Nathan the Wise | Page 7

NATHAN.
I was imagining what strange impressions This conduct makes on such
a mind as Recha's. Disdained by one whom she must feel compelled To
venerate and to esteem so highly. At once attracted and repelled--the
combat Between her head and heart must yet endure, Regret,
Resentment, in unusual struggle. Neither, perhaps, obtains the upper
hand, And busy fancy, meddling in the fray, Weaves wild enthusiasms
to her dazzled spirit, Now clothing Passion in the garb of Reason, And
Reason now in Passion's--do I err? This last is Recha's fate--Romantic
notions -
DAYA.
Aye; but such pious, lovely, sweet, illusions.
NATHAN.
Illusions though.

DAYA.
Yes: and the one, her bosom Clings to most fondly, is, that the brave
templar Was but a transient inmate of the earth, A guardian angel, such
as from her childhood She loved to fancy kindly hovering round her,
Who from his veiling cloud amid the fire Stepped forth in her
preserver's form. You smile - Who knows? At least beware of
banishing So pleasing an illusion--if deceitful Christian, Jew,
Mussulman, agree to own it, And 'tis--at least to her--a dear illusion.
NATHAN.
Also to me. Go, my good Daya, go, See what she's after. Can't I speak
with her? Then I'll find out our untamed guardian angel, Bring him to
sojourn here awhile among us - We'll pinion his wild wing, when once
he's taken.
DAYA.
You undertake too much.
NATHAN.
And when, my Daya, This sweet illusion yields to sweeter truth, (For to
a man a man is ever dearer Than any angel) you must not be angry To
see our loved enthusiast exercised.
DAYA.
You are so good--and yet so sly. I'll seek her, But listen,--yes! she's
coming of herself.
NATHAN, DAYA, and RECHA.
RECHA.
And you are here, your very self, my father, I thought you'd only sent
your voice before you. Where are you then? What mountains, deserts,
torrents, Divide us now? You see me, face to face, And do not hasten to
embrace your Recha. Poor Recha! she was almost burnt alive, But
only--only--almost. Do not shudder! O 'tis a horrid end to die in fire!
NATHAN (embracing her).
My child, my darling child!
RECHA.
You had to cross The Jordan, Tigris, and Euphrates, and Who knows
what rivers else. I used to tremble And quake for you, till the fire came
so nigh me; Since then, methinks 'twere comfort, balm, refreshment, To
die by water. But you are not drowned - I am not burnt alive.--We will
rejoice - We will praise God--the kind good God, who bore thee, Upon

the buoyant wings of UNSEEN angels, Across the treacherous
stream--the God who bade My angel VISIBLY on his white wing
Athwart the roaring flame -
NATHAN (aside).
White wing?--oh, aye The broad white fluttering mantle of the templar.
RECHA.
Yes, visibly he bore me through the fire, O'ershadowed by his
pinions.--Face to face I've seen an angel, father, my own angel.
NATHAN.
Recha deserves it, and would see in him No fairer form than he beheld
in her,
RECHA.
Whom are you flattering, father--tell me now - The angel, or yourself?
NATHAN.
Yet had a man, A man of those whom Nature daily fashions, Done you
this service, he to you had seemed, Had been an angel.
RECHA.
No, not such a one. Indeed it was a true and real angel. And have not
you yourself instructed me How possible it is there may be angels; That
God for those who love him can work miracles - And I do love him,
father -
NATHAN.
And he thee; And both for thee, and all like thee, my child, Works daily
wonders, from eternity Has wrought them for you.
RECHA.
That I like to hear.
NATHAN.
Well, and although it sounds quite natural, An every day event, a
simple story, That you was by a real templar saved, Is it the less a
miracle? The greatest Of all is this, that true and real wonders Should
happen so perpetually, so daily. Without this universal miracle A
thinking man had scarcely called those such, Which only children,
Recha, ought to name so, Who love to gape and stare at the unusual
And hunt for novelty -
DAYA.
Why will you then With such vain subtleties, confuse her brain Already
overheated?

NATHAN.
Let me manage. - And is it not enough then for my Recha To owe her
preservation to a man, Whom no small miracle preserved himself. For
whoe'er heard before that Saladin Let go a templar; that a templar
wished it, Hoped it, or for his ransom offered more Than taunts, his
leathern sword-belt, or his dagger?
RECHA.
That makes for me; these are so many reasons He was no real knight,
but only seemed it. If in Jerusalem no captive templar, Appears