The Universal Reciter Part 7

ZAP. I will not, Othman; Or, if I do, with bitter imprecation More keen than poison shot from serpents' tongues, I'll pour my curses on him.

OTH. Will Zaphira Thus meanly sink in woman's fruitless rage, When she should wake revenge?

ZAP. Revenge!--O, tell me-- Tell, me but how?--What can a helpless woman?

OTH. (C.). Gain but the tyrant's leave, and seek thy father; Pour thy complaints before him; let thy wrongs Kindle his indignation to pursue This vile usurper, till unceasing war Blast his ill-gotten pow'r.

ZAP. (L.C.). Ah! say'st thou, Othman?

Thy words have shot like lightning through my frame, And all my soul's on fire!--thou faithful friend!

Yes, with more gentle speech I'll soothe his pride; Regain my freedom; reach my father's tents; There paint my countless woes. His kindling rage Shall wake the valleys into honest vengeance; The sudden storm shall pour on Barbarossa, And ev'ry glowing warrior steep his shaft In deadlier poison, to revenge my wrongs! (_crosses to_ R.)

OTH. (C.). There spoke the queen.--But, as thou lov'st thy freedom, Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle, And pa.s.sion mount in flames that will consume thee.

ZAP. (R.). My murder'd son!--Yes, to revenge thy death, I'll speak a language which my heart disdains.

OTH. Peace, peace,!--the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen, Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge, And check each rising pa.s.sion. [_Exit_ OTHMAN, R.

_Enter_ BARBAROSSA, L.

BAR. (L.). Hail sovereign fair! in whom Beauty and majesty conspire to charm: Behold the conqu'ror.

ZAP. (R.C.) O, Barbarossa, No more the pride of conquest e'er can charm My widow'd heart. With my departed lord My love lies buried!

Then turn thee to some happier fair, whose heart May crown thy growing love with love sincere; For I have none to give.

BAR. Love ne'er should die: 'Tis the soul's cordial--'tis the font of life; Therefore should spring eternal in the breast.

One object lost, another should succeed, And all our life be love.

ZAP. Urge me no more.--Thou mightst with equal hope Woo the cold marble, weeping o'er a tomb, To meet thy wishes. But, if generous love (_approaches him._) Dwell in thy breast, vouchsafe me proof sincere: Give me safe convoy to the native vales Of dear Mutija, where my father reigns.

BAR. O, blind to proffer'd bliss!--What! fondly quit This pomp Of empire for an Arab's wand'ring tent, Where the mock chieftain leads his vagrant tribes From plain to plain, and faintly shadows out The majesty of kings!--Far other joys Here shall attend thy call: Submissive realms Shall bow the neck; and swarthy kings and Queens, From the far-distant Niger and the Nile, Drawn captive at my conqu'ring chariot wheels, Shall kneel before thee.

ZAP. Pomp and pow'r are toys, Which e'en the mind at ease may well disdain: But oh! what mockery is the tinsel pride Of splendour, when the mind Lies desolate within!--Such, such is mine!

O'erwhelm'd with ills, and dead to ev'ry joy; Envy me not this last request, to die In my dear father's tents.

BAR. Thy suit is vain.

ZAP. Thus, kneeling at thy feet--(_kneels._)

BAR. Thou thankless fair! (_raises_ ZAPHIRA.) Thus to repay the labours of my love!

Had I not seiz'd the throne when Selim died, Ere this thy foes had laid Algiers in ruin.

I check'd the warring pow'rs, and gave you peace, Make thee but mine, I will descend the throne, and call thy son From banishment to empire.

ZAP. O, my heart!

Can I bear this?

Inhuman tyrant!--curses on thy head!

May dire remorse and anguish haunt thy throne, And gender in thy bosom fell despair,-- Despair as deep as mine! (_crosses to_ L.)

BAR. (R.C.). What means Zaphira?

What means this burst of grief?

ZAP. (L.). Thou fell destroyer!

Had not guilt steel'd thy heart, awak'ning conscience Would flash conviction on thee, and each look, Shot from these eyes, be arm'd with serpent horrors, To turn thee into stone!--Relentless man!

Who did the b.l.o.o.d.y deeds--O, tremble, guilt, Where'er thou art!--Look on me; tell me, tyrant, Who slew my blameless son?

BAR. What envious tongue Hath dar'd to taint my name with slander?

Thy Selim lives; nay, more, he soon shall reign, If thou consent to bless me.

ZAP. Never, O, never!--Sooner would I roam An unknown exile through the torrid climes Of Afric--sooner dwell with wolves and tigers, Than mount with thee my murder'd Selim's throne!

BAR. Rash queen, forbear; think on thy captive state, Remember, that within these palace walls I am omnipotent. Yield thee, then; Avert the gath'ring horrors that surround thee, And dread my pow'r incens'd.

ZAP. Dares thy licentious tongue pollute mine ear With that foul menace? Tyrant! dread'st thou not Th' all-seeing eye of heav'n, its lifted thunder, And all the red'ning vengeance which it stores For crimes like thine?--Yet know, Zaphira scorns thee.

[_crosses to_ R.

Though robb'd by thee of ev'ry dear support, No tyrant's threat can awe the free-born soul, That greatly dares to die. [_Exit_ ZAPHIRA, R.

BAR. (C.). Where should she learn the tale of Selim's death?

Could Othman dare to tell it?--If he did, My rage shall sweep him swifter than the whirlwind, To instant death! [_Exit._

(R.) Right. (L.) Left. (C.) Centre. (R.C.) Right Centre. (L.C.) Left Centre.

THE MILLS OF G.o.d.

DUGANNE.

Apart from the n.o.ble sentiments of these verses, and their exquisite diction--in which every word is the best that could possibly be used--as in a piece of faultless mosaic every minute stone is so placed as to impart strength, brilliancy, and harmony--they afford an excellent example of lofty, dignified recitation:

Those mills of G.o.d! those tireless mills!

I hear their ceaseless throbs and thrills: I see their dreadful stones go round, And all the realms beneath them ground; And lives of men and souls of states, Flung out, like chaff, beyond their gates.

And we, O G.o.d! with impious will, Have made these Negroes turn Thy mill!

Their human limbs with chains we bound, And bade them whirl Thy mill-stones round; With branded brow and fettered wrist, We bade them grind this Nation's grist!

And so, like Samson--blind and bound-- Our Nation's grist this Negro ground; And all the strength of Freedom's toil, And all the fruits of Freedom's soil, And all her hopes and all her trust, From Slavery's gates were flung, like dust.

With servile souls this mill we fed, That ground the grain for Slavery's bread; With cringing men, and grovelling deeds, We dwarfed our land to Slavery's needs; Till all the scornful nations hissed, To see us ground with Slavery's grist.

The mill grinds on! From Slavery's plain, We reap great crops of blood-red grain; And still the Negro's strength we urge, With Slavery's gyve and Slavery's scourge; And still we crave--on Freedom's sod-- That Slaves shall turn the mills of G.o.d!

The Mill grinds on! G.o.d lets it grind!

We sow the seed--the sheaves we bind: The mill-stones whirl as we ordain; Our children's bread shall test the grain!

While Samson still in chains we bind, The mill grinds on! G.o.d lets it grind!