 | Cyrus |  |
SCENE, A wood, a stately pavilion erected for Astyages; view of a temple at a distance.
Mandane, Aspasia.
Mandane.
Behold the limits of the Median land,
And see the temple where Astyages
Returns each year to shed the victim's blood,
On great Astarte's altar—O! Aspasia!
This is the place, the day, nam'd by my father,
To bless me with the tenderest interview;
Here shall I meet again my long lost Cyrus:
Is he not found, was he not snatch'd from death,
Sav'd by some God to fill these eager arms!
And is not this the happy destin'd grove,
Where once again I shall embrace my child?
Aspasia.
'Tis true—but what can all this passion mean?
Mandane.
What can it mean!—where is my Cyrus hid?
What does he?—wherefore comes he not?
Aspasia.
Alas!
Time, wing'd with swiftest pinions, lags behind
The ardent wishes of a mother's love.
Thou know'st the hour of sacrifice is fix'd
For his reception; that we must not pay
Our vows to night's pale queen, till yonder sun
Declines to ev'ning skies, and now his beams
But just begin to dawn o'er eastern hills.
Mandane.
Alas! Aspasia,—still I fear—
Aspasia.
And wherefore?
When now Astyages no longer seeks
His death, but wishes to behold his Cyrus,
To give him back a parent's kind protection,
And shew, in him, our Media's future king?
Mandane.
Yet if the visions of the night may claim
Belief—a dreadful dream—
Aspasia.
And shall Mandane
Be mov'd with shadows! sure you should detest
Such visionary fears; from these you first
May date your sorrows: well you know, your father,
On the vain credit of a dream, condemn'd
Your Cyrus to be slain; nor this suffic'd;
But that the nuptial bed no more might prove
Fruitful to thee in children, and to him
Give endless cause of terror, far from hence
To banishment he sent your lord, your husband,
Your dear Cambyses, where, in Persia's realm
He lives, an alien to his consort's arms.
Mandane.
And yet 'tis not a dream that twice ten years
Have seen the chearful harvest crown our fields,
Since at his birth my child was ravish'd from me.
On this blest day I hope once more to see him,
And thinks Aspasia now to find me calm?
Aspasia.
You lost your Cyrus when your age had scarce
Beheld the round of thirteen annual suns;
And can you still so deeply feel the grief
Imprest in life's first bloom?
Mandane.
Alas! Aspasia,
Thou know'st not what it is to be a mother.
Aspasia.
Yet your Aspasia too has known her sorrows:
If you lament a husband and a son,
I mourn a brother's loss, who fell beneath
The vengeful anger of Astyages.
Mandane.
There, there, my bosom shar'd thy father's sufferings,
And oft I've wept in secret his misfortunes.
Unhappy man! a fatal recompense
My father gave thee for his grandson sav'd!
What hast thou suffer'd for thy love to Cyrus,
Thy loyal truth!—but see, the good man comes,
He comes, perchance, with tidings of my son—
O haste, my Harpagus, where is he?
Enter Harpagus.
Harpagus.
Princess,
Your son is now arriv'd.
Mandane.
Arriv'd!—ah!—where?
Harpagus.
He must not, till Astyages appears,
Presume to pass the borders of the kingdom:
'Tis so decreed.
Mandane.
Then let us seek him out
Where now impatient, with long exil'd feet,
He comes to tread his native wish'd-for soil,
And ease a mother's pains.
[Going.
Harpagus.
It must not be.
Mandane, stay—your father will be present,
A witness to your meeting.
Mandane.
Wherefore then
This long delay?—O did Astyages
Feel half Mandane feels, these arms had now
Embrac'd my dearest Cyrus! what detains
My father thus?
Harpagus.
'Ere now he's on his way;
But the long pomp that waits on Media's kings,
Forbids his swift approach.
Mandane.
And must Mandane
Attend the dull and tedious forms of state?
Aspasia, if thou lov'st me, instant go,
And seek the blooming youth—Yet stay, and hear me—
Observe his air, his voice, his ev'ry look;
Mark if his features bear his mother's likeness,
Or his lov'd father's—But, alas! I rave;
Thou never knew'st his hapless banish'd father!
