Go, bear my will to my disloyal son;
With hopes of future favour win Zamori—
Nay, I, myself, will school him to my purpose.
And, mark me—seek thou Perez—send him hither.
To-morrow's sun shall find my plans matured
For future conquest, and for future glory.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

A Court of the Palace.
A distant View of the Bay—Evening; the Moon rising.
Houaco enters slowly from one side.
HOUACO.
His wond'rous tale has roused each recollection
That bids me live, while it makes life so bitter.
Oh, my poor countrymen! and ye, dear objects
Of my sad, secret thoughts!—No, nothing—nothing,—
Can ever slacken memory's strong hold!
[Alphonso enters from the other side, with folded arms, and lost in thought.
Alone! I will accost him.—Don Alphonso!

ALPHONSO
(starting from his reverie).
Approach, Zamori, for thou art an Indian.
Haply the sight of thee may soothe my soul!
I am o'erwhelm'd by a stern father's curse
For keeping faith with men like thee, Zamori.

HOUACO.
By men like me faith given ne'er was broken.

ALPHONSO.
My faith was given to one so great!—so noble!
To one, whose spirit seems an emanation
From him whom darkling he adores unknown!
Yes, given to one, whose gentle sway of love
Is stamp'd by Mercy, and upheld by Justice!

HOUACO.
Yet Justice upon Mercy's bosom slept
When the wrong'd Indian held Pedrarias' son,
And loosed his bonds!
(With suspicion).
If so indeed it were?

ALPHONSO.
Oh! that I might disburthen my full heart
In any human breast!—I would choose thine.
Ere I departed from my father's court,
Thou know'st I woo'd thy friendship, though in vain.

HOUACO.
I am a slave—the slave can never be
The freeman's friend.

ALPHONSO.
Not so. Can twisted bands,
Or fire-wrought iron, though they bind the limbs,
Subdue the free-born spirit?—Thou art noble.
I would no other friend.

HOUACO.
I am a native
Of this fair land, that reeks beneath my foot
With the dear blood of those I wont to love,
Shed by thy father's unrelenting hand!
And shall my soul communion hold with thine?

ALPHONSO.
Thou didst, with friendship's own unshrinking hand,
Unwreathe the hooded snake that round my neck
Had wound him in my sleep!

HOUACO.
'Tis true, I did.
But first it chanced, when, as unskill'd, I strain'd
The servile oar, with muscles all unused
To the strait tension, and the rapid current
Of Oronoko seem'd to mock my toil,
Thy father bade his creatures urge with stripes
My fainting strength—
(Aside, mastering himself).
Be still—be still, my soul!
Thou took'st my place, as 'twere in youthful sport,
And lustily didst buffet with the stream,
While on the oar, amid thy playful speech,
Fell pity's tear!

ALPHONSO.
Then why refuse, Zamori,
The fellowship I court?—'tis nature's self
Draws kindred spirits, and Pedrarias' son
Is dear to one like thee—a noble Indian!
[Takes Capana's token from his bosom, and gazes on it.
Thou sacred pledge!

HOUACO.
That pledge! or do I dream?
That sacred pledge!
[Seizing Alphonso roughly.
Speak—speak, Alphonso, speak!
Or I will tear the secret from thy soul!—
Did he who gave thee liberty, give that?

ALPHONSO
(putting him away haughtily).
Must thou, too, question with imperious tone?
I have withstood a father's sacred claim!
(Aside.)
“Breathe not the sounds even in an Indian's ear,”
He said.—I must mislead his eagerness.
(Aloud.)
I found the bauble!

HOUACO
(with trembling anxiety).
And a mangled corse
Beside it! or, haply, scatter'd bones, that bleach'd
In the rude blast!—Oh! on my knees, I beg,
Tell me the fatal spot, that I may gather
Each honour'd relic to my broken heart!

ALPHONSO
(kindly).
Pardon, Zamori, that I may not tell
By what dear right this valued pledge is mine.

HOUACO
(shuddering with horror).
Ha! thou hast slain him, and dost bear his spoils!

