Not the unhappy; every place alike
Gives the distress'd a privilege to enter. [Exit Orasmin.
I think with horror on these dreadful maxims,
Which barden kings insensibly to tyrants.
Re-enter ORASMIN, with NERESTAN.
Ner. Imperial sultan! honour'd ev'n by foes!
See me return'd, regardful of my vow,
And punctual to discharge a Christian's duty.
1 bring the ransom of the captive Zara,
Fair Selima, the partner of her fortune,
And of ten Christian captives, pris'ners here.
You promis'd, sultan, if I should return,
To grant their rated liberty; behold
I am return'd, and they are yours no more.
I would have stretch'd my purpose to myself,
But fortune has deny'd it; my poor all
Suffic'd no further, and a noble poverty
Is now my whole possession. I redeem
The promis'd Christians; for I taught 'em hope:
But, for myself, I come again your slave,
To wait the fuller hand of future charity.
Osman. Christian! I must confess thy courage charins
But let thy pride be taught it treads too high,
When it presumes to climb above my mercy.
Go ransomless thyself, and carry back
Their unaccepted ransoms, join'd with gifts,
Fit to reward thy purpose: instead of ten,
Demand a hundred Christians; they are thine:
Take 'em, and bid 'em teach their haughty country,
They left some virtue among Saracens.
Be Lusignan alone excepted. He
Who boasts the blood of kings, and dares lay claim
To my Jerusalem-that claim, his guilt!
I mourn his lot,
Who must in fetters, lost to day-light, pine
And sigh away old age in grief and pain.
For Zara-but to name her as a captive,
Were to dishonour language; she's a prize
Above thy purchase: all the Christian realms,
With all their kings to guide 'em, would unite
In vain, to force her from me. Go, retire.
Ner. For Zara's ransom, with her own consent,
I had your royal word. For Lusignan-
Unhappy, poor old man-
Osman. Was I not heard?
Have I not told thee, Christian, all my will?
What, if I prais'd thee! This presumptuous virtue,
Compelling my esteem, provokes my pride;
Be gone; and when to-morrow's sun shall rise,
On my dominions be not found-too near me.
Zara. Assist him, heaven! Osman. Zara, relire a moment. Assume, throughout my palace, sovereign empire, While I give orders to prepare the pomp That waits to crown thee mistress of my throne. [Leads her out, and returns. Orasmin! didst thou mark th' imperious slave? What could he mean?-he sigh'd-and, as he went, Turn'd and look'd back at Zara!-didst thou mark it? Oras. Alas! my sovereign master! let not jealousy Strike high enough to reach your noble heart. Osman. Jealousy, saidst thou? I disdain it. No! Distrust is poor; and a misplac'd suspicion Invites and justifies the falsehood fear'd. Yet, as I love with warmth, so I could hate! But Zara is above disguise and art. Jealous! I was not jealous! If I was, I am not-no-my heart-but, let us drown Remembrance of the word, and of the image; My heart is fill'd with a diviner flame. Go, and prepare for the approaching nuptials. I must allot one hour to thoughts of state, Then all the smiling day is love and Zara's.
Monarchs, by forms of pompous misery press'd, [Exit Orasmin. In proud, unsocial misery, unbless'd,
Would, but for love's soft influence, curse their throne, And, among crowded millions, live alone.
Enter NERESTAN and CHATILLON.
Cha. Matchless Nerestan! generous and great!
You, who have broke the chains of hopeless slaves!
Appear, be known, enjoy your due delight;
The grateful weepers wait to clasp your knees;
They throng to kiss the happy hand that sav'd 'em!
Indulge the kind impatience of their eyes,
And, at their head, command their hearts for ever.
Ner. Illustrious Chatillon! this praise o'erwhelms me;
What have I done beyond a Christian's duty,
Beyond what you would, in my place, have done?
