Has it remain'd for ever in your hands? What, both brought captives from Caesarea hither?
You gen'rous witnesses of my last hour,
While I yet live, assist my humble prayers,
And join the resignation of my soul.
Nerestan! Chatillon! and you, fair mourner,
Whose tears do honour to an old man's sorrows!
Pity a father, the unhappiest sure
Lus. Their voice! their looks!
That ever felt the hand of angry heaven! The living images of their dear mother!
My eyes, though dying, still can furnish tears; O God! who seest my tears and know'st my
Half my long life they flow'd, and still will flow!
A daughter and three sons, my heart's proud Do not forsake me at this dawn of hope;
hopes,
Strengthen my heart, too feeble for this joy.
Were all torn from me in their tend'rest Madam! Nerestan!-Help me, Chatillon!
My friend Chatillon knows, and can remem-Nerestan, hast thou on thy breast a scar, Which ere Caesarea fell, from a fierce hand, Surprising us by night, my child receiv'd? Ner. Bless'd hand!-I bear it.- Sir, the mark is there!
Cho. Would I were able to forget your woe.
Lus. Thou wert a pris'ner with me in Cae-
And there beheld'st my wife and two dear sons
Perish in flames.
Cha. A captive, and in fetters,
I could not help 'em.
Lus. I know thou couldst not.
Oh, 'twas a dreadful scene! these eyes beheld it:
Husband and father, helpless I beheld it;
Deny'd the mournful privilege to die.
Oh, my poor children, whom I now deplore,
If ye are saints in heav'n, as sure ye are,
Look with an eye of pity on that brother,
That sister whom you left! If I have yet
Or son or daughter; for in early chairs,
Far from their lost and unassisting father,
I heard that they were sent, with numbers more,
To this seraglio; hence to be dispers'd
would now die, lest this should prove a dream. Cha. How touch'd is my glad heart to see their joy!
Lus. They shall not tear you from my arms
-my children,
Again I find you-dear in wretchedness.
Oh, my brave son, and thou, my nameless
daughter!
Now dissipate all doubt, remove all dread; In nameless remnants o'er the east, and spread Has heaven, that gives me back my children, Our Christian miseries round a faithless world.
Cha. 'Twas true; for in the horrors of that Such as I lost them? come they Christians
I snatch'd your infant daughter from her cradle;
When from my bleeding arms, fierce Saracens
Forc'd the lost innocent, who smiling lay
And pointed, playful, at the swarthy spoilers!
With her your youngest, then your only son,
Whose little life had reach'd the fourth sad year,
And just giv'n sense to feel his own misfortunes,
Was order'd to this city.
One weeps, and one declines a conscious eye!
Your silence speaks; too well I understand it.
Zara. I cannot, sir, deceive you; Osman's
laws
Were mine; and Osman is not Christian.
Lus. Her words are thunder bursting on
Wer't not for thee, my son, I now should die.
Full sixty years I fought the Christian's cause;
Saw their doom'd temple fall, their power
destroy'd:
Twenty, a captive, in a dungeon's depth;
Yet never for myself my tears sought heaven:
All for my children rose my fruitless prayers.
Yet what avails a father's wretched joy?
I have a daughter gain'd, and heaven an enemy.
Oh, my misguided daughter, lose not thy faith;
Reclaim thy birthright; think upon the blood
Of twenty Christian kings, that fills thy veins:
'Tis heroes' blood, the blood of saints and
martyrs!
What would thy mother feel to see thee thus?
She and thy murder'd brothers!-think they
call thee;
Think that thou see'st 'em stretch their bloody arms,
And weep to win thee from their murd'rer's
E'en in the place where thou betray'st thy God,
He died, my child, to save thee!
Thou tremblest-Oh! admit me to thy soul;
Kill not thy aged, thy afflicted father;
Shame not thy mother, nor renounce thy God.-
'Tis past; repentance dawns in thy sweet eyes;
I see bright truth descending to thy heart,
And now my long-lost child is found for ever.
Zara. Oh, my father!
Dear author of my life! inform me,
What should my duty do?
Osman. What mean'st thou? They were infant slaves together;
To dry up all my tears, and make life wel- Friends should part kind, who are to meet
Say thou art a Christian.
Zara. Sir, I am a Christian.
When Zara asks, I will refuse her nothing:
Restraint was never made for those we love.
