 | The Seven Champions of Christendom |  |
Scene Second.
—An Oasis in the Deserts of Arabia—In the centre a mulberry tree.Enter St. Denis.
St. Den.
Well may they call this Araby the blest!
I've found, as yet, no wrong to be redrest.
326
He wants redressing very much indeed!
Enter Aile-de-Pigeon.
Who are you, friend, your name and station—say?
Aile.
Aile-de-Pigeon, from Paris—Perruquier.
St. Den.
A perruquier! what brought you to a nation
Where wigs are never worn?
Aile.
Fraternization.
I sailed from Marseilles with a bold crusader,
Of whom I knew no more than Abdel Kader.
But I had money—he had not a sous,
And so 'twas settled I should pay for two.
St. Den.
And what was he to do for you in turn?
Aile.
Why, that exactly I could never learn,
Whilst the cash lasted.
St. Den.
And when that was flown?
Aile.
He had flown too—and so I've never known.
St. Den.
Pauvre Pigeon! and these rags which I view—
Aile.
Are his old clothes; he took mine which were new.
St. Den.
Take both your money and your clothes—the thief!
Aile.
Pardonnez moi—the crime in his belief
Was mine—all property is counted theft.
No man's all right till he has nothing left.
St. Den.
Is this the new philosophy of France?
Against it will St. Denis break a lance!
Aile-de-Pigeon, your champion here you see.
From Paris, you must sure know St. Denis!
Aile.
St. Denis! Sir, of you I've often read,
But always thought till now, you wore your head
Beneath your arm.
St. Den.
An image merely, friend,
To shew you must not on your head depend
In countries where, to speak without a scoff,
It's one day heads up and the next, heads off!
But come, if to take service you've a mind
I want a squire—
Aile.
Sir, you're very kind.
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Jump at proposals, made so apropos!
St. Den.
I'll get you into better habits soon.
But I have travelled far this afternoon
And need some slight refreshment and repose;
Yon branches proffer shade, and food disclose.
Gather me some of that rich tempting fruit,
The whilst I make a pillow of the root.
Music—Aile-de-Pigeon gathers some mulberries as St. Denis seats himself under the tree—Aile-de-Pigeon hands him down some of the fruit, but the instant St. Denis has tasted it, he disappears, and a Stag is seen in his place.
Aile.
(retreating hastily from the tree)
Miséricorde! what dreadful change is here?
Oh, my dear lord! now more than ever dear!
Since in a deer-skin you have wrapped your woes,
And tears run trickling down your poor dear nose.
What vile magician has thus changed your features
And made you take up a four-footed creature's?
Air—Aile-de-Pigeon—“Maitre Corbeau.”
Oh, my dear lord! now more than ever dear!
Since in a deer-skin you have wrapped your woes,
And tears run trickling down your poor dear nose.
What vile magician has thus changed your features
And made you take up a four-footed creature's?
That such a beau! such a buck, I should say!
A greater buck than ever should become to-day,
And just as he began to “parler bon Français,”
Be turned into a dumb brute who nothing can say;
Not even tra, la, la, la, &c.
And yet I don't know why I astonishment should show
At any turn, however sudden, here below,
For after all the changes in Paris I've heard ring
There's nothing mightn't turn out in less time than you could sing
The air of tra, la, la, &c.
A greater buck than ever should become to-day,
And just as he began to “parler bon Français,”
Be turned into a dumb brute who nothing can say;
Not even tra, la, la, la, &c.
And yet I don't know why I astonishment should show
At any turn, however sudden, here below,
For after all the changes in Paris I've heard ring
There's nothing mightn't turn out in less time than you could sing
The air of tra, la, la, &c.
Voice
. (from tree)
Listen!
Aile.
Ha! listen! Well, I do. Who spoke?
Voice.
The tree!
Aile.
The tree! come, that is a good joke!
It's some one locked up in a trunk.
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You're right!
A vile enchanter did it out of spite;
But lose no time! Go find a rose, and make
Your master eat it, and the spell will break.
Aile.
A rose! I'll never rest till one I find!
(hunting horns in the distance)
But hark! the hunter's horns are on the wind!
Oh, quickly hide your horns, my dearest master,
Or I foresee some terrible disaster.
Voice.
Go seek the rose, and leave the deer to me,
My boughs are bent on sheltering him, you see.
(the boughs of the tree gradually droop over the Stag and conceal him)
Aile.
Sensitive plant, you are a friend in season,
I'll trust your leaves, although your fruit is trees-on.