Cha. True-it is every honest Christian's duty;
Nay, 'tis the blessing of such minds as ours,
For others' good to sacrifice our own.
Yet, happy they, to whom heav'n grants the power
To execute, like you, that duty's call.
For us, the relics of abandon'd war,
Forgot in France, and in Jerusalem,
Left to grow old in fetters, Osman's father
Consign'd us to the gloom of a damp dungeon,
Where, but for you, we must have groan'd out life,
And native France have bless'd our eyes no more.
Ner. The will of gracious heav'n, that soften'd Osman,
Inspir'd me for your sakes: but with our joy
Flows, mix'd, a bitter sadness. I had hop'd
To save from their perversion, a young beauty,
Who, in her infant innocence, with me,
Was made a slave by cruel Noradin;
When, sprinkling Syria with the blood of Christians,
Cæsarea's walls saw Lusignan surpris'd,
And the proud crescent rise in bloody triumph.
From this seraglio having young escap❜d,
Fate, three years since, restor'd me to my chains
Then, sent to Paris on my plighted faith,
I flatter'd my fond hope with vain resolves,
To guide the lovely Zara to that court,
Where Lewis has establish'd virtue's throne:
But Osman will detain her-yet, not Osman;
Zara herself forgets she is a Christian,
And loves the tyrant sultan! Let that pass:
I mourn a disappointment still more cruel;
The prop of all our Christian hope is lost.
Cha. Dispose me at your will; I am your own.
Ner. Oh, sir, great Lusignan, so long their captive,
That last of an heroic race of kings;
That warrior, whose past fame has fill'd the world,
Osman refuses to my sighs for ever.
Cha. Nay, then we have been all redeem'd in vain;
Perish that soldier who would quit his chains,
And leave his noble chief behind in fetters.
Alas! you know him not as I have known him:
Thank heav'n, that plac'd your birth so far remov'd
From those detested days of blood and woe:
But I, less happy, was condemn'd to see
Thy walls, Jerusalem, beat down, and all
Our pious fathers' labours lost in ruins!
Heav'n! had you seen the very temple rifled,
The sacred sepulchre itself profan'd,
Fathers with children mingi'd, flame together,
And our last king, oppress'd with age and arms,
Murder'd, and bleeding o'er his murder'd sons!
Then Lusignan, sole remnant of his race,
Rallying our fated few amidst the flames,
Fearless, beneath the crush of falling towers,
The conqu'rors and the conquer'd, groans and death!
Dreadful and waving in his hand a sword,
Red with the blood of infidels, cry'd out,
"This way, ye faithful Christians! follow me!"
Ner. How full of glory was that brave retreat!
Cha. "Twas heav'n, no doubt, that sav'd and led him
Pointed his path, and march'd our guardian guide:
We reach'd Cæsarea-there the general voice
Chose Lusignan, thenceforth to give us laws.
Alas! 'twas vain; Cæsarea could not stand
When Sion's self was fallen! we were betray'd;
And Lusignan condemn'd to length of life,
In chains, in damps, and darkness, and despair.
Ner. Oh! I should hate the liberty he shar'd not.
I knew too well the miseries you describe,
For I was born amidst them. Chains and death,
Cæsarea lost, and Saracens triumphant,
Were the first objects which my eyes e'er look'd on.
Hurried, an infant, among other infants,
Snatch'd from the bosoms of their bleeding mothers,
A temple sav'd us, till the slaughter ceas'd;
Then were we sent to this ill-fated city;
Here, in the palace of our former kings,
To learn from Saracens their hated faith,
And be completely wretched. Zara, too,
Shar'd this captivity; we both grew up
So near each other, that a tender friendship
Endear'd her to my wishes: my fond heart-
Pardon its weakness, bleeds to see her lost,
And, for a barbarous tyrant, quit her God!
Cha. Such is the Saracens too fatal policy;
Watchful seducers still of infant weakness!
But let us think: may not this Zara's int'rest,
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