Classic Poem

IRENE.
What dream of sudden power
Has taught my slave the language of command?
Henceforth, be wise, nor hope a second pardon.

MUSTAPHA.
Who calls for pardon from a wretch condemn'd?

IRENE.
Thy look, thy speech, thy action, all is wildness--
Who charges guilt, on me?

MUSTAPHA.
Who charges guilt!
Ask of thy heart; attend the voice of conscience--
Who charges guilt! lay by this proud resentment
That fires thy cheek, and elevates thy mien,
Nor thus usurp the dignity of virtue.
Review this day.

IRENE.
Whate'er thy accusation,
The sultan is my judge.

MUSTAPHA.
That hope is past;
Hard was the strife of justice and of love;
But now 'tis o'er, and justice has prevail'd.
Know'st thou not Cali? know'st thou not Demetrius?

IRENE.
Bold slave, I know them both--I know them traitors.

MUSTAPHA.
Perfidious!--yes--too well thou know'st them traitors.

IRENE.
Their treason throws no stain upon Irene.
This day has prov'd my fondness for the sultan;
He knew Irene's truth.

MUSTAPHA.
The sultan knows it;
He knows, how near apostasy to treason--
But 'tis not mine to judge--I scorn and leave thee.
I go, lest vengeance urge my hand to blood,
To blood too mean to stain a soldier's sabre.
[Exit Mustapha.

IRENE, to her attendants.
Go, blust'ring slave--He has not heard of Murza.
That dext'rous message frees me from suspicion.