« ElőzőTovább »
ASPASIA, IRENE, CALI, ABDALLA.
CALI to ABDALLA, as they advance.
Well may those eyes, that view these heav'nly charms,
For what are pompous titles, proud alliance,
Receive th' impatient sultan to thy arms;
Can Mahomet's imperial hand descend
No regal pageant, deck'd with casual honours,
Courts thee to shake on a dependant throne;
Drives on the tempest of destructive war,
At his dread name the distant mountains shake Their cloudy summits, and the sons of fierceness, That range uncivilized from rock to rock, Distrust th' eternal fortresses of nature,
And wish their gloomy caverns more obscure.
Forbear this lavish pomp of dreadful praise;
Cali, methinks yon waving trees afford
Conduct these queens, Abdalla, to the palace:
How heav'n, in scorn of human arrogance, Commits to trivial chance the fate of nations! While, with incessant thought, laborious man Extends his mighty schemes of wealth and pow'r, And towers and triumphs in ideal greatness; Some accidental gust of opposition
Blasts all the beauties of his new creation,
O'erturns the fabrick of presumptuous reason,
And whelms the swelling architect beneath it.
Had not the breeze untwin'd the meeting boughs, And, through the parted shade, disclos'd the Greeks, Th' important hour had pass'd, unheeded, by,
In all the sweet oblivion of delight,
In all the fopperies of meeting lovers;
In sighs and tears, in transports and embraces,
CALI, DEMETRIUS, LEONTIUS.
Could omens fright the resolute and wise,
Your artful suit, your monarch's fierce denial,
And your new charge, that dear, that heav'nly maid
All this we know already from Abdalla.
Such slight defeats but animate the brave
My doom confirm'd establishes my purpose.
The loudest cries of nature urge us forward;
What passions reign among thy crew, Leontius?
All there is hope, and gaiety, and courage,
Swift let us rush upon the careless tyrant,
Then let us now resolve, nor idly waste
But see, where destin'd to protract our counsels,
I see the gloom, that low'rs upon thy brow; These days of love and pleasure charm not thee; Too slow these gentle constellations roll;
Thou long'st for stars, that frown on human kind, And scatter discord from their baleful beams.
How blest art thou, still jocund and serene,
Sure, by some wond'rous sympathy of souls,
The sultan comes, impatient for his love;
Now, Mustapha, pursue thy tale of horrour.