Relate my sufferings, and enquire of his:
Ask what kind hand supply'd a mother's care;
How when, Mandane, torn with heart-felt anguish,
Deem'd him a prey to savage rage, the woods
Preserv'd him in their hospitable shades.
Tell him—O heaven! I know not what—but tell him
More than a mother's fondness can express,
Not what I speak, but all I wish to utter.
O fly! and with the rapid speed of thought,
Return to my impatience.
[Exit Aspasia.
Harpagus.
Should this day,
That gives once more your son to your embrace,
Restore Cambyses to you—
Mandane.
Would to heaven
I might indulge that hope—All gracious powers!
What torture in his exile must he feel,
To hear his son yet lives; to know this day
Restores my Cyrus to his native land;
Yet be deny'd to gaze with transport on him,
Or clasp him in a father's sheltering arms!
Harpagus.
Hear, and be silent;—happier fortune now
Prepares to crown each wish your soul can form;
Cambyses is at hand.
Mandane.
Cambyses! where?
O! tell me, Harpagus.
Harpagus.
I dare not further
Explain it now—let this suffice.
Mandane.
Alas!
I fear thou dost deceive me.
Harpagus.
No, Mandane,
Trust to my faith.—This day you shall behold him.
Mandane.
Ye powers! what deluge of unhop'd-for bliss
Now bursts upon me! O my son! my husband!
Happy Mandane—Harpagus, my friend,
Teach me to bear this wild excess of joy.
Harpagus.
Be calm, compose your looks; let not the king
Perceive this conflict of tumultuous passions.
Mandane.
Yes, I will go, and meet Astyages;
Will strive to hide the strugglings of my soul,
Check these emotions, though my swelling bosom
Can scarce find room to hold the mighty transport;
Transport, which only such as I can feel,
And only those, who love like me, conceive.
[Exit.
Harpagus
alone.
Thus far 'tis well.—This day I mean to shew
The hidden Cyrus to the expecting world.
The realm is ripe for a revolt; the nobles
Resolve to invest him with the regal sway—
But my resentment still demands its victim:
Yes, dearest shade of my lamented son,
For ever present to thy father's sight,
Thou yet shalt be appeas'd; for this so long
I've worn the mask of loyalty—but now
Vengeance is on the wing she tow'rs aloft,
And, like an eagle, kens her destin'd prey.
[Exit.
Mandane, Aspasia.
Mandane.
Behold the limits of the Median land,
And see the temple where Astyages
Returns each year to shed the victim's blood,
On great Astarte's altar—O! Aspasia!
This is the place, the day, nam'd by my father,
To bless me with the tenderest interview;
Here shall I meet again my long lost Cyrus:
Is he not found, was he not snatch'd from death,
Sav'd by some God to fill these eager arms!
And is not this the happy destin'd grove,
Where once again I shall embrace my child?
2
'Tis true—but what can all this passion mean?
Mandane.
What can it mean!—where is my Cyrus hid?
What does he?—wherefore comes he not?
Aspasia.
Alas!
Time, wing'd with swiftest pinions, lags behind
The ardent wishes of a mother's love.
Thou know'st the hour of sacrifice is fix'd
For his reception; that we must not pay
Our vows to night's pale queen, till yonder sun
Declines to ev'ning skies, and now his beams
But just begin to dawn o'er eastern hills.
Mandane.
Alas! Aspasia,—still I fear—
Aspasia.
And wherefore?
When now Astyages no longer seeks
His death, but wishes to behold his Cyrus,
To give him back a parent's kind protection,
And shew, in him, our Media's future king?
Mandane.
Yet if the visions of the night may claim
Belief—a dreadful dream—
Aspasia.
And shall Mandane
Be mov'd with shadows! sure you should detest
Such visionary fears; from these you first
3
On the vain credit of a dream, condemn'd
Your Cyrus to be slain; nor this suffic'd;
But that the nuptial bed no more might prove
Fruitful to thee in children, and to him
Give endless cause of terror, far from hence
To banishment he sent your lord, your husband,
Your dear Cambyses, where, in Persia's realm
He lives, an alien to his consort's arms.
Mandane.
And yet 'tis not a dream that twice ten years
Have seen the chearful harvest crown our fields,
Since at his birth my child was ravish'd from me.
On this blest day I hope once more to see him,
And thinks Aspasia now to find me calm?
Aspasia.
