 | Leucothoe |  |
58
SCENE VI.
PHOEBUS, CLYTIE, &c. &c.Phoebus.
Desist, desist; your pains are fruitless all,
The vital spirit's fled beyond recal,
Sunk to those shades from whence it ne'er must rise,
From whence grim Pluto never yields a prize.
Inexorable pow'r!—Oh might we mix
Ev'n here, content from heav'n I would remove,
Upon thy ruthless sepulchre to fix
A monument of wretchedness and love.
One of the Horæ.
Far be such sorrows from the God of Day,
Who next to Jove bears universal sway;
Suppose your mistress dead, exert your pow'r,
She still may glide a stream, expand a flow'r;
Or rising stately in the sylvan scene,
Stretch forth a leafy umbrage o'er the green.
Phoebus.
It shall be so; yes, dear unhappy maid,
Since thy sad lover can no farther aid:
Since stubborn Death denies to loose his hold,
And yield thy beauties in their proper mold,
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And strait do thou thy former species leave.
Exist—tho' not as thou wert wont to be;
No more a woman, flourish in a tree!
So shall thy body changed, as heretofore,
Teach deities to bend, and mortals to adore.
Chorus.
What sudden fragrance fills the air!
Lo! the blooming shoots appear!
Parent earth,
Assist the birth,
So shall her body, chang'd as heretofore,
Teach deities to bend, and mortals to adore.
The body of Leucothöe, supposed to be changed into a tree of frankincense, rises slowly out of the rock.
Phoebus.
Thrice sacred plant!
Thus Heav'n thy favour'd growth endows;
A spicy scent
Spring ever from thy teeming boughs,
While round thy root rich unguent flows.
The tears you shed,
To Gods a grateful sacrifice,
On altars laid,
In aromatic smoke shall rise,
And plead for mortals with the skies.
[Phœbus about to withdraw.
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starting up, catches hold of his robe.
By the breeze that passing sighs,
By the rocks that round us rise;
By the stars that dimly glow,
Witness of my present woe;
By the mountains, by the woods,
By the grotto's, by the floods,
By the dear transporting nights,
Witness of our past delights:
For love—for former friendship's sake,
I charge you stay—and hear me speak.
Phoebus.
Unhand me!
Clytie.
Mercy!
Phoebus.
Fury, let me go!
Or—
Clytie.
Never, never will I loose you.—Oh
Grant me a little strength!—Do break my hands!
Destroy me! Dash me on those flinty sands!
Yet still persisting will I hold you fast,
And, striving to embrace you, breathe my last.
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dragging her out of sight.
Nay, then!
Clytie.
O stay—Kind Venus, help afford!
Here let me grow a statue!
Phoebus,
returning.
At your word
I take you.—Be the thing that you desire,
A dread example of immortal ire:
Fix'd to that spot, remain to future times,
An instance of my veng'ance, and your crimes.
Clytie,
behind the rocks.
What!—What is this I feel?—I'm bound,
My feet are rooted to the ground.
A sudden stupor o'er me comes,
That ev'ry faculty benumbs;
Cold, cold, I freeze!
My blood congeals,
My eye-sight fails,
Death invades me by degrees.
I stiffen upward—Cruel—so!
My heart—my voice—help—help me—oh!
Phoebus.
Tis thus I have reveng'd, in one just hour,
My injur'd love, and my offended pow'r.
Expose that wretch!
My injur'd love, and my offended pow'r.
Expose that wretch!
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Such ever be the end
Of those rash mortals who with Gods contend.
But first to finish what there yet remains!
Thou horrid prospect of dry, sandy plains,
Unfit, all rueful as ye now appear,
To nurse the precious reliques of my dear,
Smooth your rough face—with instant verdure crown'd,
Let smiling Spring encompass ye around;
While we in decent sorrows mourn the dead,
And with due rites appease her injur'd shade.
Of those rash mortals who with Gods contend.
But first to finish what there yet remains!
Thou horrid prospect of dry, sandy plains,
Unfit, all rueful as ye now appear,
To nurse the precious reliques of my dear,
Smooth your rough face—with instant verdure crown'd,
Let smiling Spring encompass ye around;
While we in decent sorrows mourn the dead,
And with due rites appease her injur'd shade.
The scene is totally changed to a delightful prospect of a champaign country, the Tree and Statue still in view. A dance is performed proper to the subject.
Chorus.
Enough! enough! your games give o'er,
The well-pleas'd ghost demands no more:
Deep in the coverts of the grove,
Where helpless lovers joy to rove,
Secure she rests, nor farther heeds
The weak effects of earthly deeds.
| Leucothoe | |