Produced by David Starner, Brownfox and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
TRANSCRIBERS' NOTES
This e-book contains the text of _The Prince of Parthia_, extracted from
Representative Plays by American Dramatists: Vol 1, 1765-1819. Comments and
background to all the plays and the other plays are available at Project
Gutenberg.
Spelling as in the original has been preserved.
THE
PRINCE OF PARTHIA
_A TRAGEDY_
THOMAS GODFREY, JR. (1736-1763)
Thomas Godfrey, Jr., was born in Philadelphia, on December 4, 1736,
the son of a man who himself won fame as an inventor of the Quadrant.
Godfrey, Senior, was a friend of Benjamin Franklin, the two probably
having been drawn together by their common interest in science. When
Godfrey, Senior, died, December, 1749, it was Franklin who wrote his
obituary notice.[1]
Young Godfrey was a student at the College or Academy of Philadelphia,
and when his education was completed, he became apprenticed to a
watch-maker, remaining in that profession until 1758. As a student at
the Academy, he came under the special influence of Dr. William Smith,
the first Principal or Provost of that institution,[2] and it was Dr.
Smith who not only obtained for Godfrey a lieutenancy with the
Pennsylvania troops in 1758, which sent him in the expedition against
Fort Duquesne, but who, likewise, as the Editor of _The American
Magazine_, was only too glad to accept and publish some of Godfrey's
poetical effusions.
That the young man was popular, and that he associated with some of
the most promising figures of the time, will be seen from the fact
that, although he was only twenty-seven when he died, he was counted
among the friends of Benjamin West and John Green, both portrait
painters, of Francis Hopkinson, who was a student at the College of
Philadelphia, and of Nathaniel Evans, a young minister whose loyalty
found outlet after Godfrey's death in the Memorial Edition of
Godfrey's works. Evans himself wrote poems and dialogues. In his
confirmation of the fact that, as a poet, Godfrey was regarded
favourably by the Philadelphians of the time, he quotes from the diary
of one Miss Sarah Eve, who referred to him as "our poet."
Godfrey's reputation, as a young man with musical talents and a
decided taste for painting, has come down to us. Certain it is that,
during all of this time of varied occupation as a watch-maker and a
soldier, he must have been courting the poetic Muse. There are some
who speculate, without authority, on his having been a theatre-goer,
and having become inspired as a playwright by the work of the American
Company, in Philadelphia; especially by the good work of Douglass.
Because of insufficient evidence, that is a question which remains
unproven. Nevertheless, it is certain, from an extant letter written
by Godfrey on November 17, 1759, and quoted by Seilhamer, that he must
have had his attention turned to playwriting as a special art. He says
to his correspondent, writing from North Carolina:
By the last vessel from this place, I sent you the copy of a
tragedy I finished here, and desired your interest in bringing
it on the stage; I have not yet heard of the vessel's safe
arrival, and believe if she is safe it will be too late for the
company now in Philadelphia. [Meaning, of course, Douglass's
company.]
There are two facts to be noted in this communication: first, that it
was written from North Carolina, where, in 1759, Godfrey had gone on
some plantation business--probably as factor; and second, that it must
have been penned with the idea of immediate production by the actors
in Philadelphia. According to Seilhamer, Godfrey remained in North
Carolina for three years. He did not write the entire manuscript of
"The Prince of Parthia" while living in the South but, as he
definitely states in his letter, finished it soon after his arrival.
There is no evidence as to why Godfrey sailed to the Island of New
Providence in the last year of his life, and then returned to
Wilmington, N.C. There is no definite statement as to whether he
contracted fever and had a sunstroke on that expedition, or after his
return home. But, nevertheless, he did contract the fever and have a
sunstroke; with the result that he succumbed to his illness, and died
near Wilmington, North Carolina, on August 3, 1763.[3]
After his death, Godfrey's friends decided among themselves that the
young man was too much of a genius for them to allow his productions
to remain scattered and unrecognized. Evidently, correspondence
regarding this must have taken place between Dr. Smith, Nathaniel
Evans, the young minister, and John Green, the portrait painter. For,
in 1765, a book was published, entitled "Juvenile Poems on Various
Subjects, with the Prince of Parthia," printed in Philadelphia by one
Henry Miller.[4] The volume contained a life written by Evans, a
critical estimate written by Dr. Smith, of the College of
Philadelphia, and an Elegy from the pen of John Green, who had been
previously complimented by Godfrey in a poem entitled "A Night Piece."
The whole spirit of the publication was one of friendly devotion and
of firm belief in the permanency of Godfrey's position in the literary
world. As was the custom of the time, the Edition was issued under the
patronage of subscribers, a list being included. We know, for example,
that Benjamin Franklin subscribed for twelve copies, his own private,
autographed copy having been put on sale a few years ago.
As yet, no concerted effort had been made for the production of
Godfrey's "The Prince of Parthia." We do not know if, during this
time, the American Company had any claim on the manuscript, or
whether, after Godfrey's death, it was again submitted to the
theatrical people. But this much we do know, that, very hastily, the
American Company, headed by David Douglass, who was playing at the
Southwark Theatre in Philadelphia, decided that they would put on "The
Prince of Parthia" in place of "The Disappointment; or, the Force of
Credulity," a comic opera which will be noted in my introduction to
John Leacock's "The Fall of British Tyranny." This musical piece had
actually been put into rehearsal in 1767, when it was withdrawn.
Immediately, the _Pennsylvania Journal and Weekly Advertiser_ for
April 23, 1767, contained an advertisement of the forthcoming
production; it ran as follows:
By Authority./Never Performed before./By the American
Company,/at the New Theatre, in Southwark,/On Friday, the
Twenty-fourth of April, will be/presented, A Tragedy written by
the late ingenious/Mr. _Thomas Godfrey_, of this city, called
the/Prince of Parthia./The Principal Characters by Mr.
Hallam,/Mr. Douglass, Mr. Wall, Mr. Morris,/Mr. Allyn, Mr.
Tomlinson, Mr. Broad/belt, Mr. Greville, Mrs. Douglass,/Mrs.
Morris, Miss Wainwight, and/Miss Cheer./To which will be added,
A Ballad Opera called/The Contrivances./To begin exactly at
_Seven o'clock_.--_Vivant Rex & Regina._/
In the _Pennsylvania Gazette_, for the same date, appears an
advertisement, without the cast of characters.
The production occurred on April 24, 1767.
Seilhamer gives a probable cast of characters, although only the list
of actors is given in the advertisement. Apart from this, little is
known of the production: whether or not it pleased the theatre-goers
of the time. We can judge, however, from the reading of the play
itself, that there was little of extreme dramatic excellence in the
situations, the chief claim, from the actor's point of view, being the
opportunity to deliver certain very highly coloured, poetical lines
modelled after the manner of the Elizabethan drama.
In the publication of "The Prince of Parthia," we have the first
printed American tragedy in existence, and in its production we have
one of only two plays, written by Americans, and presented on the
stage before the Revolution. The other play is George Cockings's "The
Conquest of Canada; or, The Siege of Quebec," printed for the author
in 1766, and presented in Philadelphia in 1773. We note, in Dr. F. W.
Atkinson's estimable Bibliography of American Plays in his possession,
that Cockings later described himself as "Camillo Querno, Poet
Laureate to Congress."