Lus. Receive her, gracious heaven! and bless Down with those rigours of the proud seraglio!
I hate its laws; where blind austerity Sinks virtue to necessity.-My blood Disclaims your Asian jealousy; I hold
Oras. Madam, the sultan order'd me to The fierce, free plainness of my Scythian an
That he expects you instant quit this place, And bid your last farewell to these vile Chris
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SCENE 1. Enter OSMAN and ORASMIN.
Osman. Orasmin, this alarm was false and
groundless;
Lewis no longer turns his arms on me;
The French, grown weary by a length of woes,
Wish not at once to quit their fruitful plains,
And famish on Arabia's desert sands.
Their ships, 'tis true, have spread the Syrian seas:
And Lewis, hov'ring o'er the coast of Cyprus,
Alarms the fears of Asia.-But I've learn'd,
That, steering wide from our unmenac'd ports,
He points his thunder at th' Egyptian shore.
There let him war, and waste my enemies;
Their mutual conflict will but fix my throne.
Release those Christians; I restore their freedom:
Twill please their master, nor can weaken me.
Transport 'em, at my cost, to find their king.
I wish to have him know me. Carry thither
This Lusignan; whom, tell him, I restore,
Because I cannot fear his fame in arms,
But love him for his virtue and his blood.
Tell him, my father, having conquer'd twice,
Condemn'd him to perpetual chains; but I
Have set him free, that I might triumph more.
Oras. The Christians gain an army in his
Osman. I cannot fear a sound.
Oras. But, sir, should Lewis-
Osman. Tell Lewis, and the world, it shall
be so:
Zara propos'd it, and my heart approves.
Thy statesman's reason is too dull for love!
But I talk on, and waste the smiling mo-
For one long hour I yet defer my nuptials; She would employ it in a conference
Their open confidence, their honest hate,
Their love unfearing, and their anger told.
Go; the good Christian waits; conduct him
to her;
Zara expects thee. What she wills, obey. [Exit.
Oras. Ho! Christian! enter. Enter NERESTAN. Wait a moment here.
Zara will soon approach: I go to find her. [Exit. Ner. In what a state, in what a place, I leave her!
Oh, faith! Oh, father! Oh, my poor, lost sister! She's here.
Thank heaven, it is not then unlawful
To see you yet once more, my lovely sister!
Not all so happy!-We, who met but now,
Shall never meet again; for Lusignan-
We shall be orphans still, and want a father.
Zara. Forbid it, heaven!
Ner. His last sad hour's at hand.
That flow of joy, which follow'd our discovery,
Too strong and sudden for his age's weakness,
Wasting his spirits, dried the source of life,
And nature yields him up to time's demand.
Shall he not die in peace?—Oh! let no doubt
Disturb his parting moments with distrust;
Let me, when I return to close his eyes,
Compose his mind's impatience too, and tell
him,
You are confirm'd a Christian!
Zara. Oh! may his soul enjoy, in earth
Eternal rest; nor let one thought, one sigh,
One bold complaint of mine recall his cares!
But you have injur'd me, who still can doubt.
What am I not your sister? and shall you
Refuse me credit? You suppose me light;
You, who should judge my honour by your
Shall you distrust a truth I dar'd avow,
And stamp apostate on a sister's heart?
Ner. Ah, do not misconceive me; if I err'd,
Affection, not distrust, misled my fear;
Your will may be a Christian, yet not you;
There is a sacred mark, a sign of faith,
A pledge of promise, that must firm your
claim,
Wash you from guilt, and open heaven be-
fore you.
Swear, swear by all the woes we all have borne,
By all the martyr'd saints who call you
daughter,
That you consent, this day, to seal our faith, Now to submit to see my sister doom'd
By that mysterious rite which waits your call.
Zara. I swear by heaven, and all its holy
host,
Its saints, its martyrs, its attesting angels,
And the dread presence of its living author,
To have no faith but yours-to die a Christian!
Now tell me what this mystic faith requires.
Ner. To hate the happiness of Osman's throne,
And love that God, who, through his maze
of woes,
Has brought us all, unhoping, thus together.
For me I am a soldier, uninstructed,
Nor daring to instruct, though strong in faith:
But I will bring the ambassador of heaven,
To clear your views, and lift you to your God.
