University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Forest with openings, which disclose vast mountains and cataracts at a distance.
Arak.
(alone.)
How holy is this calm magnificence
Of mountain, lake, and wood! The ceaseless blair
Of the hoarse cataracts, by distance soften'd,
Seems but the soothing lull of Nature's voice,
Charming all thought into tranquillity.—
Here I will stop till old Orooko come,
Nor on the simple worshippers intrude,
Who still with him refuse the Christian faith,
And 'mid these scenes of solemn loneliness,
With aimless rites and ineffectual prayer,
Adore the fancied powers, our nation served,
Till good Antonio from the ocean waves
Was sent by Heaven, to teach the truth divine.

Enter Orooko.
Orooko.
Who art thou, that within these hallow'd shades
Presum'st in that apostate garb to enter?

Arak.
Do you not know me?

Orooko.
Arak! is it thee?
Nay, no embrace,—Thou hast the Gods forsaken,
And I their priest must never more again
Receive thee to these arms, nor ever raise
My hands above thee, to implore their blessing.—
O ye unknown dread and beneficent!
Whose genial power all artless creatures praise,
Pardon these tears, forgive my weak old heart,
That would forget this hapless young man's sin,
And still receive him, as your gracious spirit
Taught me to look upon all human kind.—
Oh, then I knew not that such things could be
As man presuming to select his God.—
Yet, Arak, if in penitence you come,
Come to my heart, and with most joyful tears
I'll bathe thy forehead, and absolve thy sin.

Arak.
I bring a message from the king to you.

Orooko.
What would he now with me. Oh, he might spare
The little remnant I have left of life,
To the deserted worship of the Gods,—
His country's Gods,—Those ever-bounteous powers,
That blest his fathers from the first of time,
Nor ever once upon our happy tribes
Sent civil discord, till that fatal hour,
When on our coast the curs'd Antonio came,
Like something horrible cast from the sea,
To mar, with his perplexing arts and faith,
Our sacred rites and old simplicity.

Arak.
Alas, Orooko, you will not discern
The good, the blessing in Antonio given.

Orooko.
Within the bowers of these far-spreading woods,
We happy dwelt, and with the morning light
Our song as cheerful as the grateful birds
Rose to the powers that bless'd us—all the day
The active chace gave energy to health,
And when at night, our frugal meal dispatch'd,
We stretch'd ourselves beneath the fragrant boughs,
We fear'd no danger in the form of man,
For we had nothing then that could be stolen.
Spirit of Nature, did my tongue say nothing?—
Yes, we had happiness, and that sweet ease—
And the sea outcast has purloin'd them all.

Arak.
But he has given us better, and tenfold—
Taught us to rear the safe and shelt'ring shed,
The woes that wait on perjury and crimes,
And the rich promise of a second life,
A glorious morning to the night of death.—
—But the king summons you.

Orooko.
What does he want?
I cannot aid him in his new designs—
My heart grows sad whene'er by chance afar
My wand'ring eyes see, through the opening woods,
His rising town; and sad presages come,
Lest the dread Gods, whose secret throne of fires,
Deep in the hollow of the mountain glows,
Will burst the earth, and sweep in floods of flame
Th'apostates and their perishable homes.—
But what can Yamos now require of me?
O he was once the sunshine of my soul,
And never, never, did prolific Nature
A being fashion in the human form
So good, so kind, so modest, and so brave.—
Methinks I could have pardon'd all the tribes,
Had they rais'd altars to adore that youth,
For then they had but worshipped in him
Th'embodied excellence of all that lives.
Alas! that goodness has but caus'd this ill,
And but for it the fraudulent Antonio
Had been thrown back into the hungry sea,
When first he dared to slight our ancient rites—
But grief bewilders me—I lose myself—
Why does the king require me in Atlantis?

Arak.
The queen of late, drooping forgoes his love,
And he desires that with your speediest skill
You would restore to him her wonted kindness.

Orooko.
Though she too is apostate, I will go.—
Lead on, I'll follow: never, but to take
Some gentle essence of appeasing herbs,
To quiet sorrow, or extinguish pain,
Shall e'er my feet towards your city tend.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An apartment in the Palace of Yamos.
Yamos and Antonio.
Yamos.
Thrice have the trees renew'd and shed their leaves,
And the fourth fruit hangs blushing on the bough,
Since thou, Antonio, child of Providence,
Wast on our shore, snatch'd from the greedy waves
To bless our wilds and world undivulg'd
To thy far countrymen, who dwell beyond
The rising sun. O ever since that hour,
How rich in knowledge hast thou made us all!
Teaching our docile youth the arts of peace;
The all-cementing harmony of law,
And like the new moon, out of darkness born,
Still more and more, to the full round of light,
Brightening our souls, though with the dim reflex
Of that eternal truth, which in thy land
Sheds the warm mid-day beam—In all this time,
With constant wisdom ever blessing us,
Thou hast thyself been still alone unblest.