The interest in the early history of the American drama, which has
become evident within recent years, and nowhere more evident than
among the student body in our American colleges, induced the
Zelosophic Literary Society, encouraged by the University of
Pennsylvania, to revive "The Prince of Parthia," which was written by
one of their alumni. The production was consummated on March 26, 1915.
Even though we have no statement as to the actual manner in which the
Douglass Company presented the play originally, we are given every
evidence, by those who witnessed the revival, that the play, while
containing many excellences, was not of a dramatic character according
to modern ideas of stage effectiveness.
The only portrait of Godfrey known to have been in existence was that
painted by Benjamin West, in his earlier years. It is interesting to
note that in commemoration of the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary
of the original production of this play, Dr. Archibald Henderson, of
the University of North Carolina, issued an _edition de luxe_ of "The
Prince of Parthia," with an extended introduction, historical,
biographical and critical (Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1917).
FOOTNOTES:
[1] A notice appeared in the Pennsylvania _Gazette_, December 19,
1749. See Scharf and Westcott's "History of Philadelphia" for
references to Godfrey, Sr. Therein is given a picture of his house in
Germantown, Pa. Barlow mentions him in his "Columbiad." A monument to
his memory was erected in Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia, 1843.
Note that David Rittenhouse, an American dramatist who translated,
from the German, "Lucy Sampson; or, The Unhappy Heiress" (1789), was
likewise a mathematical genius.
[2] Accounts of Dr. Smith are to be found in Henry Simpson's "Eminent
Philadelphians"; Scharf & Westcott's "History of Philadelphia," ii,
1126. Dr. Smith's "Life and Correspondence," by Horace Wemyss Smith,
was issued in 2 vols., 1879.
[3] Visitors to Wilmington, N.C., will be taken to Old St. James's
Church-yard, where Godfrey lies buried.
[4] Juvenile Poems/on/Various Subjects./With the/Prince of
Parthia,/A/Tragedy,/By the Late/Mr. Thomas Godfrey, Junr./of
Philadelphia./To which is prefixed,/Some Account of the Author and
his Writings./Poeta nascitur non fit. Hor./Philadelphia,/Printed by
Henry Miller, in Second-Street./M DCC LXV.
[Illustration: JUVENILE POEMS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. WITH THE PRINCE OF
PARTHIA, A TRAGEDY.
FAC-SIMILE OF ORIGINAL TITLE-PAGE TO FIRST EDITION]
ADVERTISEMENT
Our Author has made Use of the _licentia poetica_ in the Management of
this Dramatic Piece; and deviates, in a particular or two, from what
is agreed on by Historians: The Queen _Thermusa_ being not the Wife of
King _Artabanus_, but (according to _Tacitus_, _Strabo_ and
_Josephus_) of _Phraates_; _Artabanus_ being the fourth King of
_Parthia_ after him. Such Lapses are not unprecedented among the
Poets; and will the more readily admit of an Excuse, when the Voice of
History is followed in the Description of Characters.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
MEN.
ARTABANUS, King of Parthia.
ARSACES, }
VARDANES, } his Sons.
GOTARZES, }
BARZAPHERNES, Lieutenant-Generales, under Arsac.
LYSIAS, } Officers at Court.
PHRAATES, }
BETHAS, a Noble Captive.
WOMEN.
THERMUSA, the Queen.
EVANTHE, belov'd by Arsaces.
CLEONE, her Confident.
EDESSA, Attendant on the Queen.
Guards and Attendants.
SCENE, _Ctesiphon_.
THE PRINCE OF PARTHIA
_A TRAGEDY_
ACT I.
SCENE I. _The Temple of the Sun._
_GOTARZES and PHRAATES._
GOTARZES.
He comes, Arsaces comes, my gallant Brother
(Like shining Mars in all the pomp of conquest)
Triumphant enters now our joyful gates;
Bright Victory waits on his glitt'ring car,
And shews her fav'rite to the wond'ring croud;
While Fame exulting sounds the happy name
To realms remote, and bids the world admire.
Oh! 'tis a glorious day:--let none presume
T'indulge the tear, or wear the gloom of sorrow;
This day shall shine in Ages yet to come,
And grace the Parthian story.
PHRAATES.
Glad Ctes'phon
Pours forth her numbers, like a rolling deluge,
To meet the blooming Hero; all the ways,
On either side, as far as sight can stretch,
Are lin'd with crouds, and on the lofty walls
Innumerable multitudes are rang'd.
On ev'ry countenance impatience sate
With roving eye, before the train appear'd.
But when they saw the Darling of the Fates,
They rent the air with loud repeated shouts;
The Mother shew'd him to her infant Son,
And taught his lisping tongue to name Arsaces:
E'en aged Sires, whose sounds are scarcely heard,
By feeble strength supported, tost their caps,
And gave their murmur to the gen'ral voice.
GOTARZES.
The spacious streets, which lead up to the Temple,
Are strew'd with flow'rs; each, with frantic joy,
His garland forms, and throws it in the way.
What pleasure, Phraates, must swell his bosom,
To see the prostrate nation all around him,
And know he's made them happy! to hear them
Tease the Gods, to show'r their blessings on him!
Happy Arsaces! fain I'd imitate
Thy matchless worth, and be a shining joy!
PHRAATES.
Hark! what a shout was that which pierc'd the skies!
It seem'd as tho' all Nature's beings join'd,
To hail thy glorious Brother.
GOTARZES.
Happy Parthia!
Now proud Arabia dreads her destin'd chains,
While shame and rout disperses all her sons.
Barzaphernes pursues the fugitives,
The few whom fav'ring Night redeem'd from slaughter;
Swiftly they fled, for fear had wing'd their speed,
And made them bless the shade which saf'ty gave.
PHRAATES.
What a bright hope is ours, when those dread pow'rs
Who rule yon heav'n, and guide the mov'ments here,
Shall call your royal Father to their joys:
In blest Arsaces ev'ry virtue meets;
He's gen'rous, brave, and wise, and good,
Has skill to act, and noble fortitude
To face bold danger, in the battle firm,
And dauntless as a Lion fronts his foe.
Yet is he sway'd by ev'ry tender passion,
Forgiving mercy, gentleness and love;
Which speak the Hero friend of humankind.
GOTARZES.
And let me speak, for 'tis to him I owe
That here I stand, and breath the common air,
And 'tis my pride to tell it to the world.
One luckless day as in the eager chace
My Courser wildly bore me from the rest,
A monst'rous Leopard from a bosky fen
Rush'd forth, and foaming lash'd the ground,
And fiercely ey'd me as his destin'd quarry.
My jav'lin swift I threw, but o'er his head
It erring pass'd, and harmless in the air
Spent all its force; my falchin then I seiz'd,
Advancing to attack my ireful foe,
When furiously the savage sprung upon me,
And tore me to the ground; my treach'rous blade
Above my hand snap'd short, and left me quite
Defenceless to his rage; Arsaces then,
Hearing the din, flew like some pitying pow'r,
And quickly freed me from the Monster's paws,
Drenching his bright lance in his spotted breast.
PHRAATES.
How diff'rent he from arrogant Vardanes?
That haughty Prince eyes with a stern contempt
All other Mortals, and with lofty mien
He treads the earth as tho' he were a God.
