These tedious narratives of frozen age
Distract my soul;-despatch thy ling'ring tale;
Say, did a voice from heav'n restrain the tyrant?
Did interposing angels guard her from him?
Just in the moment of impending fate,
Another plund'rer brought the bright Irene;
Of equal beauty, but of softer mien,
Fear in her eye, submission on her tongue,
Her mournful charms attracted his regards,
Disarm'd his rage, and, in repeated visits,
Gain'd all his heart; at length, his eager love
To her transferr'd the offer of a crown.
Nor found again the bright temptation fail?
Trembling to grant, nor daring to refuse,
While heav'n and Mahomet divide her fears,
With coy caresses and with pleasing wiles
She feeds his hopes, and sooths him to delay.
For her, repose is banish'd from the night,
And bus'ness from the day: in her apartments
He lives-
What has the wretch, that has surviv'd his country,
His friends, his liberty, to hazard?
Th' inestimable privilege of breathing!
Important hazard! What's that airy bubble,
When weigh'd with Greece, with virtue, with Aspasia ?-
A floating atom, dust that falls, unheeded,
Into the adverse scale, nor shakes the balance.
At least, this day be calm-If we succeed,
Aspasia's thine, and all thy life is rapture.-
See! Mustapha, the tyrant's minion, comes;
Invest Leontius with his new command;
And wait Abdalla's unsuspected visits :
Remember freedom, glory, Greece, and love.
[Exeunt Demetrius and Leontius.
By what enchantment does this lovely Greek
Hold in her chains the captivated sultan?
He tires his fav'rites with Irene's praise,
And seeks the shades to muse upon
Irene steals, unheeded, from his tongue,
And mingles, unperceiv'd, with ev'ry thought.
Why should the sultan shun the joys of beauty,
Or arm his breast against the force of love?
Love, that with sweet vicissitude relieves
The warriour's labours and the monarch's cares. But, will she yet receive the faith of Mecca?
Those pow'rful tyrants of the female breast,
Fear and ambition, urge her to compliance;
Dress'd in each charm of gay magnificence,
Alluring grandeur courts her to his arms,
Religion calls her from the wish'd embrace,
Paints future joys, and points to distant glories.
Soon will th' unequal contest be decided. Prospects, obscur'd by distance, faintly strike; Each pleasure brightens, at its near approach, And ev'ry danger shocks with double horrour.
How shall I scorn the beautiful apostate!
How will the bright Aspasia shine above her!
Should she, for proselytes are always zealous, With pious warmth receive our prophet's law
Heav'n will contemn the mercenary fervour, Which love of greatness, not of truth, inflames.
Cease, cease thy censures; for the sultan comes Alone, with am'rous haste to seek his love.
Hail! terrour of the monarchs of the world;
Unshaken be thy throne, as earth's firm base;
Live, till the sun forgets to dart his beams,
And weary planets loiter in their courses!
But, Cali, let Irene share thy prayers;
For what is length of days, without Irene?
I come from empty noise, and tasteless pomp,
From crowds, that hide a monarch from himself,
To prove the sweets of privacy and friendship,
And dwell upon the beauties of Irene.
O may her beauties last, unchang'd by time,
As those that bless the mansions of the good!
Each realm, where beauty turns the graceful shape,
Swells the fair breast, or animates the glance,
Adorns my palace with its brightest virgins;
Yet, unacquainted with these soft emotions,
I walk'd superiour through the blaze of charms,
Prais'd without rapture, left without regret.
Why rove I now, when absent from my fair,
From solitude to crowds, from crowds to solitude,
Still restless, till I clasp the lovely maid,
And ease my loaded soul upon her bosom?
Forgive, great sultan, that intrusive duty
Inquires the final doom of Menodorus,
The Grecian counsellor.
MAHOMET.
Go, see him die;
His martial rhet'rick taught the Greeks resistance;
Had they prevail'd, I ne'er had known Irene.
Remote from tumult, in th' adjoining palace,
Thy care shall guard this treasure of my soul:
There let Aspasia, since my fair entreats it,
With converse chase the melancholy moments.
Sure, chill'd with sixty winter camps, thy blood,
At sight of female charms, will glow no more.
These years, unconquer'd Mahomet, demand
Desires more pure, and other cares than love.
Long have I wish'd, before our prophet's tomb,
Το pour my pray'rs for thy successful reign,
To quit the tumults of the noisy camp,
And sink into the silent grave in peace.
What! think of peace, while haughty Scanderbeg,
Elate with conquest, in his native mountains,
Prowls o'er the wealthy spoils of bleeding Turkey!
While fair Hungaria's unexhausted valleys
Pour forth their legions; and the roaring Danube
Rolls half his floods, unheard, through shouting camps!
Nor could'st thou more support a life of sloth
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