Antonio.
Most gracious Yamos, in what I have done
I feel my happiness a rich reward,
And the proud honors which the good unborn
Will pay my name, already I foretaste.—
The time will come, when from the Eastern world,
With spreading sail, some daring mariner
Will this way steer, then all these unknown scenes
Of inland seas and forests infinite
Shall be reveal'd. Oft, sir, as I have told,
Their winged vessels would the way explore,
And that in which I 'scap'd the waves to you,
Was sent in quest of this great continent,
Of which some dark report had long prevail'd:—
And when they come and find the arts of Europe
In sweet communion with the Christian faith,
My name shall rise to an equality
With that of Cadmus or of Bacchus, those
Who in the elder time brought westward truth.

Yamos.
But wherefore wilt thou not be one of us—
Our nation shall to thy posterity
Give higher honors than to all our kings.
I pray thee, friend—or rather let me call thee
Creative genius of our rising world,
Consent to what we ask—the gentle Mora,
The daughter of the venerable Sebi,
Has long the influence of thy virtues felt—
Felt as the rose-bud feels the solar beam,
And to their brightness would unfold her breast.—
You seem perplex'd, why should my words disturb you?
Why do you sigh and look like one that heard
Unhappy tidings—tell me why is this?

Antonio.
My heart is grateful to your Majesty,
But in the rearing of your infant state
I find abundant blessing—Did I yield
To soft endearments, my ennobling aims
Might sink abortive, and entail but woe.

Yamos.
Thou hast, Antonio, yet but given precept,
Give us example too, that we may see
By thy bright practice how to guide ourselves.
The rights of fathers, husbands, sons, and men,
Thou hast prescrib'd to us. Take now a wife,
And by thy actions in the wedded state,
Show us in what our customs need example.

Antonio.
There is a beauty, sir, in principles,
Which those who most in theory revere,
Cannot transfuse into their way of life.
I have denied myself connubial love,
Lest I should not in practice so conform
To the great precepts I aspire to teach.

Yamos.
I will no farther press this matter, friend:
I humbly own the grandeur of thy motive,
I do thee homage for't; but while you thus
Appear a doubting, conscious, erring man,
Such virtue makes you glorious as a God.

[Exit the king.
Antonio.
O noble being, how art thou deceiv'd;
How black and horrible methinks I show
Beside the lustre of thy purer nature!
Thou dost sustain me, Yamos, in thy love,
As the new moon in its first hoop of brightness,
Holds in embrace the dark and rayless old.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Another Apartment.
Yamos and Idda.
Yamos.
Alas, dear Idda, wherefore would'st thou shun me?
The time was once that I was all to thee—
The blossom breathing to the mid-day sun,
Its bosom's fragrance, never was more faithful
Than thy sweet love, the fragrance of the heart,
Was wont to meet me; but how art thou chang'd!
Ah me, how chang'd! looking askance upon me,
As at some hateful reptile that you fear'd—
And yet to thee I am entirely love.

Idda.
I know not, Yamos, why I should be thus,—
I would be to thee what I was before,
But some foul vapor hath beset my brain,
And stain'd the wonted substance of my thoughts.

Yamos.
Since good Antonio has not yet been able
To turn again thy far-reverted love
Back to its proper course; but still the more
This woeful change works to increas'd dislike,
I have sent Arak to the old Orooko,
To bring him with his genial simples here,
That we may try their power.

Idda.
I'll none of them.
Leave where he lives that petulant old man;
What would he here, but fret, as he was wont,
Against Antonio, and with searching eyes
Make still more irksome my unquiet heart.

Yamos.
Does he too, Idda, grow displeasing to thee?
Once that old man was to thee as a God;
And God-like was his fault, for it was kindness.

Idda.
But is he not Antonio's enemy?

Yamos.
He has refused to take the Christian faith—
But there's no enmity in his kind nature.
I'd think as soon Antonio bad and false,
As I could think Orooko would molest.

Idda.
But wherefore bring him here?—I need him not,
And he may vex Antonio with his prying.

Yamos.
Unhappy Idda, to what strange conceits
Thy thoughts and fancies turn. Why should he pry?
Nor from the freedom of a good old man
Can there be aught Antonio would conceal.
But thou art ill at ease; fair Mora droops,
And all our wonted medicines have fail'd.
Alas, poor Mora! solitary—still
With hopeless wishes must she ever pine.
Antonio has rejected her.

Idda.
Rejected!

Yamos.
He will not marry; constant to the bent
Of the great purpose that exalts his mind
Above our nature, he will never join
His fate to any woman's.

Idda.
Did you ask?

Yamos.
Even now I did.

Idda.
And wherefore did you that?

Yamos.
Can it offend you, Idda, that I sought
To make him happy, who has blest my people?

Idda.
Had you no other motive?

Yamos.
Ah what other?

Idda.
But he rejected her, and will not marry?

Yamos.
Why should that lighten up your eyes with joy?
When you might grieve to think ill-fated Mora
Must hopeless sigh in unrequited love.

Idda.
Love! said you love! (aside.)
Ah now I know the cause
Of her averse and fearful diffidence.

Yamos.
My dearest Idda, my once gentle Idda,
Why should this news such angry looks excite.
Yes, Mora loves the excellent Antonio.

Idda.
O not to love him were almost a sin—
But my fit comes—O Yamos, o'er my head
Methinks some hideous and unholy thing
Hath perch'd itself, and feeds upon my brain—
I would I were not what I am, or could
Again the fondness of thy love return.

[Exeunt.