University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Eurydice, Melissa.
Eurydice.
Ye heavenly Powers!
What means this dreadful war of sea and sky!

Melissa.
Dreadful indeed. It rose not by degrees,
But all at once, a tempest wild and loud.

Eurydice.
Hear! from the wintry north how keen it howls
Thro' these lone towers that rock with every blast,
Each moment threatning ruine on our heads.
But see—stand here, and cast thy eyes below
O'er the broad ocean to the distant sky,
See what confusion fills the raving deep!
What mountain-waves arise!—'Tis terrible,
And suiting to the horrors of my fate,
The deep despair that desolates my soul.

Melissa.
Ha! look, behold, due west where yonder rocks
O'erhang the beating tides—O sight of woe!
Four goodly ships, abandon'd to the storm,
Drive blindly with the billows; their drench'd sails
Stript off, and whirl'd before the rending wind.

Eurydice.
Assist them, all good Powers! The storm is high,
And the flood perilous.
Look! now they climb a fearful steep, and hang
On the big surge that mixes with the clouds.
Save me! it bursts, and headlong down they reel
Into the yawning gulph—They cannot scape.
A sea rowls o'er the foremost.

Melissa.
Ah! she strikes
On yonder wave-worn cliff. The fatal shock
Has doubtless shiver'd her strong side. She sinks
So swiftly down, that scarce the straining eye
Can trace her tallest mast.—Where is she now!
Hid in the wild abyss, with all her crew,
All lost for ever!

Eurydice.
Turn we from the sight,
Too dismal for a woman's eye to bear.
Ill-fated men! whom, knowing not, I mourn;
Whence, or what may they be? Even now, perhaps,
In some far-distant land, a faithful wife,
Or tender parent, offers vows to heaven
For their return; and fondly numbers up
The lingring months of absence. Fruitless love!
They never more shall meet!—By my own ills
Severely taught, I pity them; yet think
Their fate, all full of horror as it seems,
Is rather to be envy'd. They are now
Beyond the hand of Fate, at rest for ever!
While I, Melissa—

Melissa.
Ah, Eurydice,
My royal Mistress, rather think the Gods
Would teach you, by this sight of mournful ruine,
Patience and gentler thought. When others too
Are miserable, not to know the worst
Is some degree of bliss.

Eurydice.
Melissa, no.
I tell thee, no ill fate, no face of death
Can be so dreadful as a life like mine.
Call to thy thoughts what I have been; how great,
How happy in a husband, and a son
The rising boast of Greece. Behold me now
Cast down to lowest infamy; the slave,
The sport of a foul Tyrant, who betray'd me,
And would destroy my honour.—Gracious heaven!
And shall this bold offender, who has broke
All bonds of holy faith, yet bids his soul
Rejoyce and take her ease; shall he long triumph
Here in the throne of Corinth, while its lord,
The injur'd Periander, roams a fugitive,
Far, far from bliss and me!

Melissa.
These tears, my Queen,
These faithful tears, which sympathy of sorrow
Draws from my eyes, speak the sad share I take
In all your mighty ills.

Eurydice.
Say now, Melissa,
Is there among the daughters of Affliction
One so forlorn as poor Eurydice?
A prisoner here, subjected to the power
Of impious Procles, daily doom'd to hear,
O deadly insult! his detested love.
What ill can equal this? Why did I trust
The brutal Tyrant?

Melissa.
See, his Minion's here.

SCENE II.

Eurydice, Melissa, Medon.
Medon.
Hail, beauteous Queen! By me, the royal Procles
With lowly service bends him to your charms:
Bids smiling health, and gentle peace of mind
Light up your morn, and make your evening fair.
This, with the tenderest vows—

Eurydice.
Canst thou inform me
Of those unhappy men, whom I but now
Saw perish on this coast?

Medon.
Not who they are;
But what their fate, these eyes with dread beheld.
The King too, from the morning's chase return'd,
At this sad sight spur'd on with all his train
To save, if possible, whom the wild sea
Casts forth upon the land. But first his love,
That counts each moment's absence from your eyes
An age of lingring torment, bade me fly
With health and greeting to the matchless fair,
That holds his soul enslav'd.

Eurydice.
Then bear him back,
From her whom he has wrong'd, betray'd and ruin'd,
Horror and loathing, unrelenting scorn,
And all a woman's hate, in just return
For his detested love. The tyrant coward!
To crush the fallen and helpless! to embitter
The pangs, the miseries, himself has caus'd
With gall of mockery!

