University of Virginia Library

[[SCENE II.]]

SCENE Opens to the inward Part of the Temple. An Image of Diana with a Bow and Quiver is seen. An Altar with a Fire on it. Priests attending.
Enter Iphigenia.
Iphig.
Fate urges on the black, tremendous Moment;
Impatient of Delay, the Scythian Tyrant
Demands the Rites, and raves aloud for Blood.
Oh! wherefore am I weak with Woman's Fears?
Why have I not the noble daring Soul
To brave the fierce Barbarian's stern Commands,
And earn from him that Wound, I dread to give?
'Tis base to shrink at Guilt, yet fear to die,
And shun the Perpetration of that Guilt.
Conscience, that makes us Cowards in Offence,
Should make us valiant to avoid a Crime.
Inhuman Goddess! Blood-demanding Queen!
Dart thy fell Shafts at this devoted Breast,
Which stands reluctant to the Task of Death,
And hates the Business of thy savage Shrine.
I shake to lift the executing Steel,
With such an Horror as its murth'ring Point
Were turn'd on One, that twinn'd with me in Birth.
[A Sound of flat Trumpets within.
Ha! the hoarse Trumpet gives the dreadful Summons.
The hideous Rites come on, th'unhallow'd Flames
Rise on the Altar, and demand the Victim.

Orestes and Pylades are brought in bound from opposite Quarters of the Stage, attended by Priests.
Iphig.
They come: Distraction!—teach me, righteous Gods,
How shall I not pronounce the Doom of Death,
Yet save the Man I love?

Aside.
Pylad.
Most charming Maid!
I'll spare your Tongue the all-displeasing Task
[To Iphigenia.
Of pointing out a Wretch, that waits his Doom.—
Come, bind my Brow with your infernal Chaplets;
And I will wear them as the Wreaths of Triumph.

Orest.
What means my Friend?

Pylad.
To save the best of Men;
And by my Death attone my past Offence.

Orest.
It must not be:—Scythians, the Lot is mine:
Wilful, foreknowing your sworn Hate to Greece,
I entred in Despight your hostile Clime;
And fearless court the Death, I thus provok'd.

Pylad.
Alas! he raves:—The gallant, luckless Youth
Beneath my Banners came to wage the War;
By Friendship only seconding my Crime.
If you aspire to wreak your Hate on Greece,
Do it on him, who, did not these curst Bonds
Controul my Rage, purpos'd the like on you.
Enter Thoas, attended.
Behold me, with determin'd Soul, your Foe;
And those tall Barks, that threaten now your Coast,
Wait my Command to pour Destruction on you.
I know, my faithful Troops will soon revenge me;
And, in that Knowledge, I defy your Rage:
Nay, it behoves you to be quick in Act,
Or they will snatch me from your baffled Malice.

Thoas.
Whence this Delay? What mean th'unmanner'd Priests
To loiter thus? Begin the Sacrifice.

Orest.
Cease, cease, my Friend, the unavailing Contest,
And leave me to my Fate. Be thine this Glory;
Report me, how I took the Stroke of Death,
Then head my Subjects to revenge their Prince,
And wrest the Sceptre from his Tyrant Hand.

Thoas.
Extravagance of Daring!—Doubly brav'd!
Can Death have Charms to justify this Strife?—

Pylad.
Now by thy Father's injur'd Shade, I beg,
By all th'Endearments of our Friendship past,
By that big Glory my Soul pants to earn,
Forego thy Claim: or, hear me, awful Justice!
And witness, Jove!—I will not live behind thee.

Orest.
No more:—It must not be. Tyrant, proceed.

Pylad.
Proceed:—We both are Grecians, Princes both,
And both alike contemn thy Pow'r and Thee.

Iphig.
Where will this glorious, dreadful Contest end!

Thoas.
Their Insolence demands that Both should die;
Yet, since our Sentence was, that one should 'scape,
(And one stands foremost in our Eye of Hate;)
We will begin the Work of Vengeance, where
Th'Election of our hallow'd Urn directs it.
Straight with our Garlands bind the Victim's Brow;
And to our Priestess give the solemn Steel.

[The Priests crown Orestes, and lead him towards the Altar. One offers the Knife to Iphigenia. A Peal of Thunder is heard. The Flame on the Altar goes out.
Priest.
Avert these Omens, Heav'n! the sick'ning Flame,
All fierce before, starts from the sacred Brands,
Now dead and unsusceptible of Fire.

Thoas.
On with the Rites; rekindle the sunk Flame:
And with fresh Zeal appease the wrathful Goddess.

Priest.
Urge not our Zeal, 'till better Omens offer.