Nay, I believe that his ambitious soul,
Had it but pow'r to its licentious wishes,
Would dare dispute with Jove the rule of heav'n;
Like a Titanian son with giant insolence,
Match with the Gods, and wage immortal war,
'Til their red wrath should hurl him headlong down,
E'en to destruction's lowest pit of horror.
GOTARZES.
Methinks he wears not that becoming joy
Which on this bright occasion gilds the court;
His brow's contracted with a gloomy frown,
Pensive he stalks along, and seems a prey
To pining discontent.
PHRAATES.
Arsaces he dislikes,
For standing 'twixt him, and the hope of Empire;
While Envy, like a rav'nous Vulture, tears
His canker'd heart, to see your Brother's triumph.
GOTARZES.
And yet Vardanes owes that hated Brother
As much as I; 'twas summer last, as we
Were bathing in Euphrates' flood, Vardanes
Proud of strength would seek the further shore;
But ere he the mid-stream gain'd, a poignant pain
Shot thro' his well-strung nerves, contracting all,
And the stiff joints refus'd their wonted aid.
Loudly he cry'd for help, Arsaces heard,
And thro' the swelling waves he rush'd to save
His drowning Brother, and gave him life,
And for the boon the Ingrate pays him hate.
PHRAATES.
There's something in the wind, for I've observ'd
Of late he much frequents the Queen's apartment,
And fain would court her favour, wild is she
To gain revenge for fell Vonones' death,
And firm resolves the ruin of Arsaces.
Because that fill'd with filial piety,
To save his Royal Sire, he struck the bold
Presumptuous Traitor dead; nor heeds she
The hand which gave her Liberty, nay rais'd her
Again to Royalty.
GOTARZES.
Ingratitude,
Thou hell-born fiend, how horrid is thy form!
The Gods sure let thee loose to scourge mankind,
And save them from an endless waste of thunder.
PHRAATES.
Yet I've beheld this now so haughty Queen,
Bent with distress, and e'en by pride forsook,
When following thy Sire's triumphant car,
Her tears and ravings mov'd the senseless herd,
And pity blest their more than savage breasts,
With the short pleasure of a moment's softness.
Thy Father, conquer'd by her charms (for what
Can charm like mourning beauty), soon struck off
Her chains, and rais'd her to his bed and throne.
Adorn'd the brows of her aspiring Son,
The fierce Vonones, with the regal crown
Of rich Armenia, once the happy rule
Of Tisaphernes, her deceased Lord.
GOTARZES.
And he in wasteful war return'd his thanks,
Refus'd the homage he had sworn to pay,
And spread Destruction ev'ry where around,
'Til from Arsaces' hand he met the fate
His crimes deserv'd.
PHRAATES.
As yet your princely Brother
Has scap'd Thermusa's rage, for still residing
In peaceful times, within his Province, ne'er
Has fortune blest her with a sight of him,
On whom she'd wreck her vengeance.
GOTARZES.
She has won
By spells, I think, so much on my fond father,
That he is guided by her will alone.
She rules the realm, her pleasure is a law,
All offices and favours are bestow'd,
As she directs.
PHRAATES.
But see, the Prince, Vardanes,
Proud Lysias with him, he whose soul is harsh
With jarring discord. Nought but madding rage,
And ruffian-like revenge his breast can know,
Indeed to gain a point he'll condescend
To mask the native rancour of his heart,
And smooth his venom'd tongue with flattery.
Assiduous now he courts Vardanes' friendship,
See, how he seems to answer all his gloom,
And give him frown for frown.
GOTARZES.
Let us retire,
And shun them now; I know not what it means,
But chilling horror shivers o'er my limbs,
When Lysias I behold.--
SCENE II. _VARDANES and LYSIAS._
LYSIAS.
That shout proclaims [_Shout._
Arsaces' near approach.
VARDANES.
Peace, prithee, peace,
Wilt thou still shock me with that hated sound,
And grate harsh discord in my offended ear?
If thou art fond of echoing the name,
Join with the servile croud, and hail his triumph.
LYSIAS.
I hail him? By our glorious shining God,
I'd sooner lose my speech, and all my days
In silence rest, conversing with my thoughts,
Than hail Arsaces.
VARDANES.
Yet, again his name,
Sure there is magic in it, Parthia's drunk
And giddy with the joy; the houses' tops
With gaping spectators are throng'd, nay wild
They climb such precipices that the eye
Is dazzl'd with their daring; ev'ry wretch
Who long has been immur'd, nor dar'd enjoy
The common benefits of sun and air,
Creeps from his lurking place; e'en feeble age,
Long to the sickly couch confin'd, stalks forth,
And with infectious breath assails the Gods.
O! curse the name, the idol of their joy.
LYSIAS.
And what's that name, that thus they should disturb
The ambient air, and weary gracious heav'n
With ceaseless bellowings? Vardanes sounds
With equal harmony, and suits as well
The loud repeated shouts of noisy joy.
Can he bid Chaos Nature's rule dissolve,
Can he deprive mankind of light and day,
And turn the Seasons from their destin'd course?
Say, can he do all this, and be a God?
If not, what is his matchless merit? What dares he,
Vardanes dares not? blush not, noble Prince,
For praise is merit's due, and I will give it;
E'en 'mid the croud which waits thy Brother's smile,
I'd loud proclaim the merit of Vardanes.
VARDANES.
Forbear this warmth, your friendship urges far.
Yet know your love shall e'er retain a place
In my remembrance. There is something here--
[_Pointing to his breast._
Another time and I will give thee all;
But now, no more.--
LYSIAS.
You may command my services,
I'm happy to obey. Of late your Brother
Delights in hind'ring my advancement,
And ev'ry boaster's rais'd above my merit,
Barzaphernes alone commands his ear,
His oracle in all.
VARDANES.
I hate Arsaces,
Tho' he's my Mother's son, and churchmen say
There's something sacred in the name of Brother.
My soul endures him not, and he's the bane
Of all my hopes of greatness. Like the sun
He rules the day, and like the night's pale Queen,
My fainter beams are lost when he appears.
And this because he came into the world,
A moon or two before me: What's the diff'rence,
That he alone should shine in Empire's seat?
I am not apt to trumpet forth my praise,
Or highly name myself, but this I'll speak,
To him in ought, I'm not the least inferior.
Ambition, glorious fever! mark of Kings,
Gave me immortal thirst and rule of Empire.
Why lag'd my tardy soul, why droop'd the wing,
Nor forward springing, shot before his speed
To seize the prize?--'Twas Empire--Oh! 'twas Empire--
LYSIAS.
Yet, I must think that of superior mould
Your soul was form'd, fit for a heav'nly state,
And left reluctant its sublime abode,
And painfully obey'd the dread command,
When Jove's controuling fate forc'd it below.
His soul was earthly, and it downward mov'd,
Swift as to the center of attraction.
VARDANES.
It might be so--But I've another cause
To hate this Brother, ev'ry way my rival;
In love as well as glory he's above me;
I dote on fair Evanthe, but the charmer
Disdains my ardent suit, like a miser
He treasures up her beauties to himself:
Thus is he form'd to give me torture ever.--
But hark, they've reach'd the Temple,
Didst thou observe the croud, their eagerness,
Each put the next aside to catch a look,
Himself was elbow'd out?--Curse, curse their zeal--
LYSIAS.