You lost your Cyrus when your age had scarce
Beheld the round of thirteen annual suns;
And can you still so deeply feel the grief
Imprest in life's first bloom?
Mandane.
Alas! Aspasia,
Thou know'st not what it is to be a mother.
Aspasia.
Yet your Aspasia too has known her sorrows:
If you lament a husband and a son,
I mourn a brother's loss, who fell beneath
The vengeful anger of Astyages.
4
There, there, my bosom shar'd thy father's sufferings,
And oft I've wept in secret his misfortunes.
Unhappy man! a fatal recompense
My father gave thee for his grandson sav'd!
What hast thou suffer'd for thy love to Cyrus,
Thy loyal truth!—but see, the good man comes,
He comes, perchance, with tidings of my son—
O haste, my Harpagus, where is he?
Enter Harpagus.
Harpagus.
Princess,
Your son is now arriv'd.
Mandane.
Arriv'd!—ah!—where?
Harpagus.
He must not, till Astyages appears,
Presume to pass the borders of the kingdom:
'Tis so decreed.
Mandane.
Then let us seek him out
Where now impatient, with long exil'd feet,
He comes to tread his native wish'd-for soil,
And ease a mother's pains.
[Going.
Harpagus.
It must not be.
Mandane, stay—your father will be present,
A witness to your meeting.
5
Wherefore then
This long delay?—O did Astyages
Feel half Mandane feels, these arms had now
Embrac'd my dearest Cyrus! what detains
My father thus?
Harpagus.
'Ere now he's on his way;
But the long pomp that waits on Media's kings,
Forbids his swift approach.
Mandane.
And must Mandane
Attend the dull and tedious forms of state?
Aspasia, if thou lov'st me, instant go,
And seek the blooming youth—Yet stay, and hear me—
Observe his air, his voice, his ev'ry look;
Mark if his features bear his mother's likeness,
Or his lov'd father's—But, alas! I rave;
Thou never knew'st his hapless banish'd father!
Relate my sufferings, and enquire of his:
Ask what kind hand supply'd a mother's care;
How when, Mandane, torn with heart-felt anguish,
Deem'd him a prey to savage rage, the woods
Preserv'd him in their hospitable shades.
Tell him—O heaven! I know not what—but tell him
More than a mother's fondness can express,
Not what I speak, but all I wish to utter.
O fly! and with the rapid speed of thought,
Return to my impatience.
[Exit Aspasia.
6
Should this day,
That gives once more your son to your embrace,
Restore Cambyses to you—
Mandane.
Would to heaven
I might indulge that hope—All gracious powers!
What torture in his exile must he feel,
To hear his son yet lives; to know this day
Restores my Cyrus to his native land;
Yet be deny'd to gaze with transport on him,
Or clasp him in a father's sheltering arms!
Harpagus.
Hear, and be silent;—happier fortune now
Prepares to crown each wish your soul can form;
Cambyses is at hand.
Mandane.
Cambyses! where?
O! tell me, Harpagus.
Harpagus.
I dare not further
Explain it now—let this suffice.
Mandane.
Alas!
I fear thou dost deceive me.
Harpagus.
No, Mandane,
Trust to my faith.—This day you shall behold him.
7
Ye powers! what deluge of unhop'd-for bliss
Now bursts upon me! O my son! my husband!
Happy Mandane—Harpagus, my friend,
Teach me to bear this wild excess of joy.
Harpagus.
Be calm, compose your looks; let not the king
Perceive this conflict of tumultuous passions.
Mandane.
Yes, I will go, and meet Astyages;
Will strive to hide the strugglings of my soul,
Check these emotions, though my swelling bosom
Can scarce find room to hold the mighty transport;
Transport, which only such as I can feel,
And only those, who love like me, conceive.
[Exit.
Harpagus
alone.
Thus far 'tis well.—This day I mean to shew
The hidden Cyrus to the expecting world.
The realm is ripe for a revolt; the nobles
Resolve to invest him with the regal sway—
But my resentment still demands its victim:
Yes, dearest shade of my lamented son,
For ever present to thy father's sight,
Thou yet shalt be appeas'd; for this so long
I've worn the mask of loyalty—but now
Vengeance is on the wing she tow'rs aloft,
And, like an eagle, kens her destin'd prey.
[Exit.
| Cyrus | |