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 passion 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 passion. [_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 w