Stupid folly!
VARDANES.
I'll tell thee, Lysias,
This many-headed monster multitude,
Unsteady is as giddy fortune's wheel,
As woman fickle, varying as the wind;
To-day they this way course, the next they veer,
And shift another point, the next another.
LYSIAS.
Curiosity's another name for man,
The blazing meteor streaming thro' the air
Commands our wonder, and admiring eyes,
With eager gaze we trace the lucent path,
'Til spent at length it shrinks to native nothing.
While the bright stars which ever steady glow,
Unheeded shine, and bless the world below.
SCENE III. _QUEEN and EDESSA._
QUEEN.
Oh! give me way, the haughty victor comes,
Surrounded by adoring multitudes;
On swelling tides of praise to heav'n they raise him;
To deck their idol, they rob the glorious beings
Of their splendour.
EDESSA.
My royal Lady,
Chace hence these passions.
QUEEN.
Peace, forever peace,
Have I not cause to hate this homicide?
'Twas by his cursed hand Vonones fell,
Yet fell not as became his gallant spirit,
Not by the warlike arm of chief renown'd,
But by a youth, ye Gods, a beardless stripling,
Stab'd by his dastard falchin from behind;
For well I know he fear'd to meet Vonones,
As princely warriors meet with open daring,
But shrunk amidst his guards, and gave him death,
When faint with wounds, and weary with the fight.
EDESSA.
With anguish I have heard his hapless fate,
And mourn'd in silence for the gallant Prince.
QUEEN.
Soft is thy nature, but, alas! Edessa,
Thy heart's a stranger to a mother's sorrows,
To see the pride of all her wishes blasted;
Thy fancy cannot paint the storm of grief,
Despair and anguish, which my breast has known.
Oh! show'r, ye Gods, your torments on Arsaces,
Curs'd be the morn which dawn'd upon his birth.
EDESSA.
Yet, I intreat--
QUEEN.
Away! for I will curse--
Oh! may he never know a father's fondness,
Or know it to his sorrow, may his hopes
Of joy be cut like mine, and his short life
Be one continu'd tempest; if he lives,
Let him be curs'd with jealousy and fear,
And vext with anguish of neglecting scorn;
May tort'ring hope present the flowing cup,
Then hasty snatch it from his eager thirst,
And when he dies base treach'ry be the means.
EDESSA.
Oh! calm your spirits.
QUEEN.
Yes, I'll now be calm,
Calm as the sea when the rude waves are laid,
And nothing but a gentle swell remains;
My curse is heard, and I shall have revenge;
There's something here which tells me 'twill be so,
And peace resumes her empire o'er my breast.
Vardanes is the Minister of Vengeance;
Fir'd by ambition, he aspiring seeks
T'adorn his brows with Parthia's diadem;
I've fann'd the fire, and wrought him up to fury,
Envy shall urge him forward still to dare,
And discord be the prelude to destruction,
Then this detested race shall feel my hate.
EDESSA.
And doth thy hatred then extend so far,
That innocent and guilty all alike
Must feel thy dreadful vengeance?
QUEEN.
Ah! Edessa,
Thou dost not know e'en half my mighty wrongs,
But in thy bosom I will pour my sorrows.
EDESSA.
With secrecy I ever have repaid
Your confidence.
QUEEN.
I know thou hast; then hear:
The changeling King who oft has kneel'd before me,
And own'd no other pow'r, now treats me
With ill dissembl'd love mix'd with disdain.
A newer beauty rules his faithless heart,
Which only in variety is blest;
Oft have I heard him, when wrapt up in sleep,
And wanton fancy rais'd the mimic scene,
Call with unusual fondness on Evanthe,
While I have lain neglected by his side,
Except sometimes in a mistaken rapture
He'd clasp me to his bosom.
EDESSA.
Oh! Madam,
Let not corroding jealousy usurp
Your Royal breast, unnumber'd ills attend
The wretch who entertains that fatal guest.
QUEEN.
Think not that I'll pursue its wand'ring fires,
No more I'll know perplexing doubts and fears,
And erring trace suspicion's endless maze,
For, ah! I doubt no more.
EDESSA.
Their shouts approach.
QUEEN.
Lead me, Edessa, to some peaceful gloom,
Some silent shade far from the walks of men,
There shall the hop'd revenge my thoughts employ,
And sooth my sorrows with the coming joy.
SCENE IV. _EVANTHE and CLEONE._
EVANTHE.
No, I'll not meet him now, for love delights
In the soft pleasures of the secret shade,
And shuns the noise and tumult of the croud.
How tedious are the hours which bring him
To my fond, panting heart! for oh! to those
Who live in expectation of the bliss,
Time slowly creeps, and ev'ry tardy minute
Seems mocking of their wishes. Say, Cleone,
For you beheld the triumph, 'midst his pomp,
Did he not seem to curse the empty show,
The pageant greatness, enemy to love,
Which held him from Evanthe? haste, to tell me,
And feed my gready ear with the fond tale--
Yet, hold--for I shall weary you with questions,
And ne'er be satisfied--Beware, Cleone,
And guard your heart from Love's delusive sweets.
CLEONE.
Is Love an ill, that thus you caution me
To shun his pow'r?
EVANTHE.
The Tyrant, my Cleone,
Despotic rules, and fetters all our thoughts.
Oh! wouldst thou love, then bid adieu to peace,
Then fears will come, and jealousies intrude,
Ravage your bosom, and disturb your quiet,
E'en pleasure to excess will be a pain.
Once I was free, then my exulting heart
Was like a bird that hops from spray to spray,
And all was innocence and mirth; but, lo!
The Fowler came, and by his arts decoy'd,
And soon the Wanton cag'd. Twice fifteen times
Has Cynthia dipt her horns in beams of light,
Twice fifteen times has wasted all her brightness,
Since first I knew to love; 'twas on that day
When curs'd Vonones fell upon the plain,
The lovely Victor doubly conquer'd me.
CLEONE.
Forgive my boldness, Madam, if I ask
What chance first gave you to Vonones' pow'r?
Curiosity thou know'st is of our sex.
EVANTHE.
That is a task will wake me to new sorrows,
Yet thou attend, and I will tell thee all.
Arabia gave me birth, my father held
Great Offices at Court, and was reputed
Brave, wise and loyal, by his Prince belov'd.
Oft has he led his conqu'ring troops, and forc'd
From frowning victory her awful honours.
In infancy I was his only treasure,
On me he wasted all his store of fondness.
Oh! I could tell thee of his wond'rous goodness,
His more than father's love and tenderness.
But thou wouldst jeer, and say the tale was trifling;
So did he dote upon me, for in childhood
My infant charms, and artless innocence
Blest his fond age, and won on ev'ry heart.
But, oh! from this sprung ev'ry future ill,
This fatal beauty was the source of all.
CLEONE.
'Tis often so, for beauty is a flow'r
That tempts the hand to pluck it.
EVANTHE.
Full three times
Has scorching summer fled from cold winter's
Ruthless blasts, as oft again has spring
In sprightly youth drest nature in her beauties,
Since bathing in Niphates'[5] silver stream,
Attended only by one fav'rite maid;
As we were sporting on the wanton waves,
Swift from the wood a troop of horsemen rush'd,
Rudely they seiz'd, and bore me trembling off,
In vain Edessa with her shrieks assail'd
The heav'ns, for heav'n was deaf to both our pray'rs.