Medon.
Your pardon, Madam,
If I, the humblest of your slaves, presume
To place before your eyes in faithful prospect
That mournful period, full of dread and danger,
Which late you saw. Behold then your false subjects,
Wantonly mad and spurning every tye
Of sworn obedience, mix'd in one bold treason,
Threatning and universal: your lost husband
Absent, involv'd in unsuccessful war:
His troops averse and mutinous. From them
Bold faction with contagious swiftness spread
To Corinth too; where the wild herd arrous'd
Insulted you, and drove you to this Fortress.
Say where was then your hope, when meagre Famine
Join'd his devouring ravage; and your eyes
Saw daily, hourly perish those poor few
Whose faith had kept them yours?

Eurydice.
O would to heaven
I then had perish'd too!

Medon.
Such was your state,
Lost even to hope, when generous Procles flew
Impatient to your aid, dispers'd and quell'd
The general treason. May I dare to urge
These services? But what are these? His throne,
His heart is yours: he lays them at your feet:
He bids you reign in both.

Eurydice.
Thou base of heart!
To slaves like thee, who flatter and inflame
Their prince's crimes, are owing half the plagues
That curse mankind. Has not thy cruel Master,
Whose guilt this shameful praise of thine brings home
On thy own soul, say, has not he usurp'd,
With perfidy avow'd, the very crown
He swore to save? And I too—thy bold insult
Shews I indeed am wretched. But away.
'Tis base to parle with thee, the sycophant
Who leads him on from guilt to guilt, and swears
He grows a God by sinning.

SCENE III.

Eurydice, Melissa.
Melissa.
Ah, my Queen,
My heart forebodes some fatal consequence
Will grow of this.

Eurydice.
Why let it come, Melissa.
I merit all that fortune can inflict,
For trusting this betrayer, this curst Procles.

Melissa.
Alas, what could you do?

Eurydice.
I should have dy'd.
He was the known and mortal foe of Corinth.

Melissa.
Yet his fair-seeming might have won belief
From doubting Age, or wary Policy.
By frequent, urgent message he conjur'd you
To save yourself. With open honour own'd
His antient enmity; but, by each Power
Celestial and infernal, swore 'twas past.
Nay more, that as a king and as a man,
Just indignation at your impious subjects,
And pity of your fate, had touch'd his heart.

Eurydice.
But Fame had spoke him faithless, bold, ambitious.
No; 'twas the coward woman in my soul,
Th'inglorious fear of dying, that betray'd
My vertue into the Deceiver's power.
For this my heart, each conscious hour upbraids me,
As faithless to my trust, weak, and unworthy
Even of the base precarious life I hold.
For this, O crown of misery! I'm doom'd
Daily to hear the Tyrant's impious passion,
His horrid vows and oaths.

Melissa.
That way indeed
I dread to turn my thoughts. A soul so brutal,
And flown with nightly insolence and wine,
What may he not attempt?

Eurydice.
O curse! to know
That I am in his power, and yet compell'd
To suffer hated life!—for can I die
Unheard, unjustify'd; while yet perhaps
Th'unhappy Periander thinks too hardly
Of my late error?—King of gods and men!
Whose universal eye beholds each thought
Most secret in the soul, give me to clear
My faith to him; I ask of heaven no more
For my past miseries.

Melissa.
What shouts are these?
[looking out.
Ah me! th'inhuman triumph of the croud,
The hard-soul'd many, who have watch'd the storm
For driving wrecks, the spoils of perish'd wretches.

Eurydice.
Unfeeling beasts of prey!—Methinks the storm
Is almost overblown. The waves subside,
And fall their fiercer roarings. But alas!
Of all the four, not one remaining sail
Is to be seen around.

Melissa.
Either my eyes
Deceive me, or the good Leonidas
Moves towards us.

Eurydice.
'Tis he: and on his brow
Sits some afflicting thought. Ha! whence is this?
What mean these secret shiverings, this dark horror
Of some approaching ill?

SCENE IV.

Eurydice, Melissa, Leonidas.
Leonidas.
Forgive me, Madam,
That I appear before you to impart
A mournful message: but by Procles' order—

Eurydice.
Whate'er proceeds from him, Leonidas,
Must needs be fatal to me. But say on.
No form of ruine is so dreadful now,
As being in his power.

Leonidas.
Unhappy Queen!
Your fate might melt the hardest breast, and teach
Even Cruelty's remorseless eye to weep.
How shall I speak the rest?

