University of Virginia Library

SCENE THE SECOND.

Myrrha, Cinyras, Cecris.
Ce.
Beloved daughter,
Ah, come to us! ah come!

My.
What do I see?
Oh heaven! my father also! ...

Cin.
Haste, advance;
Our only hope and life, advance securely;
And apprehend not my paternal aspect
More than thou fear'st thy mother's. We are both
Ready to hear thee. Now, if thou art pleased
The cause to tell us of thy cruel state,
Thou giv'st us life; but if it rather please thee,
Or spare thy apprehensive delicacy
More, to conceal it, thou may'st also, daughter,
Conceal it; for thy pleasure will be ours.
To eternize the matrimonial tie
One hour alone is wanting: every one
Deems it a thing decided: but, if yet
Thy will is changed; if thy committed faith
Be irksome to thy heart; if thy free choice,
Though once spontaneous, be no longer such;
Be bold; fear nothing in the world; reveal
All the misgivings of thy heart to us.
Thou art by nothing bound; and we ourselves
The first release thee; and thy generous lover,
Worthy of thee, confirms this liberty.
Nor will we tax thee with inconstancy:
Rather will we admit, that thoughts mature,
Though unforeseen, constrain thee to this change.
By base regards thou never canst be moved;
Thy noble character, thy lofty thoughts,
Thy love for us, full well we know them all:
A step of thee, and of thy blood unworthy,
Thou never could'st e'en think it. Freely then
Do thou fulfil thy wish. Provided thou
Art once more happy, with that happiness
Thou renderest thy parents happy also.
Now, this thy present will whate'er it be,
Do thou to us reveal it as to brothers.

Ce.
Ah yes, thou seest, Myrrha! Never didst thou
Hear words of more persuasive tenderness,
More mild, more tender, from thy mother's lips
Than these.

My.
... Is there a torment in the world
That can compare with mine! ...

Ce.
But what is this?
Sighing, thou mutterest to thyself?

Cin.
Ah let,
Ah let thy heart speak to us: we will use
No other language with thee—Quick, reply.

My.
... My lord ...

Cin.
Ah Myrrha, 'tis a sad beginning:
To thee I am a father, not a lord:
Canst thou invoke me with another name,
Oh daughter?

My.
Myrrha, this is the last conflict.—
Be strong, my soul ...

Ce.
Oh heaven! ... The hues of death
Upon her countenance ...

My.
On mine? ...

Cin.
But whence
Tremblest thou thus? At me? ...

My.
... I tremble not ...
Methinks—or I, at least, no more shall tremble,
Since ye now so compassionately hear me.—
Your only, your too well beloved daughter,
I well know that I am. I see you always,
My joys enjoying, grieving in my griefs;
E'en this my grief increases. Mine, alas!
Passes the confines of a natural sorrow;
In vain I hide it; and to you would speak it, ...
If I knew it myself.—My fatal sadness
With growing years augmented every day,
Long ere, amid the illustrious company
Of noble lovers, Pereus I selected.
Within my breast an angry deity,
Unknown, inexorable, dwells; and hence,
All power of mine is vain against his power ...
Mother, believe me; though I be but young,
My mind, e'en passing ordinary strength,
Was, and is, strong: but my distemper'd frame,
That yields o'er-burthen'd; ... and I feel myself
With slow, though sure steps, tottering to the tomb ...
All food, though scanty, and though only touch'd
At distant intervals, to me is poison:
Sleep everlastingly forsakes my pillow;
Or dreams, with horrid images of death,
My frame enervate more than sleepless nights.
I do not find, throughout the day or night,
A moment's peace, an instant of repose,
A place that seems a resting place to me.
Yet nothing in the shape of human comfort
Do I presume to covet; death I deem,
Expect, solicit as, my only cure.
But, for my punishment, does Nature yet,
With her tenacious and invisible bands,
Protract my lingering life. I pity now,
And now I hate, myself: I weep, and rave,
And weep again. This, this is the incessant,
Insufferable, fierce vicissitude,
In which I drag along my heavy days.—
But what? ... Do you too at my horrid state
Shed tears? ... Beloved mother! ... let me then, ...
To thy breast clinging, ... drinking in thy tears, ...
Forego the sense of suffering for a moment! ...

Ce.
Beloved daughter, at a tale like this,
Who could refrain from weeping? ...

Cin.
At her words
I feel my bosom rent ... But finally,
What ought we now to do? ...

My.
But finally,
(Ah! trust to what I say) I ne'er conceived
The wish to afflict you, or to extort from you
Vain pity for myself, describing thus,
Or trying to describe what mocks description,
My fierce unutterable pangs.—When I,
By chusing Pereus, had fix'd my fate,
At first, 'tis true, I to myself appear'd
Somewhat less troubled; but within my heart
Proportionably fierce my grief return'd,
As nearer and more near the day approach'd
For forming the indissoluble tie.
So much so, that three times indeed I dared
To beg you to procrastinate the day.
In these delays I somewhat calm'd myself;
But, as the time diminish'd, all my pangs
Resumed their wonted fierceness. To their height,
To my consummate shame, consummate grief,
Are they to-day arrived: but something tells me
That they, to-day, are giving in my breast,
The last proof of their strength. This day shall see me
Consort to Pereus, or ... a breathless corse.—

Ce.
What do I hear? ... Oh daughter! ... Wilt thou thus
In these lugubrious nuptials persevere? ...