Be it your task to gain admission for him.
But where? from whom? Oh! thou immortal
power!
Whence can we hope it, in this curs'd seraglio?
Who is this slave of Osman? Yes, this slave!
Does she not boast the blood of twenty kings?
Is not her race the same with that of Lewis?
Is she not Lusignan's unhappy daughter?
A Christian and my sister? yet a slave,
A willing slave! I dare not speak more plainly.
Zara. Cruel! go on-Alas! you do not
know me.
At once, a stranger to my secret fate,
My pains, my fears, my wishes, and my power:
I am-I will be Christian-will receive
This holy priest with his mysterious blessing;
I will not do nor suffer aught unworthy
Myself, my father, or my father's race.
But tell me, nor be tender on this point,
What punishment your Christian laws decree,
For an unhappy wretch, who, to herself
Unknown, and all abandon'd by the world,
Lost and enslav'd, has, in her sovereign master,
Found a protector, generous as great,
Has touch'd his heart, and given him all her
Ner. The punishment of such a slave should be Death in this world, and pain in that to come. Zara. I am that slave! Strike here, and save my shame.
Ner. Destruction to my hopes! Can it be you?
A bosom slave to him whose tyrant heart
But measures glory by the Christian's woe.
Yes, I will dare acquaint our father with it
Departing Lusignan may live so long,
As just to hear thy shame, and die to 'scape it.
Zara. Stay, my too angry brother; stay,
perhaps,
Zara has resolution great as thine:
'Tis cruel and unkind. Thy words are crimes;
My weakness but misfortune. Dost thou suffer?
I suffer more. Oh! would to heaven this blood
Of twenty boasted kings would stop at once,
And stagnate in my heart! It then no more
Would rush in boiling fevers through my veins,
And every trembling drop be fill'd with Osman.
How has he lov'd me; how has he oblig'd me!
I owe thee to him. What has he not done,
To justify his boundless pow'r of charming?
For me he softens the severe decrees
Of his own faith; and is it just that mine
Should bid me hate him, but because he loves
me?
No- I will be a Christian-but
preserve
My gratitude as sacred as my faith;
If I have death to fear for Osman's sake,
It must be from his coldness, not his love.
Ner. I must at once condemn and pity thee.
Here then begin performance of thy vow;
Here, in the trembling horrors of thy soul,
Promise thy king, thy father, and thy God,
Not to accomplish these detested nuptials,
Till first the rev'rend priest has clear'd your
Taught you to know, and given you claim to
heaven.
Promise me this.
Zara. So bless me, beaven! I do.
Go, hasten the good priest, I will expect him;
But first return; cheer my expiring father;
Tell him I am, and will be, all he wishes me:
Tell him, to give him life 'twere joy to die.
Ner. I go. Farewell, farewell, unhappy
[Exit.
Zara. I am alone;-and now be just, my heart,
And tell me wilt thou dare betray thy God? What am I? what am I about to be? Zara. It is! ador'd by Osman, I adore him: Daughter of Lusignan, or wife to Osman? This hour the nuptial rites will make us one. Am I a lover most, or most a Christian? Ner. What! marry Osman! Let the world What shall I do? What heart has strength
That the extinguish'd sun may hide thy shame! These double weights of duty?-Help me, Could it be thus, it were no crime to kill thee.
Zara. Strike, strike! I love him! yes, by To thy hard laws I render up my soul: heav'n, I love him. But, oh! demand it back; for now 'tis Osman's.
Ner. Death is thy due; but not thy, due
Yet, were the honour of our house no bar,
My father's fame, and the too gentle laws
Of that religion which thou hast disgrac'd;
Did not the God thou quit'st hold back my arm;
Not there I could not there-but by my soul,
I would rush, desp'rate, to the sultan's breast,
And plunge my sword in his proud heart who
damns thee.
Oh, shame! shame! shame! at such a time as
this,
When Lewis, that awak'ner of the world,
Beneath the lifted cross makes Egypt pale,
And draws the sword of heaven to spread our
Zard. Instruct me, heaven!
What I should say-alas! I cannot speak
Osman. Away! this modest, sweet, reluctant | If it has been that Frenchman- What a thought! trifling How low, how horrid a suspicion that!
But doubles my desires, and thy own beauties. But tell me, didst thou mark 'em at their parting? Zara. Ah, me!