Eurydice.
Leonidas!
What is this fatal tale too sad for utterance?
I cannot bear suspense, that worst of tortures—
Is Periander safe?

Leonidas.
This ruinous storm,
Whose sudden outrage—

Eurydice.
Ha! what ships were these,
Say, speak, that sunk but now before our eyes
In sight of shore?

Leonidas.
The very fleet design'd
To rescue you; to free repenting Corinth
From this betrayer, this detested Procles.
The King was there embark'd.

Eurydice.
Then all is lost!

Melissa.
Ah heaven! she faints.

Leonidas.
Behold, ye Gods! this sight.
Remember the curst Author of this ruine.
My eyes, my soul's in tears to see her thus.

Eurydice.
O Periander! my much-injur'd Lord!
Would I had dy'd for thee—Ah! gentle maid,
Was it then he, my husband, whom these eyes
Saw perish in the storm! whose fate I wept,
Nor knew that all the cruel wreck was mine!

Melissa.
Unhappy day!

Eurydice.
Undone Eurydice!
But I will die—I should have dy'd before
When my mean cowardice, my dread of death,
Betray'd me to false Procles. I had then
Dy'd innocent: I had not then deserv'd
A ruin'd husband's curse.—O thought of horror!
Perhaps his latest breath, even in the hour
Of dreadful fate, charg'd me with all his wrongs,
His life and honour lost! perhaps expir'd
In imprecations on me!

Melissa.
Oh, for pity,
Forbear these fatal thoughts. They but inflame
The rage of real ills, and wound you deeper.

Leonidas.
Would tears, my gracious Mistress, aught avail us,
Methinks these aged eyes could number drops
With falling clouds, or the perpetual stream.
But while we mourn, our enemy rejoyces,
And sounds his cruel triumph loud to heaven:
Heart-stabbing thought! Then cease we tears and sighs,
That aid for trivial ills. Call we instead
Heaven's slumbering justice down, and loud invoke
The Powers of vengeance to our aid. Who knows
But some more happy hour remains—

Eurydice.
O no.
There is no happy hour in store for me.
All, all are past and gone. Even Hope himself,
The wretche's latest friend, is fled for ever.
Death and the grave are now my only refuge:
There even my woes may rest.

Leonidas.
And who will then
Befriend your orphan-son? What eye will pity;
What aiding hand rear his fair-springing youth,
And shelter him from want, from woe? Oh none
Think then you hear this darling of your soul,
Your Polydore, call loud on you to live,
To live for him, and by your guardian care
Supply a father's loss.

Eurydice.
Unhappy boy!
Too soon alas! acquainted with ill fortune.
And does he live?

Leonidas.

Melissa.
These trumpets speak
His near approach.

Eurydice.
Father of human kind!
Eternal Justice! hear these guilty sounds!
Behold this Tyrant's revel! while a King,
Thy great resemblance, floats a cold pale corse;
Or on the naked beach cast vilely out,
Unknown, unhonour'd lies. Leonidas,
By all my griefs I beg thee, search these shores,
Each cliff and cavern where the wild wave beats,
For my lov'd Lord, and to these widow'd arms
Give back his dear remains. But Procles comes.

SCENE V.

Procles, Medon, Leonidas, Attendants.
Procles.
Hail glorious day! auspicious fortune hail!
From this triumphant hour my future life
Runs fair and smiling on, no cloud of ill
To shade its brightness. Medon, was it not
A wonderous chance?

Medon.
Beyond our hope, my Lord.
Yet tho' the danger's o'er, with awe and trembling
I still look back to the dread precipice
Where late you stood!

Procles.
'Tis true, he had well nigh
Surpriz'd me unprovided: but th'attempt
Is perish'd with its author. From on high
Heaven arm'd his winds and seas to fight for me:
And victory is mine without my care,
Almost without my knowledge. Yes the Gods,
The Gods themselves espouse my happy cause!
For this, let flowery garlands wreathe their shrines;
Let hecatombs before their altars bleed,
And triumph reign thro' Corinth.
[Attendants withdraw.
Is the Queen
Inform'd of all, Leonidas?

Leonidas.
She is.

Procles.
And she receiv'd the news—

Leonidas.
With sad surprise,
And many tears, my Lord.