(Exit)
Enter Katchim and Huntsmen.
Chorus
—“Guillaume Tell.”
We all went out a hunting,
The break of day before,
In hopes to stop the grunting
Of a most enormous boar!
Tantarara—tantarara!
But he made it soon appear—
Tantarara—tantarara!
We'd got the wrong pig by the ear—
Till a young knight
To our delight
Into his spare rib poked a spear!
Enter Slaves, Art-i-Chok, and Zuliemah in a litter or palanquin.
Katchim.
Commander of the Faithful, mighty Caliph,
Your servants hope for ever that you may live,
And they to see you—
Art.
Speak
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Great sir, without
Your leave, I dare not.
Art.
Get on, or get out!
Katchim.
The orders of my Sovereign are fulfilled.
The boar that bothered us so long is killed!
Art.
By whom?
Katchim.
A stranger knight, who came incog.,
And went against him—the entire hog.
Art.
Set him immediately our face before!
Katchim.
Dread Sovereign, which—the stranger or the boar?
Art.
Both, for each might be both—
Katchim.
Approach!
Music—enter Arabs, bearing the head of a gigantic Boar, and followed by St. James.
Katchim.
Behold,
O King! the trophy and the victor bold!
To be rewarded handsomely he claims.
Art.
What art thou?
St. James.
Caliph, I am called St. James,
Champion of Spain.
Art.
By Mahomet's grandmother,
He is an infidel!
St. James.
You are another!
The deed is done, and I demand the prize!
Art.
Seize him, and bind him to yon tree—he dies!
(they obey)
St. James.
I've killed a great boar, but this is a greater!
Is this your gratitude, you pagan traitor?
Art.
For the short time you'll draw it, spare your breath!
We'll grant one favour—you may choose your death!
St. James.
Then by a maiden's hand let me be shot!
Katchim,
How very sentimental, is it not?
Art.
Agreed! And fortunately here's our daughter;
She's a toxopholite of the first water!
Zuliemah, darling, take your bow and arrow,
And shoot him as you would a young cock-sparrow!
330
Alas, dear father, see, my arm's not steady,
For he has shot me through the heart already!
Oh, pardon him, or see your daughter fall
On her own dart!
(suiting the action to the word)
Art.
Stop! that won't do at all.
Zulie.
Between your vengeance and your daughter choose!
Art.
Oh, my paternal fondness you abuse!
Release the infidel, and let him go.
(he is unbound)
St. James.
(to Zuliemah)
To you I dedicate the life I owe.
Art.
That dedication is not by permission!
Hence, of your life take off this new edition.
March!
(Exeunt Art-i-Chok, Zuliemah, and Suite)
St. James.
Cruel fate! He takes my life away
In taking her with whom for life I'd stay.
Air—St. James—“Isabelle.”
In taking her with whom for life I'd stay.
Oft have I pondered on Peris and Houries,
The stars of Arabian Nights,
But this fair Pagan more beautiful sure is,
Than any such false “Harem Lights.”
No gazelle! no gazelle! no gazelle
Has such eyes, as of me took the measure!
She's a belle! she's a belle! she's a belle
I could ring with the greatest of pleasure,
Zuliemah! Zuliemah!
The stars of Arabian Nights,
But this fair Pagan more beautiful sure is,
Than any such false “Harem Lights.”
No gazelle! no gazelle! no gazelle
Has such eyes, as of me took the measure!
She's a belle! she's a belle! she's a belle
I could ring with the greatest of pleasure,
Zuliemah! Zuliemah!
Enter Leporello.
Lep
Señor!
St. James.
Ha!
Lep.
May you live a thousand years!
My mistress, Zuliemah, 'twixt hopes and fears,
Sends you these flowers, which in their orthography
Mean, she will fly with you through all geography,
Cutting the Koran, as she cuts her tether,
And so embrace your faith and you together!
331
Delicious flowers, back to that fairer flower,
And beg she'll name the day, and fix the hour!
First at St. James's Church we'll tie the knot,
Then off to Spain, as fast as we can trot.
Lep.
To Spain! Oh, St. Jago!
St. James.
Hold, good fellow.
Are you a Spaniard?
Lep.
Sir, I'm Leporello.
St. James.
How, Leporello! What, the very zany
Who lived some time ago with Don Giovanni!
What wind has blown you, pray, so far from Seville?
Lep.
Why, when my master, sir, went to the devil,
I can't say that I felt inclined to follow him.