Cin.
No, this shall never be. Thou lov'st not Pereus;
And, spite of inclination, thou, in vain,
Would'st give thyself to him.

My.
Ah, do not ye
Take me from him; or quickly give me death ...
'Tis true, perhaps, I love him not as much
As he loves me; ... and yet, of this I doubt ...
Believe, that I sufficiently esteem him;
And that no other man in all the world,
If he have not, shall have my hand. I hope
That Pereus, one day, as he ought to be,
Will to my heart be dear; living with him
In constant and inseparable faith,
I hope that, by his means, peace will return,
Joy will return to me; that life may be
Still dear to me, and peradventrue happy.
Ah! if I hitherto have loved him not
As he deserves, 'tis not a fault of mine,
But rather of my state; which makes me first
Abhor myself ... Him have I chosen once:
And now again I chuse him: wish for him,
Solicit him, and him alone. My choice
Beyond expression to yourselves was grateful:
Be then, as ye will'd, and as now I will,
The whole accomplish'd. Do ye try to rise
Above your daughter's grief too, since that daughter
Who suffers it, rises above that grief.
I will, ere long, as much as in me lies,
Come to these nuptials cheerfully; and ye,
Perchance, will hold yourselves indebted to them
For days of future peace.

Ce.
Oh matchless daughter!
How many rare perfections thou unitest!

Cin.
Thy words a little calm me; but I tremble ...

My.
I feel, while thus in conference with you,
My strength return. I may again perchance
Wholly become the mistress of myself,
If the gods will, provided ye will lend
Me your assistance.

Cin.
What assistance?

Ce.
Speak!
We will do every thing.

My.
I am constrain'd
Once more to grieve you. Hear.—To my worn breast,
And to my troubled, weak, distemper'd mind,
The sight of objects new to me will prove
A potent remedy; and this will be
Effectual in proportion as 'tis speedy.
What it will cost me to abandon you,
Oh heaven! I cannot say; my tears will tell it,
When I give you the terrible farewell:
If without falling lifeless ... in thy arms,
I can, ... oh mother, ... do it ... But, if yet
I can abandon you, the day will come,
When, to this generous effort, I shall owe
Life, peace, and happiness.

Ce.
Dost thou thus speak
Of leaving us? Would'st do it instantly?
At once dost fear and wish to do it? Whence
Such inconsistency? ...

Cin.
T'abandon us? ...
And what remains to us deprived of thee?
Thou may'st at leisure afterwards depart
To Pereus' father; but meanwhile ere this
With us enjoy protracted happiness ...

My.
But if 'tis now impossible for me
Here to be happy, would ye rather see me
In Cyprus dead, than, from a foreign shore,
Hear tidings of my full felicity?—
Sooner, or later, to Epirus' realm
My destiny invites me: there should I
With Pereus finally abide. To you,
When Pereus the paternal sceptre sways,
One day will we return. Ye shall again
In Cyprus see me, if the gods so grant,
The joyful mother of a numerous offspring:
And we will leave to you, of all our children
The one which ye love best, to be the prop
Of your declining years. Thus of your blood
Shall ye possess an heir to this rich realm;
Since offspring of the stronger sex, the gods
Have hitherto denied to you. Then first,
The day on which ye suffer'd me to go,
Will ye commemorate with blessings.—Ah,
Grant that to-morrow Pereus and I
Spread to the wind our sails. Within my heart
I feel a certain and tremendous presage,
That I, if ye prohibit my departure,
Alas! within this inauspicious palace,
Remain to-day th' inevitable victim
Of an inscrutable and unknown power:
That ye will lose me everlastingly ...
Do you, I pray, compassionately yield
To my fantastic presage; or be pleased,
Indulging my distemper'd phantasy,
To second what perchance ye deem an error.
My life, my destiny, and also (Heavens!
I shudder as I speak) your destiny,
All, all, too much depend on my departure.

Ce.
Oh daughter! ...

Cin.
Ah! ... thy accents make me tremble ...
But yet, if such thy will, so be it done.
Whate'er may be my grief, I would prefer
Never to see thee, than to see thee thus.—
And thou, sweet consort, mute, and motionless,
In tears? ... Consentest thou to her desire?

Ce.
Ah! could her absence kill me, as (alas!)
I feel assured that I shall hence be doomed
To languish in immitigable tears! ...
Ah! might the augury one day prove true
Which she suggested of her precious offspring; ...
But yet, since such is her fantastic wish,
So that she live, let it be gratified.

My.
Beloved mother, now thou givest me
Life for the second time.—Within an hour
Shall I be ready for the nuptial rites.—
Whether I love you, time will prove to you;
Though now I seem impatient to forsake you.—
Now, for a little while, do I retire
To my apartments: fain would I appear
With tearless eyes before the sacred altar;
And worthy of acceptance, and approved,
With brow serene my noble consort meet.