 | The Siege of Sinope |  |
SCENE III.
ATHRIDATES, ARTAXIAS.ARTAXIAS.
Behold yon liquid plain!—Its smooth expanse
Late vex'd with blackening storms, like a clear mirror
Reflects the setting sun, whose quivering beams
Play on the glassy surface! Happy emblem
Of this propitious day!
6
Calm is the sea,
The winds are hush'd, and every wave at peace;
'Tis in my bosom the big tempest rages.
ARTAXIAS.
My lord!—
ATHRIDATES.
Artaxias, to thy faithful breast
Thy master trusts his every care. The hour
Dear to my soul, and fondly sought, approaches.
ARTAXIAS.
To-morrow's dawn shall see your vows exchang'd
With Pontus' warlike monarch; shall behold
Your blended incense rise, in curling volumes,
A grateful offering to the powers divine.
ATHRIDATES.
Bellona, guardian goddess of my realm,
In fair Comana's lofty walls ador'd,
First claims my grateful vow. She nerv'd my arm;
And o'er the land, by fell dismay attended,
March'd by my side, array'd in all her terrors,
And shook her brandish'd spear: She gave me conquest,
The glorious meed of heroes.
ARTAXIAS.
The fierce hour
Of raging indignation is elaps'd,
Is past for ever.
ATHRIDATES.
Yes, 'tis past—for ever:
The fruitful olive now o'ertops the laurel.
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She will recall those times of wild contention,
When, driv'n by Mithridates from my throne,
With unrelenting, savage, fury driven!—
Yon vast expanse of waves, this globe of earth,
No longer found for thy insulted lord
A kind asylum from the victor's rage.—
Canst thou forget my son, in youth's first prime,
A beauteous branch, torn from the parent stem,
And falling, in gay vernal bloom, to earth?
Canst thou forget the sorrows which for him
Have harrow'd up this bosom?
ARTAXIAS.
By the chance
Of furious war he fell, with glory fell,
And stain'd his youthful sword with hostile blood.
ATHRIDATES.
I saw him fall; still rest the traces here:
I live,—and yet his spirit unappeas'd
Upbraids my lingering vengeance.
ARTAXIAS.
Why pursue
On Pontus' guiltless king a father's crimes?
ATHRIDATES.
Tho' years on years have roll'd, still, at the name
Of Mithridates, keen resentment points
The sleeping thunder; the stern furies rise
With ten-fold serpents crown'd.
ARTAXIAS.
Be all your wrongs,
My royal lord, forgot!—
8
Yet more, Pharnaces,
This friend, this new ally, did he not bear,
At dead of night, from these defenceless arms,
My child, my Thamyris; the only hope
Of my declining years; the only hope
His father's sword had left me?
ARTAXIAS.
On his throne
She more than shares his power, respected, lov'd—
The idol of his soul!
ATHRIDATES.
She was my pride,
My joy, my age's comfort, fair as nature
Fresh from the forming hands of mighty Jove:
Nor was her mind less perfect, fram'd, at once,
To give the hour of private life its grace,
Or share the toils of empire.—But no more!—
Let me not thus, with retrospective eye,
Recall the fatal past.
ARTAXIAS.
O Athridates!
Great Lord of nations, learn, at last, to vanquish
Thy own unconquer'd heart.
ATHRIDATES.
What wou'd thy zeal!—
Have I not pledg'd my faith?
ARTAXIAS.
The faith of kings
Should be irrevocable as the mandate
From Jove's imperial throne. 'Tis not an hour
Since to th' ambassador, in yonder tent,
Your royal hand was given in pledge of peace.
| The Siege of Sinope | |