So, soon as I had seen the trap-door swallow him,
I bolted, and to Barbary went over.
St. James.
What made you to that barbarous land a rover?
Lep.
Alas, señor, in many things to me,
Spain seems more barbarous than Barbary.
Kept by her own flies in perpetual blister,
By turns Christino, Carlist, Progresista;
Whilst liberty in strong convulsions lingers,
Monarchs make matches, but to burn their fingers;
With fluctuating funds, and constant fetters,
Mock patriots and bona-fide debtors,
'Tis hard to say who've most care on their shoulders,
Those held in bonds, or those who are bond holders.
St. James.
Castile is famed for honour still, I hope?
Lep.
Castile, at present, is more famed for soap.
St. James.
Fine tempered blades Toledo still displays?
Lep.
They're not quite so good-tempered now-a-days.
St. James.
Poor Spain, a champion yet from wreck may save her,
But first to liberate my fair enslaver!
Lep.
Leave me alone for that, good señor mine,
I've had some practice in the eloping line;
I'll aid her to decamp from watch and warders,
And be your aide-de-camp till further orders.
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Then/I'll away to the lady and say 'tis my/your glory
To bear her from her Saracen pa,
“As the bul-bul is true to the rose” the old story, old story,
You/I can say to her—et cetera, et cetera,
That we'll start by the next ship will sail if
The start we can get of the Caliph,
And happy to be I/you can't fail if
Beloved by the fair Zuliemah, Zuliemah!
(Exit Leporello)
Enter Aile-de-Pigeon.
Aile.
I've beaten every bush to find a rose;
Not e'en a dog's one in the desert grows!
Wonder of wonders! who is this I see?
My master retransformed—great St. Denis.
St. James.
St. Denis! no, I am St. James of Spain.
What know you of my friend in arms?—explain.
Aile.
Oh, sir, to save him, you by fate are sent, sure!
He's had the most remarkable adventure!
He took a fancy to some ripe mulberries,
But they turned out to be vile black-art cherries.
Changed to a stag, behold the gallant knight!
(parting the boughs and shewing the Stag)
St. James.
I'm absolutely staggered at the sight!
What can restore his blood to circulation,
In human form, from this state of stagnation?
Aile.
Eating a rose—there's one in that bouquet!
St. James.
The rose my love gave with her heart away!
Yet, in such cause, to hesitate were sin!
(gives rose to Aile-de-Pigeon, who gives it to the Stag.)
Aile.
Eat, sir, and jump for joy out of your skin.
The Stag disappears, and St. Denis is seen in his place.
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My brother champion, and my liberator!
St. James.
Of this vile deed, who was the perpetrator?
Voice.
(from the tree)
Let me out, and I'll tell you in a minute.
St. James.
A talking tree!
Aile.
There is some Miss Tree in it!
St. James.
Then let her out by all means.
St. Den.
So I would, man,
If I but knew the way.
Voice.
Then, like a good man,
Don't spare the tree, but fell it at a blow,
With your good sword.
St. Denis.
“Mont joie!” then, be it so!
It seems ungrateful to the boughs that hid me,
But, by their leaves, I'll do just as you bid me,
Music—He strikes the tree with his sword—It sinks and discovers the Princess Mora.
Mora.
Thanks, noble champion, a Princess am I,
The daughter of the King of Thessaly,
Boxed up for seven years alone to pine,
Because I boxed the ears of Ormandine,
A necromancer then at Court the fashion,
Who dared confess to me his lawless passion.
Enter Ormandine.
Orman.
Who ventures mighty Ormandine to name?
Ah! fiends and fire, 'tis lucky that I came.
St. Den.
Fair Princess, I your champion am for life.
Away!
St. James.
Stop! I would also take a wife.
Enter Leporello and Zuliemah.
Lep.
And here she is, sir, ready to be taken!
Zulie.
Oh! fly, my love, before my father waken!
(going)
Orman.
Not quite so fast.
St. Den.
S'death! quickly clear the course, sir, or—
Orman.
You are a saucy one, but I'm a sorcerer.
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'Tis Ormandine himself!
St. James.
The wizard slay!
Orman.
Fiends of the desert, hearken, and obey.
Simoon and sand-storm darken earth and sky,
And sweep my captives off to Tartary!
(Music—Storm—Enter Demons—The Knights, their Ladies, and Attendants are borne off by Ormandine and Storm Fiends)
| The Seven Champions of Christendom | |