Osman. Nay, but thou shouldst not be too
Zara. I can no longer bear it.—Oh, my lord
Osman. Ha! What? whence? how? Zara. My lord, my sovereign! Heaven knows this marriage would have been a bliss
Above my humble hopes: yet, witness, love! Not from the grandeur of your throne, that bliss,
But from the pride of calling Osman mine. But as it is-these Christians
Osman. Christians! What! How start two images into thy thoughts, So distant, as the Christians and my love? Zara. That good old Christian, rev'rend Lusignan,
Now dying, ends his life and woes together. Osman. Well, let him die. What has thy heart to feel,
Thus pressing, and thus tender, from the death Of an old, wretched Christian?-Thank our prophet,
Thou art no Christian.-Educated here,
Thy happy youth was taught our better faith:
Sweet as thy pity shines, 'tis now mistim'd.
What! though an aged suff'rer dies unhappy,
Why should his foreign fate disturb our joys?
Zara. Sir, if you love me, and would have
me think
That I am truly dear
Osman. Heaven! if I love?
Zara. Permit me-
Osman. What?
Zara. To desire
Osman. Speak out.
Zara. The nuptial rites
May be deferr'd till
Ösman. What! Is that the voice
Of Zara?
Zara. Oh, I cannot bear his frown.
Osman. Of Zara!
Zara. It is dreadful to my heart,
To give you but a seeming cause for anger.
Pardon my grief-alas! I cannot bear it.
There is a painful terror in your eye
That pierces to my soul. Hid from your sight,
I go to make a moment's truce with tears,
And gather force to speak of my despair.
[Exit, disordered.
Osman. I stand immoveable like senseless
marble;
Horror had frozen my suspended tongue,
And an astonish'd silence robb'd my will
Of power to tell her that she shock'd my soul.
Spoke she to me? Sure I misunderstood her.
Could it be me she left?-What have I seen?
Orasmin, what a change is here!-She's gone;
And I permitted it, I know not how.
Oras. Perhaps you but accuse the charming
fault
Of innocence, too modest oft in love.
Osman. But why, and whence those tears?
those looks? that flight?
That grief, so strongly stamp'd on every feature?
Didst thou observe the language of their eyes?
Hide nothing from me.-Is my love betray'd?
Tell me my whole disgrace.-Nay, if hou
tremblest,
I hear thy pity speak, though thou art silent.
Oras. I tremble at the pangs I see you suffer.
Let not your angry apprehensions urge
Your faithful slave to irritate your anguish.
I did, 'tis true, observe some parting tears;
But they were tears of charity and grief.
I cannot think there was a cause deserving
This agony of passion.
Osman. Why, no-I thank thee-
Orasmin, thou art wise. It could not be
That I should stand expos'd to such an insult.
Thou know'st, had Zara meant me the offence,
She wants not wisdom to have hid it better.
How rightly didst thou judge!-Zara shall
know it,
And thank thy honest service.--After all, Might she not-have some cause for tears, which I Claim no concern in-- but the griefit gives her? What an unlikely fear-from a poor slave Who goes to-morrow, and, no doubt, who wishes,
Nay, who resolves to see these climes no more. Oras. Why did you, sir, against our country's custom,
Indulge him with a second leave to come?
He said he should return once more to see her.
Osman. Return! the traitor! he return!
Dares he
Presume to press a second interview?
Would he be seen again? He shall be seen;
But dead. I'll punish the audacious slave,
To teach the faithless fair to feel my anger.
Be still, my transports; violence is blind:
I know my heart at once is fierce and weak.
Rather than fall
Beneath myself, I must, how dear soe'er
It costs me, rise-till I look down on Zara!
Away; but mark me-these seraglio doors,
Against all Christians be they henceforth shut,
Close as the dark retreats of silent death.
[Exit Orasmin.
What have I done, just heaven! thy rage to
There is a father to be found above,
Opinions which he hates. To-night the priest,
Who can restore that father to his daughter. In private introduc'd, attends you here;
Zara. But I have planted pain in Osman's You promis'd him admission.
Zara. Would I had not!
He loves me, even to death; and I reward him I promis'd too to keep this fatal secret;
With anguish and despair. How base! how My father's urg'd command requir'd it of me;
I must obey, all dangerous as it is;
Compell'd to silence, Osman is enrag'd,
Suspicion follows, and I lose his love.
