Nathan the Wise; a dramatic poem in five acts. Gotthold Ephraim Lessing

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      Why yes; a man indeed had furnished us

      With more occasions to be useful to him.

      God knows how readily we should have seized them.

      But then he would have nothing—wanted nothing—

      Was in himself wrapped up, and self-sufficient,

      As angels are.

         And when at last he vanished—

      Vanished?  How vanished?  Underneath the palms

      Escaped your view, and has returned no more.

      Or have you really sought for him elsewhere?

      No, that indeed we’ve not.

         Not, Daya, not?

      See it does harm, hard-hearted, cold enthusiasts,

      What if this angel on a bed of illness—

      Illness?

         Ill! sure he is not.

         A cold shudder

      Creeps over me; O Daya, feel my forehead,

      It was so warm, ’tis now as chill as ice.

      He is a Frank, unused to this hot climate,

      Is young, and to the labours of his calling,

      To fasting, watching, quite unused—

         Ill—ill!

      Thy father only means ’twere possible.

      And there he lies, without a friend, or money

      To buy him friends—

         Alas! my father.

         Lies

      Without advice, attendance, converse, pity,

      The prey of agony, of death—

         Where—where?

      He, who, for one he never knew, or saw—

      It is enough for him he is a man—

      Plunged into fire.

         O Nathan, Nathan, spare her.

      Who cared not to know aught of her he saved,

      Declined her presence to escape her thanks—

      Do, spare her!

         Did not wish to see her more

      Unless it were a second time to save her—

      Enough for him he is a man—

         Stop, look!

      He—he, in death, has nothing to console him,

      But the remembrance of this deed.

         You kill her!

      And you kill him—or might have done at least—

      Recha ’tis medicine I give, not poison.

      He lives—come to thyself—may not be ill—

      Not even ill—

         Surely not dead, not dead.

      Dead surely not—for God rewards the good

      Done here below, here too.  Go; but remember

      How easier far devout enthusiasm is

      Than a good action; and how willingly

      Our indolence takes up with pious rapture,

      Tho’ at the time unconscious of its end,

      Only to save the toil of useful deeds.

      Oh never leave again thy child alone!—

      But can he not be only gone a journey?

      Yes, very likely.  There’s a Mussulman

      Numbering with curious eye my laden camels,

      Do you know who he is?

         Oh, your old dervis.

      Who—who?

         Your chess companion.

            That, Al-Hafi?

      And now the treasurer of Saladin.

      Al-Hafi?  Are you dreaming?  How was this?

      In fact it is so.  He seems coming hither.

      In with you quick.—What now am I to hear?

      Aye, lift thine eyes in wonder.

         Is it you?

      A dervis so magnificent!—

         Why not?

      Can nothing then be made out of a dervis?

      Yes, surely; but I have been wont to think

      A dervis, that’s to say a thorough dervis,

      Will allow nothing to be made of him.

      May-be ’tis true that I’m no thorough dervis;

      But by the prophet, when we must—

         Must, Hafi?

      Needs must—belongs to no man: and a dervis—

      When he is much besought, and thinks it right,

      A dervis must.

         Well spoken, by our God!

      Embrace me, man, you’re still, I trust, my friend.

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