I should have thought, Come what come may, that thy resource remained: But I’ll consider of it. Stay.
Consider— No; such things must not be considered.
Stay: Till I have seen the sultan—till you’ve had—
He, who considers, looks about for motives To forbear daring. He, who can’t resolve In storm and sunshine to himself to live, Must live the slave of others all his life. But as you please; farewell! ’tis you who choose. My path lies yonder—and yours there—
Al-Hafi, Stay then; at least you’ll set things right—not leave them At sixes and at sevens—
Farce! Parade! The balance in the chest will need no telling. And my account—Sittah, or you, will vouch. Farewell.
Yes I will vouch it. Honest, wild— How shall I call you—Ah! the real beggar Is, after all, the only real monarch.
What, Daya, did my father really say I might expect him, every instant, here? That meant—now did it not? he would come soon. And yet how many instants have rolled by!— But who would think of those that are elapsed?— To the next moment only I’m alive.— At last the very one will come that brings him.
But for the sultan’s ill-timed message, Nathan Had brought him in.
And when this moment comes, And when this warmest inmost of my wishes Shall be fulfilled, what then? what then?
What then? Why then I hope the warmest of my wishes Will have its turn, and happen.
’Stead of this, What wish shall take possession of my bosom, Which now without some ruling wish of wishes Knows not to heave? Shall nothing? ah, I shudder.
Yes: mine shall then supplant the one fulfilled— My wish to see thee placed one day in Europe In hands well worthy of thee.
No, thou errest— The very thing that makes thee form this wish Prevents its being mine. The country draws thee, And shall not mine retain me? Shall an image, A fond remembrance of thy home, thy kindred, Which years and distance have not yet effaced, Be mightier o’er thy soul, than what I hear, See, feel, and hold, of mine.
’Tis vain to struggle— The ways of heaven are the ways of heaven. Is he the destined saviour, by whose arm His God, for whom he fights, intends to lead thee Into the land, which thou wast born for—
Daya, What art thou prating of? My dearest Daya, Indeed thou hast some strange unseemly notions. “_His_ God—_for_ whom he fights”—what is a God Belonging to a man—needing another To fight his battles? And can we pronounce _For_ which among the scattered clods of earth You, I was born; unless it be for that _On_ which we were produced. If Nathan heard thee— What has my father done to thee, that thou Hast ever sought to paint my happiness As lying far remote from him and his. What has he done to thee that thus, among The seeds of reason, which he sowed unmixed, Pure in my soul, thou ever must be seeking To plant the weeds, or flowers, of thy own land. He wills not of these pranking gaudy blossoms Upon this soil. And I too must acknowledge I feel as if they had a sour-sweet odour, That makes me giddy—that half suffocates. Thy head is wont to bear it. I don’t blame Those stronger nerves that can support it. Mine— Mine it behoves not. Latterly thy angel Had made me half a fool. I am ashamed, Whene’er I see my father, of the folly.