ALPHONSO
(with delight).
No, no.—He lives! he lives, who gave me this.
But wherefore dost thou strain thy eyeballs thus,
With short convulsive heavings?—Who art thou?

HOUACO
(recollecting himself).
I am thy father's slave.

ALPHONSO.
But ere these chains,
(My heart prophetic throbs) who wert thou?—say!

HOUACO.
This bosom holds its secret too.

ALPHONSO.
Oh, no!
It holds no secret mine does not partake!
Nature's strong impulse bids me clasp thy hand,
And call thee—brave Houaco!

HOUACO
(in ecstacy).
Yes, 'twas he!
'Twas he himself who spared thy life!

ALPHONSO.
Thy father,
Capana, gave me life and liberty,
Thou brother of my love! and gave me this.
[They embrace.
He bade me not reveal to living being
The place of his retreat. His son, he thought,
Was number'd with the dead.

HOUACO.
And so he is!
The slave Zamori lives.

ALPHONSO.
Capana's son
Thou art, and shalt be!—Yes, I fly to claim
The free enlargement of Capana's son!

HOUACO.
Oh stay, rash youth!

ALPHONSO.
Alas! the sudden joy
Had blotted from my thought all former ill;
My vow—my cruel father's anger—all!
By gratitude debarr'd from grateful deeds,
Oh, am I not, Houaco, most accursed?
To know my benefactor wastes his days
In sorrow, and thus,—thus to hold the means
Of full requital!—hold his happiness
As 'twere within my grasp, nor dare dispense it!

HOUACO.
Young man, misfortune has not school'd thy spirit,
Unmoved, to suffer; to the present senseless,
Thy very being forward borne, with purpose
Intense, deep fix'd, till years bring on the hour
Of retribution, great as was the wrong.

ALPHONSO.
Rear'd in gay luxury, my friend, my youth
Sought but the pleasures of the passing day;
But when I mark'd thy calm, disdainful, brow
Smiling in tortures, felt how great the conquer'd!—
The conquerors how little!—then my mind
Aspired to emulate the man I honour'd.
That man the son of him who set me free—
To free him be henceforth my soul's strong purpose!
By Heaven, it cannot be, that he, the father
Who to my infant prayer would yield with smiles,
Should now relentless—

HOUACO.
If he could relent,
Capana must not look on these gall'd wrists:
He has wept me, dead—he must not find new tears
To weep his son enslaved!

ALPHONSO
(eagerly).
A slave no longer!
For thou with me from Panama shalt fly,
Escaped from chains—

HOUACO.
Might I escape, I would not.
The tyrant's vengeance would with tenfold fury
Fall on my fellow-captives!—No, I would not;
For while I stand between Pedrarias' rigour
And the poor suffering few his rage has spared,
Methinks it is a last sad duty, owed
By lost Houaco to his father's people!

ALPHONSO.
Thou noble spirit!—Then 'tis mine alone
To seek Capana, and with him concert
To break thy bondage. Thou, meantime, my friend,
Wear this, it will recall his honour'd image.

[Giving him Capana's token.
HOUACO.
No, wear it thou! for no remembrancer
Houaco needs of his poor wandering father,
His butcher'd people, and his wasted country!

Enter Gusman.
GUSMAN.
I have sought thee, Don Alphonso, through the palace,
The bearer of thy father's will.
[Houaco retiring.
Nay, stay,
Zamori! thy good services are graced:
'Tis thine to follow on Alphonso's fortunes.
Yet one night more within these walls ye rest:
Ere dawn, together—

ALPHONSO.
Together, Gusman! Thanks,
My gracious father! e'en in anger kind!
(To Houaco).
The heavens thou see'st on holy friendship smile!
Come then, thou brother of my heart! The heights
Upheaved before us frown in untamed grandeur,
Our ample heritage! th'o'erarching skies
Our mutual roof! for bolts and bars, our faith!
Then not in lonely deserts shall we roam;
For, with a friend, the wilderness is peopled!
Nor in throng'd cities, nor in soul-less courts,
Is known the full communion of free thought
Man finds with man in native liberty!

[Exeunt.