Thoas.
Pernicious Caitiffs! I shall find a Time
To make you fear an injur'd Monarch's Wrath:
Ye Coward Herd! Give me the sacred Knife;
I'll execute her Vengeance and my own.
[As Thoas snatches the Knife, and goes to stab Orestes, two Dragons rise out of the Earth, and bear him away; and Circe appears above in her Chariot, drawn by Dragons.
O spight of Hell! Confusion! Disappointment!
This is the Working of the Sorc'ress Queen,
Injurious Circe, that ungrateful Spoiler,
Who thus repays my Benefits with Wrongs;
Slights my sworn Vows, and her own plighted Faith;
And in the Face of Heav'n, in Shame to Virtue,
Affronts my Majesty, and robs my Vengeance.

Circe.
Rail on, and curse that Stubbornness of Purpose,
Which would presume with impotent Efforts
To cross my Will. Be Jealousy thy Plague!
Yet, in despight of weak, ill-judging Passion,
I'll save thee from the Dangers of thy Spleen;
And guard a Throne, thy Rashness aims to ruin.

[Circe is carried off in her Chariot.
Thoas.
False, false Adult'ress! this is but the Painting,
The Varnish of thy soul, luxurious Guilt.
Injurious Gods! why made you me a King,
Yet arm'd my sceptred Hand with Pow'r no better
Than that, which Nature's meanest Drudges boast?
O, for the Thunderbolt of darting Jove!
That I might reach the Traitress in her Flight,
Now, now, she trains him to the magick Bower:
But I'll pursue her, tho' to Hell she lead him.
Suspend the Rites, 'till we regain the Minion;
All Vengeance now displeases, but on her.
[Exit Thoas attended.

Iphig.
You righteous Pow'rs, that from your awful Thrones
Look down with Pity, when our Pray'rs are just;
Thanks to your Virtues, that have yet prorogued
The dreadful Thought-affrighting Hour, and sav'd
Poor Iphigenia from the Crime of Blood.

Pylad.
What do I hear? O Transport!—Do I wake?
Or are my Senses charm'd with sweet Delusion?
It must be she; her Majesty of Form,
Beauties unparagon'd, and gen'rous Pity,
Are Proofs most pregnant of the Royal Maid.
Did you not say, your Name was Iphigenia?

Iphig.
I did, but what of that? Such was my Name,
While better Fortune made it worth Remembrance:
I would forget it now: And much I fear,
Your Raptures suit but ill your lost Condition.

Pylad.
Where is my Friend? Return him, ye just Gods!
And let me to his Ear transport the Tidings,
Then do your mighty Pleasures.

Iphig.
Can it be,
(Inform my Wonder, if it errs;) that you,
Who would have dy'd in Ransom of your Friend,
Should wish him back to a fresh Scene of Horrors?

Pylad.
Hold; yet instruct me farther, heav'nly Maid;
For I am wrapt in Wonder deep as you.
That you're of Greece, I've heard; where just Report
Spoke loud ere-while of Agamemnon's Name.
She weeps,—and ev'ry precious Tear that falls
Is rich with Confirmation!—That great Chief,
In Death ill-fated, left one princely Son,
Orestes nam'd:—

Iphig.
My Brother!—Bless him, Heav'n!
If yet he lives, fall Glories thick upon him!
Nor let my hapless Fortunes reach his Ear,
To wound him with a Grief!

Pylad.
'Tis she:—O Joy!
Let Ecstasy pronounce it to my Soul,
Remorse is at an End; I've now no Pardons
To ask of Friendship for a misplac'd Love.
My Eyes and Heart, unknowing, follow'd Fate;
And felt the Influence of the destin'd Charmer.

Iphig.
Stranger, your Words seem big with mighty Meaning,
Some Birth of Fate, lab'ring to be disclos'd,
That keeps aloof from Sense: their mystick Tenour
Dark as the Raptures of prophetick Seers,
Yet fraught, like Oracles, with wond'rous Import.

Pylad.
I fear, I've said too much; this austere Guard,
These Men, that should be holy,—

Iphig.
Fear not them;
They are, like Me, reluctant to these Rites;
Servants of Virtue, tho' constrain'd to Guilt.
I know, they will in faithful Silence bury
Whate'er you utter.

Pylad.
Then there's yet a Hope.
But oh! let's move from this portentous Shrine,
Here Horror keeps her State,—to that lone Isle,
My first kind Prison, where I knelt before thee,
And found thee pitying as Jove's best-lov'd Mercy.
There, in Requital, I'll unfold a Tale,
Shall sooth thy Heart with Scenes of op'ning Joy:
Which these good, venerable, Men shall join
To think the Promise, and the Work, of Heav'n;
And catch the Omens of our dawning Rescue.

[Exeunt Pylades, and Iphigenia, Priests following.