Procles.
Just the fond sex.
Such their vain grief; a moment's passing storm,
Then all is calm. Be it thy farther care,
As the receding flood forsakes the shore,
To make strict search thro' all this coast around
For Periander's Corpse. I would methinks
A while indulge my eyes; a while peruse
The features of a rival once so fam'd,
So terrible in arms; whose partial fortune
Soar'd high above, and ever thwarted mine
In all the dearer aims that swell my thought,
Love and ambition.

Leonidas.
Mark this, righteous heaven!

SCENE VI.

Procles, Medon.
Medon.
At length, Sir, all the Gods declare for you,
And fortune is your own. Your native realm,
Fair Epidaurus, peaceful and resign'd,
Acknowledges her Lord. Your rival's fate
Confirms his kingdom yours.

Procles.
Yet I am still
Unblest amidst this flow of prosperous fortune.
Not all that charms Ambition's shoreless wish,
Empire and kneeling homage, can bestow
The better joy I long for.

Medon.
Ah, my Prince,
Forget, or scorn that proud ill-natur'd fair one.

Procles.
Impossible. By heaven my soul can form
No wish, no thought but her. I tell thee, Medon,
With blushes tell thee, this proud charmer reigns
Unbounded o'er my reason. I have try'd
Each shape, each art of varied love to win her;
Alternate prayers and threats, the soothing skill
Of passionate sincerity, the fire
Of rapturous vows: but all these arts were vain.
Her rooted hate is not to be remov'd.
And 'twas my soul's first aim, the towering point
Of all my wishes, to prevail in this;
To triumph o'er my rival too in love.
That had been great revenge! but baffled here,
I'm disappointed still.

Medon.
Believe me, Sir,
When once the fit of wilfulness is o'er,
The burst of tears discharg'd, she'll quickly soften,
Stoop to your wishes, and forget a husband
Who is no more.

Procles.
Perdition on his name!
I dread his memory as my rival still.
But if I have not won her to be mine,
At least the hated husband reap'd no joy
From her fantastic honour. Stung to madness
For ill-requited love, I darkly spread
Surmizes of her truth. He thought her false:
And, as he doated on her, the dire tale
Was poison to his quiet. Jealousy,
In all its horrors, must have seiz'd his soul.
I triumph'd there!

Medon.
'Twas exquisite revenge.
I too, my Lord, who live but for your pleasure,
Your ever-faithful slave, I too combin'd
To aid your vengeance. You can still remember
When in a dungeon's depth Ariston lay,
Ariston, Periander's factious friend.
With looks of seeming pity I oft mourn'd
His hard imprisonment, complain'd of you,
Nay curs'd your cruelty; till I had brought
His unsuspecting honesty to credit
My fiction of the Queen. I told him then,
With well-dissembled hatred of her crime,
Embittering every circumstance, that she,
Forgetful of her better fame, had heard
Your secret passion, and with equal ardor
Return'd its warmth. Nay that she often urg'd you
To wreak your rage on him, the hated friend
Of Periander. Having thus alarm'd him,
After long pause I let him scape at last
To find his master out.

Procles.
I thank thee, Medon.
But this avails not much. My soul burns in me
With furious longings to subdue that woman;
To bend her pride of vertue to my passion.
I fancy, in her arms, transcendant joys,
A heaven of higher bliss, not to be found
In unresisting Beauty, woo'd and won
At idle leisure. Yet once more I mean
To try the fortune of my wishes with her:
And if I am repuls'd, away at once
All little arts of love.

Medon.
Mean while, the banquet,
Which Pleasure's curious hand hath furnish'd out
With splendid choice, awaits you, and invites
To laughing thought and triumph. There the God,
Th'inspiring God of wine, with rose-buds crown'd,
Mirth in his look, and at his side the band
Of little playful Loves, fills high the bowl,
And bids it flow unbounded. Music too
Joins her enchanting voice, and wooes the soul
With all her powerful skill of moving strains:
Till the gay hour is quite dissolv'd in bliss,
In ecstacy of revel, all-unknown
To lean-look'd Temperance, and his peevish train.

Procles.
Come on then, Medon. Life is vainly short;
A very dream of being: and when death
Has quench'd this finer flame that moves the heart,
Beyond is all oblivion, and waste night
That knows no following dawn, where we shall be
As we had never been. The Present then
Is only ours: and shall we let it pass,
Untasted, unenjoy'd? No; let us on.
Hail we the rising shade: and now while night
Leads on the secret hour of free delight,
With wanton gayety, in naked state,
Let Music, Mirth, and Love around us wait.