The wretch whose insolent embrace confin'd me
(Like thunder bursting on the guilty soul),
With curs'd Vonones' voice pour'd in my ears
A hateful tale of love; for he it seems
Had seen me at Arabia's royal court,
And took those means to force me to his arms.
CLEONE.
Perhaps you may gain something from the Captives
Of your lost Parents.
EVANTHE.
This I meant to try,
Soon as the night hides Nature in her darkness,
Veil'd in the gloom we'll steal into their prison.
But, oh! perhaps e'en now my aged Sire
May 'mongst the slain lie welt'ring on the field,
Pierc'd like a riddle through with num'rous wounds,
While parting life is quiv'ring on his lips,
He may perhaps be calling on his Evanthe.
Yes, ye great Pow'rs who boast the name of mercy,
Ye have deny'd me to his latest moments,
To all the offices of filial duty,
To bind his wounds, and wash them with my tears,
Is this, is this your mercy?
CLEONE.
Blame not heav'n,
For heav'n is just and kind; dear Lady, drive
These black ideas from your gentle breast;
Fancy delights to torture the distress'd,
And fill the gloomy scene with shadowy ills,
Summon your reason, and you'll soon have comfort.
EVANTHE.
Dost thou name comfort to me, my Cleone,
Thou who know'st all my sorrows? plead no more,
'Tis reason tells me I am doubly wretched.
CLEONE.
But hark, the music strikes, the rites begin,
And, see, the doors are op'ning.
EVANTHE.
Let's retire;
My heart is now too full to meet him here,
Fly swift ye hours, till in his arms I'm prest,
And each intruding care is hush'd to rest.
SCENE V.
_The Scene draws and discovers, in the inner part of the Temple, a
large image of the Sun, with an altar before it. Around Priests and
Attendants._
_KING, ARSACES, VARDANES, GOTARZES, PHRAATES, LYSIAS, with BETHAS in
chains._
HYMN.
Parent of Light, to thee belong
Our grateful tributary songs;
Each thankful voice to thee shall rise,
And chearful pierce the azure skies;
While in thy praise all earth combines,
And Echo in the Chorus joins.
All the gay pride of blooming May,
The Lily fair and blushing Rose,
To thee their early honours pay,
And all their heav'nly sweets disclose.
The feather'd Choir on ev'ry tree
To hail thy glorious dawn repair,
While the sweet sons of harmony
With Hallelujahs fill the air.
'Tis thou hast brac'd the Hero's arm,
And giv'n the Love of praise to warm
His bosom, as he onward flies,
And for his Country bravely dies.
Thine's victory, and from thee springs
Ambition's fire, which glows in Kings.
KING [_coming forward_].
Thus, to the Gods our tributary songs,
And now, oh! let me welcome once again
My blooming victor to his Father's arms;
And let me thank thee for our safety: Parthia
Shall thank thee too, and give her grateful praise
To her Deliverer.
OMNES.
All hail! Arsaces!
KING.
Thanks to my loyal friends.
VARDANES [_aside_].
Curse, curse the sound,
E'en Echo gives it back with int'rest,
The joyful gales swell with the pleasing theme,
And waft it far away to distant hills.
O that my breath was poison, then indeed
I'd hail him like the rest, but blast him too.
ARSACES.
My Royal Sire, these honours are unmerited,
Beneath your prosp'rous auspices I fought,
Bright vict'ry to your banners joyful flew,
And favour'd for the Sire the happy son.
But lenity should grace the victor's laurels,
Then, here, my gracious Father--
KING.
Ha! 'tis Bethas!
Know'st thou, vain wretch, what fate attends on those
Who dare oppose the pow'r of mighty Kings,
Whom heav'n delights to favour? sure some God
Who sought to punish you for impious deeds,
'Twas urg'd you forward to insult our arms,
And brave us at our Royal City's gates.
BETHAS.
At honour's call, and at my King's command,
Tho' it were even with my single arm, again
I'd brave the multitude, which, like a deluge,
O'erwhelm'd my gallant handful; yea, wou'd meet
Undaunted, all the fury of the torrent.
'Tis honour is the guide of all my actions,
The ruling star by which I steer thro' life,
And shun the shelves of infamy and vice.
KING.
It was the thirst of gain which drew you on;
'Tis thus that Av'rice always cloaks its views,
Th' ambition of your Prince you gladly snatch'd
As opportunity to fill your coffers.
It was the plunder of our palaces,
And of our wealthy cities, fill'd your dreams,
And urg'd you on your way; but you have met
The due reward of your audacity.
Now shake your chains, shake and delight your ears
With the soft music of your golden fetters.
BETHAS.
True, I am fall'n, but glorious was my fall,
The day was brav'ly fought, we did our best,
But victory's of heav'n. Look o'er yon field,
See if thou findest one Arabian back
Disfigur'd with dishonourable wounds.
No, here, deep on their bosoms, are engrav'd
The marks of honour! 'twas thro' here their souls
Flew to their blissful seats. Oh! why did I
Survive the fatal day? To be this slave,
To be the gaze and sport of vulgar crouds,
Thus, like a shackl'd tyger, stalk my round,
And grimly low'r upon the shouting herd.
Ye Gods!--
KING.
Away with him to instant death.
ARSACES.
Hear me, my Lord, O, not on this bright day,
Let not this day of joy blush with his blood.
Nor count his steady loyalty a crime,
But give him life, Arsaces humbly asks it,
And may you e'er be serv'd with honest hearts.
KING.
Well, be it so; hence, bear him to his dungeon;
Lysias, we here commit him to thy charge.
BETHAS.
Welcome my dungeon, but more welcome death.
Trust not too much, vain Monarch, to your pow'r,
Know fortune places all her choicest gifts
On ticklish heights, they shake with ev'ry breeze,
And oft some rude wind hurls them to the ground.
Jove's thunder strikes the lofty palaces,
While the low cottage, in humility,
Securely stands, and sees the mighty ruin.
What King can boast, to-morrow as to-day,
Thus, happy will I reign? The rising sun
May view him seated on a splendid throne,
And, setting, see him shake the servile chain.
[_Exit guarded._
SCENE VI.
KING, ARSACES, VARDANES, GOTARZES, PHRAATES.
GOTARZES.
Thus let me hail thee from the croud distinct,
For in the exulting voice of gen'ral joy
My fainter sounds were lost, believe me, Brother,
My soul dilates with joy to see thee thus.
ARSACES.
Thus let me thank thee in this fond embrace.
VARDANES.
The next will be my turn, Gods, I had rather
Be circl'd in a venom'd serpent's fold.
GOTARZES.
O, my lov'd Brother, 'tis my humble boon,
That, when the war next calls you to the field,
I may attend you in the rage of battle.
By imitating thy heroic deeds,
Perhaps, I may rise to some little worth,
Beneath thy care I'll try my feeble wings,
Till taught by thee to soar to nobler heights.
KING.
Why, that's my boy, thy spirit speaks thy birth,
No more I'll turn thee from the road to glory,
To rust in slothfulness, with lazy Gownsmen.
GOTARZES.
Thanks, to my Sire, I'm now completely blest.
ARSACES.
But, I've another Brother, where's Vardanes?
