IRENE walks at a distance from her attendants.]
After a pause.
Against the head, which innocence secures,
Insidious malice aims her darts in vain, [Heav'n.
Turn'd backwards by the pow'rful breath of
Perhaps even now the lovers unpursu'd
Bound o'er the sparkling waves. Go, happy bark,
Thy sacred freight shall still the raging main.
To guide thy passage shall th' aerial spirits
Fill all the starry lamps with double blaze;
Th' applauding sky shall pour forth all its beams,
To grace the triumph of victorious virtue;
While I, not yet familiar to my crimes,
Recoil from thought, and shudder at myself.
How am I chang'd! How lately did Irene
Fly from the busy pleasures of her sex, [brance,
Well pleas'd to search the treasures of remem
And live her guiltless moments o'er anew!
Come, let us seek new pleasures in the palace,
[To her attendants going off.
Till soft fatigue invite us to repose.
SCENE VII.
Now make thy choice, while yet the pow'r of [Enter MUSTAPHA, meeting and stopping ber.]
Kind Heav'n affords thee, and inviting mercy Holds out her hand to lead thee back to truth.
Could we reverse the sentence of the sultan,
Our bleeding bosoms plead Irene's cause.
Quick at my call, shall execute your charge;
Dispatch, and learn a fitter time for pity.
Grant me one hour, O grant me but a moment
And bounteous Heav'n repay the mighty mercy
With peaceful death, and happiness eternal.
The prayer I cannot grant—I dare not hear.
Short be thy pains. [Signs again to the Mutes.
Unutterable anguish ! Guilt and Despair, pale spectres! grin around
And stun me with the yellings of damnation!
O, hear my pray'rs! accept, all-pitying Heav'n,
These tears, these pangs, these last remains of
Nor let the crimes of this detested day [life;
Be charg'd upon my soul. O, mercy! mercy!
[Mutes force her out.
Safe in her death, and in Demetrius's flight,
Abdalla, bid thy troubled breast be calm.
Now shalt thou shine the darling of the sultan,
The plot all Cali's, the detection thine,
Does not thy bosom (for I know thee tender,
A stranger to th' oppressor's savage joy)
Melt at Irene's fate, and share her woes?
Her piercing cries yet fill the loaded air,
Dwell on my ear, and sadden all my soul.
But let us try to clear our clouded brows,
And tell the horrid tale with cheerful face;
The stormy sultan rages at our stay.
Frame your report with circumspective art:
Inflame her crimes, exalt your own obedience :
But let no thoughtless hint involve Abdalla.
What need of caution to report the fate
Of her the sultan's voice condemn'd to die?
Or why should he, whose violence of duty
Has serv'd his prince so well, demand our si-
lence?
Perhaps my zeal too fierce betray'd my prudence ;
But cries and tears are vain; prepare with pa- Perhaps I will not stoop to plead my cause,
Perhaps my warmth exceeded my commission;
And, if one varied accent prove thy falsehood,
Or but one moment's pause betray confusion,
Those trembling limbs-Speak out, thou shiv'ring
traitor.
Who? the dead Irene ? Was she then guiltless! has my thoughtless
Destroy'd the fairest workmanship of Heav'n!
Dooin'd her to death unpity'd and unheard,
Amidst her kind solicitudes for me!
Ye slaves of cruelty, ye tools of rage,
[To Has. and Car.
[der?
Ye blind officious ministers of folly,
Could not her charms repress your zeal for mur-
Could not her pray'rs, her innocence, her tears,
Suspend the dreadful sentence for an hour?
One hour had freed me from the fatal errour!
One hour had sav'd me from despair and mad-
Your fierce impatience forc'd us from your pre
Urg'd us to speed, and bade us banish pity, Nor trust our passions with her fatal charms.
What hadst thou lost by slighting those commands?
Thy life perhaps-Were but Irene spar'd,
Well if a thousand lives like thine had perish'd;
Such beauty, sweetness, love, were cheaply
bought
With half the grov'ling slaves that load the globe.
Great is thy woe! But think, illustrious sultan,
Such ills are sent for souls like thine to conquer.
Shake off this weight of unavailing grief,
Rush to the war, display thy dreadful banners,
And lead thy troops victorious round the world.
MAHOMET. Robb'd of the maid with whom I wish'd to triumph,
No more I burn for fame, or for dominion; Success and conquest now are empty sounds, Remorse and auguish seize on all my breast; Those groves, whose shades embower'd the dear
Heard her last cries, and fann'd her dying beau.
Shall hide me from the tasteless world for ever.
[Mahomet goes back and returns.
Yet, ere I quit the sceptre of dominion,
Let one just act conclude the hateful day.
Hew down, ye guards, those vassals of distraction,
[Painting to Hasan and Caraza.
Those hounds of blood, that catch the hint to
Bear off with eager haste th' unfinish'd sentence, And speed the stroke, lest mercy should o'ertake them.
Then hear, great Mahomet, the voice of truth.
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