Enter OSMAN.
But I deserv'd him not; I should have been Too happy, and the hand of heav'n repell'd me. Sel. What! will you then regret the glorious loss
And hazard thus a vict'ry bravely won?
Zara. Inhuman victory!--thou dost not know
This love so pow'rful; this sole joy of life;
This first best hope of earthly happiness,
Is yet less pow'rful in my heart than heaven.
To him who made that heart I offer it:
There, there I sacrifice my bleeding passion;
I pour before him ev'ry guilty tear;
I beg him to efface the fond impression,
And fill with his own image all my soul.
But, while I weep and sigh, repent and pray,
Remembrance brings the object of my love,
And ev'ry light illusion floats before him.
I see, I hear him, and again he charms;
Fills my glad soul, and shines 'twixt me and
heav'n!
Oh, all ye royal ancestors! Oh, father!
Mother! You Christians, and the Christians'
You who deprive me of this gen'rous lover!
If you permit me not to live for him,
Let me not live at all, and I am bless'd.
Sel. Ah! despair not;
Trust your eternal helper, and be happy. Zara. Why, what has Osman done, that he too should not?
lias heaven so nobly form'd his heart to hate it?
Gen'rous and just, beneficent and brave, Were he but Christian-What can man be more?
I wish, methinks, this rev'rend priest was come To free me from these doubts, which shake my soul:
Yet know not why I should not dare to hope, That heav'n, whose mercy all confess and feel, Will pardon and approve th' alliance wish'd. Perhaps it seats me on the throne of Syria, To tax my pow'r for these good Christians'
Osman. Madam, there was a time when my charm'd heart
Made it a virtue to be lost in love;
When, without blushing, I indulg'd my flame,
And every day still made you dearer to me.
You taught me, madam, to believe my love
Rewarded and return'd; nor was that hope,
Methinks, too bold for reason. Emperors
Who choose to sigh devoted at the feet
Of beauties, whom the world conceive their
slaves,
Have fortune's claim, at least, to sure success:
But 'twere profane to think of power in love.
Dear as my passion makes you, I decline.
Possession of her charms, whose heart's ano-
ther's.
You will not find me a weak, jealous lover, By coarse reproaches, giving pain to you, And shaming my own greatness: wounded deeply,
Yet shunning and disdaining low complaint, I come to tell you
Zara. Give my trembling heart A moment's respite.
Osman. Osman, in every trial, shall remember
That he is emperor. Whate'er I suffer,
"Tis due to honour that I give up you,
And to my injur'd bosom take despair,
Rather than shamefully possess you sighing,
Convinc'd those sighs were never meant for
Go, madam; you are free-from Osman's pow'r :
Expect no wrongs; but see his face no more. Zara. At last 'tis come-the fear'd, the murd'ring moment
Is come; and I am curs'd by earth and heaven! [Throws herself on the Ground. If it is true that I am lov'd. no more;
Thou know'st the mighty Saladine, who first If you-
Conquer'd this empire from my father's race, Ösman. It is true, my fame requires it;
Who, like my Osman, charm'd th' admiring It is too true that I unwilling leave you;
That I at once renounce you and adore-
Drew breath, though Syrian, from a Christian Zara, you weep!
Sel. What mean you, madam? Ah, you do not see
Zara. Yes, yes, I see it all; I am not blind: I see my country, and my race condemn me; I see that, spite of all, I still love Osman. What if I now go throw me at his feet, And tell him there sincerely what I am? Sel. Consider that might cost your brother's life,
Expose the Christians, and betray you all. Zara. You do not know the noble heart of Osman.
Sel. I know him the protector of a faith, Sworn enemy to ours: the more he loves, The less will be permit you to profess
Zara. If I am doom'd to lose you! If I must wander o'er an empty world, Unloving and unlov'd. Oh! yet do justice To the afflicted; do not wrong me doubly. Punish me, if 'tis needful to your peace, But say not I deserv'd it.
But, ah! my heart was never known to Osman. May heav'n, that punishes, for ever hate me, If I regret the loss of aught but you.
What is it love to force yourself to wound The heart you wish to gladden? But I find Lovers least know themselves; for I believ'd That I had taken back the power I gave you; Yet see! you did but weep, and have resum'd me!
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