KING.
Ha! what, methinks, he lurks behind the croud,
And wears a gloom which suits not with the time.
VARDANES.
Doubt not my Love, tho' I lack eloquence,
To dress my sentiments and catch the ear,
Tho' plain my manners, and my language rude,
My honest heart disdains to wear disguise.
Then think not I am slothful in the race,
Or, that my Brother springs before my Love.
ARSACES.
Far be suspicion from me.
VARDANES.
So, 'tis done,
Thanks to dissembling, all is well again.
KING.
Now let us forward, to the Temple go,
And let, with chearful wine, the goblets flow;
Let blink-ey'd Jollity his aid afford,
To crown our triumph, round the festive board:
But, let the wretch, whose soul can know a care,
Far from our joys, to some lone shade repair,
In secrecy, there let him e'er remain,
Brood o'er his gloom, and still increase his pain.
_End of the First Act._
ACT II.
SCENE I. _A Prison._
LYSIAS [_alone_].
The Sun set frowning, and refreshing Eve
Lost all its sweets, obscur'd in double gloom.
This night shall sleep be stranger to these eyes,
Peace dwells not here, and slumber flies the shock;
My spirits, like the elements, are warring,
And mock the tempest with a kindred rage--
I, who can joy in nothing, but revenge,
Know not those boasted ties of Love and Friendship;
Vardanes I regard, but as he give me
Some hopes of vengeance on the Prince Arsaces--
But, ha! he comes, wak'd by the angry storm,
'Tis to my wish, thus would I form designs,
Horror should breed beneath the veil of horror,
And darkness aid conspiracies--He's here--
SCENE II. _VARDANES and LYSIAS._
LYSIAS.
Welcome, my noble Prince.
VARDANES.
Thanks, gentle friend;
Heav'ns! what a night is this!
LYSIAS.
'Tis fill'd with terror;
Some dread event beneath this horror lurks,
Ordain'd by fate's irrevocable doom;
Perhaps Arsaces' fall--and angry heav'n
Speaks it, in thunder, to the trembling world.
VARDANES.
Terror indeed! it seems as sick'ning Nature
Had giv'n her order up to gen'ral ruin;
The Heav'ns appear as one continu'd flame,
Earth with her terror shakes, dim night retires,
And the red lightning gives a dreadful day,
While in the thunder's voice each sound is lost;
Fear sinks the panting heart in ev'ry bosom,
E'en the pale dead, affrighted at the horror,
As tho' unsafe, start from their marble goals,
And howling thro' the streets are seeking shelter.
LYSIAS.
I saw a flash stream thro' the angry clouds,
And bend its course to where a stately pine
Behind the garden stood, quickly it seiz'd,
And wrapt it in a fiery fold, the trunk
Was shiver'd into atoms, and the branches
Off were lopt, and wildly scatter'd round.
VARDANES.
Why rage the elements, they are not curs'd
Like me? Evanthe frowns not angry on them,
The wind may play upon her beauteous bosom
Nor fear her chiding, light can bless her sense,
And in the floating mirror she beholds
Those beauties which can fetter all mankind.
Earth gives her joy, she plucks the fragrant rose,
Pleas'd takes its sweets, and gazes on its bloom.
LYSIAS.
My Lord, forget her, tear her from your breast.
Who, like the Phoenix gazes on the sun,
And strives to soar up to the glorious blaze,
Should never leave Ambition's brightest object,
To turn, and view the beauties of a flow'r.
VARDANES.
O, Lysias, chide no more, for I have done.
Yes, I'll forget this proud disdainful beauty;
Hence, with vain love--Ambition, now, alone,
Shall guide my actions, since mankind delights
To give me pain, I'll study mischief too,
And shake the earth, e'en like this raging tempest.
LYSIAS.
A night like this, so dreadful to behold,
Since my remembrance's birth, I never saw.
VARDANES.
E'en such a night, dreadful as this, they say,
My teeming Mother gave me to the world.
Whence by those sages who, in knowledge rich,
Can pry into futurity, and tell
What distant ages will produce of wonder,
My days were deem'd to be a hurricane;
My early life prov'd their prediction false;
Beneath a sky serene my voyage began,
But, to this long uninterrupted calm,
Storms shall succeed.
LYSIAS.
Then haste, to raise the tempest;
My soul disdains this one eternal round,
Where each succeeding day is like the former.
Trust me, my noble Prince, here is a heart
Steady and firm to all your purposes,
And here's a hand that knows to execute
Whate'er designs thy daring breast can form,
Nor ever shake with fear.
VARDANES.
And I will use it,
Come to my bosom, let me place thee here,
How happy am I clasping so much virtue!
Now, by the light, it is my firm belief,
One mighty soul in common swells our bosoms,
Such sameness can't be match'd in diff'rent beings.
LYSIAS.
Your confidence, my Lord, much honours me,
And when I act unworthy of your love
May I be hooted from Society,
As tho' disgraceful to the human kind,
And driv'n to herd among the savage race.
VARDANES.
Believe me, Lysias, I do not know
A single thought which tends toward suspicion,
For well I know thy worth, when I affront it,
By the least doubt, may I be ever curs'd
With faithless friends, and by his dagger fall
Whom my deluded wishes most would favour.
LYSIAS.
Then let's no longer trifle time away,
I'm all impatience till I see thy brows
Bright in the glories of a diadem;
My soul is fill'd with anguish when I think
That by weak Princes worn, 'tis thus disgrac'd.
Haste, mount the throne, and, like the morning Sun,
Chace with your piercing beams those mists away,
Which dim the glory of the Parthian state:
Each honest heart desires it, numbers there are
Ready to join you, and support your cause,
Against th' opposing faction.
VARDANES.
Sure some God,
Bid you thus call me to my dawning honours,
And joyful I obey the pleasing summons.
Now by the pow'rs of heav'n, of earth and hell,
Most solemnly I swear, I will not know
That quietude which I was wont to know,
'Til I have climb'd the height of all my wishes,
Or fell, from glory, to the silent grave.
LYSIAS.
Nobly resolv'd, and spoken like Vardanes,
There shone my Prince in his superior lustre.
VARDANES.
But, then, Arsaces, he's a fatal bar--
O! could I brush this busy insect from me,
Which envious strives to rob me of my bloom,
Then might I, like some fragrant op'ning flow'r,
Spread all my beauties in the face of day.
Ye Gods! why did ye give me such a soul
(A soul, which ev'ry way is form'd for Empire),
And damn me with a younger Brother's right?
The diadem would set as well on mine,
As on the brows of any lordly He;
Nor is this hand weak to enforce command.
And shall I steal into my grave, and give
My name up to oblivion, to be thrown
Among the common rubbish of the times?
No: Perish first, this happy hated Brother.
LYSIAS.
I always wear a dagger, for your service,
I need not speak the rest--
When humbly I intreated of your Brother
T' attend him as Lieutenant in this war,
Frowning contempt, he haughtily reply'd,
He entertain'd not Traitors in his service.
True, I betray'd Orodes, but with cause,
He struck me, like a sorry abject slave,
And still withheld from giving what he'd promis'd.
Fear not Arsaces, believe me, he shall
Soon his Quietus have--But, see, he comes,--
What can this mean? Why at this lonely hour,
And unattended?--Ha! 'tis opportune--
I'll in, and stab him now. I heed not what
The danger is, so I but have revenge,
Then heap perdition on me.
