 | Xarifa |  |
SCENE I.
Juanalone in his tent.—Night.—Illuminated with lamps—armour lying on the ground.
Strange that this Moorish maid, and gallant youth,
So haunt my fancy!—Yes, her silver tones
Struck on my ear as though Daraxa spoke;
And when he sunk in fight beneath my arm,
I could have snatch'd him to my heart, for then
His upward eyes' dark radiance beam'd on me
As hers was wont!
[He paces the stage thoughtfully.
'Tis rumour'd in the camp,
Xarifa is the fierce Abdallah's queen—
The youth condemn'd to death.
Enter Hamad, wrapt in a cloak.
What form is this?
HAMAD.
It is the form of one undone by thee!
And, for the spirit once its happy tenant,
By fell Despair inhabited!
[Throwing off the cloak.
Behold
The victim of thy goodness and thy valour!
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Young Hamad!—yes, 'tis he!—What joy is mine
That still thou liv'st!
HAMAD
(giving him a paper with sullen sadness).
These from Granada's queen!
JUAN.
Ha! from the queen!—Then is it true, poor youth!
Sever'd from her thou lov'st—
HAMAD.
Speak not of me!
I have no being, save what ministers
This one act of obedience to her will.
JUAN
(reads).
“Granada's slander's queen in knighthood's name
“On noble Juan calls, that in the lists
“His spear maintain her cause against the Zegris.
“By all condemn'd!—held guilty by her father!—
“No Moorish knight defends the wrong'd Xarifa.
“Heaven and brave Hamad know her innocence!”
HAMAD
(with sudden transport).
Oh she is pure as yon chaste orb!—as pure
As bending angels who attend to welcome
Her brighter spirit to their heavenly choir!
Give but a sword, brave Juan, to my grasp!
Nay, the bare sinews of this single arm,
Methinks, in virtue's cause should crush to dust
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JUAN
(who has watched him with admiration).
Ye shall stand cleared before the world! Oh thou!
Who rul'st the battle! thou!—attest my vow
To save the wrong'd Xarifa and brave Hamad!
HAMAD.
Art thou a god?
JUAN.
I am a knight, young Moor,
And so art thou!—The cause of innocence!
Of slander'd chastity!—is knighthood's cause
In every clime alike.—Thou shalt have arms—
(JUAN considers him).
But who art thou, that, strangely moved, my heart
Should thus adopt thy fortunes?
HAMAD.
I am one,
From birth a wretch!—and now to death consign'd—
To shame, and to oblivion! Noble Juan,
Waste not a thought on me. Xarifa's fame
Rescued from slander's taint! and Hamad dead—
[Taking a string of gems from his bosom, and with great emotion.
Oh! give her this—'tis all that e'er was mine—
Tell her—
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(examining them with agitation).
Thine?—thine?—these gems!—Speak, youth—how thine?
HAMAD.
A mother, with her dying blessing, bound them
Around my infant neck, nor till this hour—
JUAN
(who has torn a similar one from his own bosom, compares them with trembling hands).
Are they not, gem for gem, the same?—say thou!
These eyes are dazzled—
[Brushes off a tear.
Haply they deceive me.
HAMAD
(takes them).
I am amazed!—nor know I which was mine.
JUAN.
'Twas on the day we pledged our mutual faith!
A mutual token each!
[Seems choked, then breaking forth.
And would she not
Thy infant lips should lisp thy father's name?
My son! my son! my lost Daraxa's image!
[Falling on his neck in an agony.
HAMAD.
Thou!—thou my father!—thou—our benefactor!
Against whose breast this parricidal hand
Erewhile was frantic raised! Oh outraged Nature!
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Nay, rather own her strong mysterious power!
'Twas Nature spoke when Juan woo'd thy valour
To turn aside in battle!—Imperious Nature!
That summon'd to thy cheek Don Juan's blood,
Deep-mantling crimson at th'inglorious thought;
Nature that pitying warded off thy point,
Lest it should pierce a father's breast, and blunted
The sword of Juan raised against his son.
HAMAD.
My noble father!—canst thou thus excuse
The impious fury—
JUAN.
I, like thee, was young—
Like thee I loved.—And think'st thou, had I fought
For my Daraxa, with less deadly rage
This arm had dared?—Thy peerless mother was!—
My child! thou hast much of her!—Her brow! her eye!
She ruled my soul as only virtue can!
Not as dark braided locks, and laughing eyes,
In every city claim a soldier's homage.
'Twas a new being!—But I prattle idly
Of what has been—'tis past!—and thou, my son!
If it be true, to death condemn'd—how here?
How from Abdallah's cruelty released?
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A faithful Spanish slave who tends the queen
Besought my jailor in Xarifa's name—
I pledged my word to yield myself to-morrow
To meet my doom; and thus my jailor won.
Wrapt in his cloak I darkling pass'd the guard.
Thy outposts I eluded, practised well
To thread each tangled brake, each deep ravine.
But mark!—methinks already in the east
The fatal dawn!—and ere the sun go down
The fair Xarifa dies!—dishonour'd dies!—
Thou, noble knight! my generous foe! my father!
Haste—let us arm to vindicate my queen!
Then will I to my dungeon—with glad arms
Outstretch'd to meet my chains, and hug them close,
Till welcome death—
JUAN.
Talk'st thou of death, my son?
Glory awaits thee, victory, and bliss!
Oh! I have much to tell, and much to learn!
But now for deeds of arms! “For love and glory!”
[They retire into the tent, and the scene closes.
| Xarifa | |