When Philip the victorious liv'd, I fought
A-breast with Montmorency and Melun,
D'Estaing, De Neile, and the far-famous Courcy ;-
Names which were then the praise and dread of war!
But what have I to do at Paris now?
I stand upon the brink of the cold grave;
That way my journey lies—to find, I hope,
The King of Kings, and ask the recompence
For all my woes, long-suffer'd for his sake-
You gen'rous witnesses of my last hour,
While I yet live, assist my humble prayers,
And join the resignation of my soul.
Nerestan! Chatillon !-and you, fair mourner!
Whose tears do honour to an old man's sorrows!
Pity a father, the unhappiest sure
That ever felt the hand of angry heaven!
My eyes, though dying, still can furnish tears;
Half my long life they flow'd, and still will flow!
A daughter and three sons, my heart's proud hopes,
Were all torn from me in their tend'rest years-
My friend Chatillon knows, and can remember-
Chat. Would I were able to forget your woe.
Lus. Thou wert a pris'ner with me in Cæsarea,
And there beheld'st my wife and two dear sons
Perish in flames.
Chat. A captive and in fetters,
I could not help 'em.
Lus. I know thou could'st not
Oh, 'twas a dreadful scene! these eyes beheld it-. Husband and father, helpless I beheld it.—
Deny'd the mournful privilege to die!
Oh, my poor children! whom I now deplore;
If ye are saints in Heav'n, as sure ye are,
Look with an eye of pity on that brother,
That sister whom you left !—If I have yet,
Or son or daughter :-for in early chains,
Far from their lost an unassisting father,
I heard that they were sent, with numbers more,
To this seraglio; hence to be dispers'd
In nameless remnants o'er the east, and spread
Our Christian miseries round a faithless world.
Chat. 'Twas true,-For in the horrors of that day,
I snatch'd your infant daughter from her cradle;
"But finding ev'ry hope of flight was vain,
"Scarce had I sprinkled, from a public fountain,
"Those sacred drops which wash the soul from sin,”
When from my bleeding arms, fierce Saracens
Forc'd the lost innocent, who smiling lay,
And pointed, playful, at the swarthy spoilers!
With her, your youngest, then your only son,
Whose little life had reach'd the fourth sad year,
And just giv'n sense to feel his own misfortunes,
Was order'd to this city.
Just at that fatal age, from lost Cæsarea,
Came in that crowd of undistinguish'd Christians.— Lus. You!-came you thence ?-Alas! who knows
Might heretofore have seen my two poor children.
[Looking up.] Hah, Madam! that small ornament you
Its form a stranger to this country's fashion,
How long has it been yours?
Zar. From my first birth, Sir
Ah, what! you seem surpriz'd!-why should this move you?
Lus. Would you confide it to my trembling hands? Zar. To what new wonders am I now reserv'd ? Oh, Sir! what mean you?
Lus. Providence and Heaven!
Oh, failing eyes, deceive ye not my hope?
Can this be possible?—Yes, yes-'tis she!
This little cross-I know it, by sure marks!
Oh! take me, Heav'n! while I can die with joy-
Zar. Oh, do not, Sir, distract me!-rising thoughts, And hopes, and fears, o'erwhelm me!
Has it remain❜d for ever in your hands?
What-both brought captives from Cæsarea hither? Zar. Both, both
"Oh, heaven! have I then found a father ?'; Lus. Their voice! their looks!
The living images of their dear mother!
O God! who see'st my tears, and know'st my thoughts
Do not forsake me at this dawn of hope
Strengthen my heart, too feeble for this joy.
Madam! Nerestan!-Help me, Chatillon! [Rising. Nerestan, hast thou on thy breast a scar,
London Printed for J.Bell. British Library, Strand April 2.1791.
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