VARDANES.
Hold, awhile--
'Twould be better could we undermine him,
And make him fall by Artabanus' doom.
LYSIAS.
Well, be it so--
VARDANES.
But let us now retire,
We must not be observ'd together here.
SCENE III.
ARSACES [_alone_].
'Tis here that hapless Bethas is confin'd;
He who, but yesterday, like angry Jove,
When punishing the crimes of guilty men,
Spread death and desolation all around,
While Parthia trembl'd at his name; is now
Unfriended and forlorn, and counts the hours,
Wrapt in the gloomy horrors of a goal.--
How dark, and hidden, are the turns of fate!
His rigid fortune moves me to compassion.
O! 'tis a heav'nly virtue when the heart
Can feel the sorrows of another's bosom,
It dignifies the man: The stupid wretch
Who knows not this sensation, is an image,
And wants the feeling to make up a life--
I'll in, and give my aid to sooth his sorrows.
SCENE IV.
_VARDANES and LYSIAS._
LYSIAS.
Let us observe with care, something we, yet,
May gather, to give to us the vantage;
No matter what's the intent.
VARDANES.
How easy 'tis
To cheat this busy, tattling, censuring world!
For fame still names our actions, good or bad,
As introduc'd by chance, which ofttimes throws
Wrong lights on objects; vice she dresses up--
In the bright form, and goodliness, of virtue,
While virtue languishes, and pines neglected,
Rob'd of her lustre--But, let's forward, Lysias--
Thou know'st each turn in this thy dreary rule,
Then lead me to some secret stand, from whence,
Unnotic'd, all their actions we may view.
LYSIAS.
Here, take your stand behind--See, Bethas comes.
[_They retire._
SCENE V.
BETHAS [_alone_].
To think on Death in gloomy solitude,
In dungeons and in chains, when expectation
Join'd with serious thought describe him to us,
His height'n'd terrors strike upon the soul
With awful dread; imagination rais'd
To frenzy, plunges in a sea of horror,
And tastes the pains, the agonies of dying--
Ha! who is this, perhaps he bears my fate?
It must be so, but, why this privacy?
SCENE VI.
_ARSACES and BETHAS._
ARSACES.
Health to the noble Bethas, health and joy!
BETHAS.
A steady harden'd villain, one experienc'd
In his employment; ha! where's thy dagger?
It cannot give me fear; I'm ready, see,
My op'ning bosom tempts the friendly steel.
Fain would I cast this tiresome being off,
Like an old garment worn to wretchedness.
Here, strike for I'm prepar'd.
ARSACES.
Oh! view me better,
Say, do I wear the gloomy ruffian's frown?
BETHAS.
Ha! 'tis the gallant Prince, the brave Arsaces,
And Bethas' Conqueror.
ARSACES.
And Bethas' friend,
A name I'm proud to wear.
BETHAS.
Away--away--
Mock with your jester to divert the court,
Fit Scene for sportive joys and frolic mirth;
Think'st thou I lack that manly constancy
Which braves misfortune, and remains unshaken?
Are these, are these the emblems of thy friendship,
These rankling chains, say, does it gall like these?
No, let me taste the bitterness of sorrow,
For I am reconcil'd to wretchedness.
The Gods have empty'd all their mighty store,
Of hoarded Ills, upon my whiten'd age;
Now death--but, oh! I court coy death in vain,
Like a cold maid, he scorns my fond complaining.
'Tis thou, insulting Prince, 'tis thou hast dragg'd
My soul, just rising, down again to earth,
And clogg'd her wings with dull mortality,
A hateful bondage! Why--
ARSACES.
A moment hear me--
BETHAS.
Why dost thou, like an angry vengeful ghost,
Glide hither to disturb this peaceful gloom?
What, dost thou envy me my miseries,
My chains and flinty pavement, where I oft
In sleep behold the image of the death I wish,
Forget my sorrows and heart-breaking anguish?
These horrors I would undisturb'd enjoy,
Attended only by my silent thoughts;
Is it to see the wretch that you have made;
To view the ruins of unhappy Bethas,
And triumph in my grief? Is it for this
You penetrate my dark joyless prison?
ARSACES.
Oh! do not injure me by such suspicions.
Unknown to me are cruel scoffs and jests;
My breast can feel compassion's tenderness,
The warrior's warmth, the soothing joys of friendship.
When adverse bold battalions shook the earth,
And horror triumph'd on the hostile field,
I sought you with a glorious enmity,
And arm'd my brow with the stern frown of war.
But now the angry trumpet wakes no more
The youthful champion to the lust for blood.
Retiring rage gives place to softer passions,
And gen'rous warriors know no longer hate,
The name of foe is lost, and thus I ask
Your friendship.
BETHAS.
Ah! why dost thou mock me thus?
ARSACES.
Let the base coward, he who ever shrinks,
And trembles, at the slight name of danger,
Taunt, and revile, with bitter gibes, the wretched;
The brave are ever to distress a friend.
Tho' my dear country (spoil'd by wasteful war,
Her harvests blazing, desolate her towns,
And baleful ruin shew'd her haggard face)
Call'd out on me to save her from her foes,
And I obey'd, yet to your gallant prowess,
And unmatch'd deeds, I admiration gave.
But now my country knows the sweets of safety,
Freed from her fears; sure now I may indulge
My just esteem for your superior virtue.
BETHAS.
Yes, I must think you what you would be thought,
For honest minds are easy of belief,
And always judge of others by themselves,
But often are deceiv'd; yet Parthia breeds not
Virtue much like thine, the barb'rous clime teems
With nought else but villains vers'd in ill.
ARSACES.
Dissimulation never mark'd my looks,
Nor flatt'ring deceit e'er taught my tongue,
The tale of falsehood, to disguise my thoughts:
To Virtue, and her fair companion, Truth,
I've ever bow'd, their holy precepts kept,
And scann'd by them the actions of my life.
Suspicion surely ne'er disturbs the brave,
They never know the fears of doubting thoughts;
But free, as are the altars of the Gods,
From ev'ry hand receive the sacrifice.
SCENE VII.
_ARSACES, BETHAS, EVANTHE and CLEONE._
EVANTHE.
Heav'ns! what a gloom hangs round this dreadful place,
Fit habitation for the guilty mind!
Oh! if such terrors wait the innocent,
Which tread these vaults, what must the impious feel,
Who've all their crimes to stare them in the face?
BETHAS.
Immortal Gods! is this reality?
Or mere illusion? am I blest at last,
Or is it to torment me that you've rais'd
This semblance of Evanthe to my eyes?
It is! it is! 'tis she!--
ARSACES.
Ha!--what means this?--
She faints! she faints! life has forsook its seat,
Pale Death usurps its place--Evanthe, Oh!
Awake to life!--Love and Arsaces call!--
BETHAS.
Off--give her to my arms, my warm embrace
Shall melt Death's icy chains.
CLEONE.
She lives! she lives!--
See, on her cheeks the rosy glow returns.
ARSACES.
O joy! O joy! her op'ning eyes, again,
Break, like the morning sun, a better day.
BETHAS.
Evanthe!--
EVANTHE.
Oh! my Father!--
ARSACES.
Ha!--her Father!
