OFT has the buskin'd Muse, with action mean,
Debas'd the glory of the tragic scene ;
While puny villains, dress'd in purple pride,
With crimes obscene the heaven-born rage beli'd.
To her belongs to mourn the Hero's fate,
To trace the errors of the wise and great;
To mark th' excess of passions too refin'd,
And paint the tumults of a God-like mind;
Where, mix'd with rage, exalted thoughts combine,
And darkest deeds with beauteous colours shine.
Such lights and shades in a well-mingled draught,
By curious touch of artful pencil wrought,
With soft deceit amuse the doubtful eye,
Pleas'd with the conflict of the various dye.
Thus, thro' the following scenes, with sweet surprise,
Virtue and guilt in dread confusion rise ;
And Love and Hate, at once, and Grief and Joy,
Pity and rage, their mingled force employ.
Here the soft Virgin sees, with secret shame,
Her charms excell'd by friendship's purer flame;
Forc'd, with reluctant virtue, to approve
The generous Hero, who rejects her love.
Behold him there with gloomy passions stain'd,
A wife suspected, and an injur'd friend;
Yet such the toil where innocence is caught,
That rash suspicion seems without a fault.
We dread a while, lest beauty should succeed,
And almost wish e'en Virtue's self may bleed.
Mark well the black Revenge, the cruel guile,
The traitor-fiend trampling the lovely spoil,
Of Beauty, Truth, and Innocence oppress'd;
Then let the rage of furies fire your breast.
Yet may his mighty wrongs, his just disdain,
His bleeding country, his lov'd father slain,
His martial pride, your admiration raise,
And crown him with involuntary praise.
Don ALONZO, the Spanish General.
Don CARLOS, his Friend.
Don ALVAREZ, a Courtier.
Don MANUEL, Attendant of Don CARLOS,
ZANGA, a Captive Moor.
LEONORA, ALVAREZ's Daughter,
ISABELLA, the Moor's Mistress.
Zanga. WHETHER first nature, or long want of
Has wrought my mind to this, I cannot tell;
But horrors now are not displeasing to me;
I like this rocking of the battlements.
Rage on, ye winds; burst, clouds, and waters roar !
You bear a just resemblance of my fortune,
And suit the gloomy habit of my soul.
Who's there? My love!
Why have you left my bed?
Your absence more affrights me than the storm.
Zanga. The dead alone, in such a night can rest ; And I indulge my meditation here.
Woman, away: I choose to be alone.
Isabella. I know you do, and therefore will not leave
Excuse me, Zanga, therefore dare not leave you.
Is this a night for walks of contemplation ?
Something unusual hangs upon your heart,
And I will know it; by our loves, I will.
To you I sacrificed my virgin fame;
Ask I too much to share in your distress?
Zanga. In tears? Thou fool! Then hear me, and be plung'd
In hell's abyss, if ever it escape thee.
To strike thee with astonishment at once,
I hate Alonzo. First recover that,
And then thou shalt hear farther.
I own, I thought Alonzo most your friend;
And that he lost the master in that name.
Zanga. Hear then: 'Tis twice three years since that
(Great let me call him, for he conquer'd me)
Made me the captive of his arm in fight :
He slew my father, and threw chains o'er me,
While I, with pious rage, pursu'd revenge :
I then was young: he plac'd me near his person,
And thought me not dishonor'd by his service.
One day (may that returning day be night,
The stain, the curse of each succeeding year!)
For something, or for nothing, in his pride
He struck me; (While I tell it, do I live?)
He smote me on the cheek-I did not stab him;
For that were poor revenge-E'er since, his folly
Has strove to bury it beneath a heap
Of kindnesses, and thinks it is forgot.
Insolent thought! and like a second blow !
Affronts are innocent, where men are worthless;
And such alone can wisely drop revenge.
Isabella. But with more temper, Zanga, tell your story :
To see your strong emotions startles me.
Zanga. Yes, woman, with a temper that befits it.
Has the dark adder venom? So have I,
When trod upon. Proud Spaniard, thou shalt feel me !
For from that day, that day of my dishonour,
I from that day have curs'd the rising sun,
Which never fail'd to tell me of my shame :
I from that day have blest the coming night,
Which promis'd to conceal it; but in vain;
The blow return'd forever in my dream:
Yet on I toil'd, and groan'd for an occasion
Of ample vengeance: None is yet arriv'd.
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