BETHAS.
Heav'n thou art kind at last, and this indeed
Is recompense for all the ills I've past;
For all the sorrows which my heart has known,
Each wakeful night, and ev'ry day of anguish.
This, this has sweet'n'd all my bitter cup,
And gave me once again to taste of joy,
Joy which has long been stranger to this bosom.
Hence--hence disgrace--off, ignominy off--
But one embrace--I ask but one embrace,
And 'tis deny'd.
EVANTHE.
Oh, yes, around thy neck
I'll fold my longing arms, thy softer fetters,
Thus press thee to my happy breast, and kiss
Away those tears that stain thy aged cheeks.
BETHAS.
Oh! 'tis too much! it is too much! ye Gods!
Life's at her utmost stretch, and bursting near
With heart-swoln ecstasy; now let me die.
ARSACES.
What marble heart
Could see this scene unmov'd, nor give a tear?
My eyes grow dim, and sympathetic passion
Falls like a gushing torrent on my bosom.
EVANTHE.
O! happy me, this place, which lately seem'd
So fill'd with horror, now is pleasure's circle.
Here will I fix my seat; my pleasing task
Shall be to cherish thy remaining life.
All night I'll keep a vigil o'er thy slumbers,
And on my breast repose thee, mark thy dreams,
And when thou wak'st invent some pleasing tale,
Or with my songs the tedious hours beguile.
BETHAS.
Still let me gaze, still let me gaze upon thee,
Let me strain ev'ry nerve with ravishment,
And all my life be center'd in my vision.
To see thee thus, to hear thy angel voice,
It is, indeed, a luxury of pleasure!--
Speak, speak again, for oh! 'tis heav'n to hear thee!
Celestial sweetness dwells on ev'ry accent;--
Lull me to rest, and sooth my raging joy.
Joy which distracts me with unruly transports.
Now, by thy dear departed Mother's shade,
Thou brightest pattern of all excellence,
Thou who in prattling infancy hast blest me,
I wou'd not give this one transporting moment,
This fullness of delight, for all--but, ah!
'Tis vile, Ambition, Glory, all is vile,
To the soft sweets of love and tenderness.
EVANTHE.
Now let me speak, my throbbing heart is full,
I'll tell thee all--alas! I have forgot--
'T 'as slipt me in the tumult of my joy.
And yet I thought that I had much to say.
BETHAS.
Oh! I have curs'd my birth, indeed, I have
Blasphem'd the Gods, with unbecoming passion,
Arraign'd their Justice, and defy'd their pow'r,
In bitterness, because they had deny'd
Thee to support the weakness of my age.
But now no more I'll rail and rave at fate,
All its decrees are just, complaints are impious,
Whate'er short-sighted mortals feel, springs from
Their blindness in the ways of Providence;
Sufficient wisdom 'tis for man to know
That the great Ruler is e'er wise and good.
ARSACES.
Ye figur'd stones!
Ye senseless, lifeless images of men,
Who never gave a tear to others' woe,
Whose bosoms never glow'd for others' good,
O weary heav'n with your repeated pray'rs,
And strive to melt the angry pow'rs to pity,
That ye may truly live.
EVANTHE.
Oh! how my heart
Beats in my breast, and shakes my trembling frame!
I sink beneath this sudden flood of joy,
Too mighty for my spirits.
ARSACES.
My Evanthe,
Thus in my arms I catch thy falling beauties,
Chear thee; and kiss thee back to life again:
Thus to my bosom I could ever hold thee,
And find new pleasure.
EVANTHE.
O! my lov'd Arsaces,
Forgive me that I saw thee not before,
Indeed my soul was busily employ'd,
Nor left a single thought at liberty.
But thou, I know, art gentleness and love.
Now I am doubly paid for all my sorrows,
For all my fears for thee.
ARSACES.
Then, fear no more:
Give to guilty wretches painful terrors:
Whose keen remembrance raises horrid forms,
Shapes that in spite of nature shock their souls
With dreadful anguish: but thy gentle bosom,
Where innocence beams light and gayety,
Can never know a fear, now shining joy
Shall gild the pleasing scene.
EVANTHE.
Alas! this joy
I fear is like a sudden flame shot from
Th' expiring taper, darkness will ensue,
And double night I dread enclose us round.
Anxiety does yet disturb my breast,
And frightful apprehension shakes my soul.
BETHAS.
How shall I thank you, ye bright glorious beings!
Shall I in humble adoration bow,
Or fill the earth with your resounding praise?
No, this I leave to noisy hypocrites,
A Mortal's tongue disgraces such a theme;
But heav'n delights where silent gratitude
Mounts each aspiring thought to its bright throne,
Nor leaves to language aught; words may indeed
From man to man their sev'ral wants express,
Heav'n asks the purer incense of the heart.
ARSACES.
I'll to the King, ere he retires to rest,
Nor will I leave him 'til I've gain'd your freedom;
His love will surely not deny me this.
SCENE VIII.
_VARDANES and LYSIAS come forward._
LYSIAS.
'Twas a moving scene, e'en my rough nature
Was nighly melted.
VARDANES.
Hence coward pity--
What is joy to them, to me is torture.
Now am I rack'd with pains that far exceed
Those agonies, which fabling Priests relate,
The damn'd endure: The shock of hopeless Love,
Unblest with any views to sooth ambition,
Rob me of all my reas'ning faculties.
Arsaces gains Evanthe, fills the throne,
While I am doom'd to foul obscurity,
To pine and grieve neglected.
LYSIAS.
My noble Prince,
Would it not be a master-piece, indeed,
To make this very bliss their greatest ill,
And damn them in the very folds of joy?
VARDANES.
This I will try, and stretch my utmost art,
Unknown is yet the means--We'll think on that--
Success may follow if you'll lend your aid.
LYSIAS.
The storm still rages--I must to the King,
And know what further orders ere he sleeps:
Soon I'll return, and speak my mind more fully.
VARDANES.
Haste, Lysias, haste, to aid me with thy council;
For without thee, all my designs will prove
Like night and chaos, darkness and confusion;
But to thy word shall light and order spring.--
Let coward Schoolmen talk of Virtue's rules,
And preach the vain Philosophy of fools;
Court eager their obscurity, afraid
To taste a joy, and in some gloomy shade
Dream o'er their lives, while in a mournful strain
They sing of happiness they never gain.
But form'd for nobler purposes I come,
To gain a crown, or else a glorious tomb.
_End of the Second Act._
ACT III.
SCENE I. _The Palace._
_QUEEN and EDESSA._
QUEEN.
Talk not of sleep to me, the God of Rest
Disdains to visit where disorder reigns;
Not beds of down, nor music's softest strains,
Can charm him when 'tis anarchy within.
He flies with eager haste the mind disturb'd,
And sheds his blessings where the soul's in peace.
EDESSA.
Yet, hear me, Madam!
QUEEN.
Hence, away, Edessa,
For thou know'st not the pangs of jealousy.
Say, has he not forsook my bed, and left me
Like a lone widow mourning to the night?
This, with the injury his son has done me,
If I forgive, may heav'n in anger show'r
Its torments on me--Ha! isn't that the King!
EDESSA.
It is your Royal Lord, great Artabanus.
QUEEN.
Leave me, for I would meet him here alone,
Something is lab'ring in my breast--