University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

MEROPE and ISMENE.
MEROPE.
Stay, my Son—
Th' Usurper sends me to thee.—Rest, unheard,
His Errand: but my own requires thy Ear.
It has, perhaps, been told thee, that the Woman
Conquers the Queen.
—Let no light Credit of a Guilt so shameful
Insult the Daughter, Mother, Wife,—ah, me!
And Widow—of a King.—Yet, I must go:
Must, at the Altar, lend my trembling Hand;
And seem—oh, Heaven!—

EUMENES.
O, Madam!—so, to seem,
Were so to be. Can solemn Vows, at Altars,
Leave Room for Art's Evasions? See me, sooner,
Tingeing the spotted Stone with gushing Blood:
And my torn Breast th'unseeming Sacrifice.

MEROPE.
So look'd, so spoke—so, sometimes, frown'd, Cresphontes.
Full of thy godlike Father, copy too,
The Confidence, he lent me. He had scorn'd
To doubt me, for a Moment, less than Merope.

EUMENES.
If I was guilty,—think—

MEROPE.
—No more.—Time presses;—
Hear my resolving Will: and curb thy own.
Th' Usurper of thy Throne no sooner joins
My Hand's suppos'd Consent, than, at the Altar,
He swears—in all the Pomp of priestly Witness,
To free thee from thy Chains—and, from that Hour,
Confirm Succession, thine.—

EUMENES.
Think, at what Price comes Empire, bought so dear!
Rather than see you wed this—

MEROPE.
Rash, again?—
Bound, by an Oath, so witness'd, by the Gods,
And All Mycene's Priests—and All her Peers—
He dares not break it: and Thou liv'st, to reign.
—For me, who have, thenceforth, no Call for Life,
I seek thy Father, in the Glooms, below.

EUMENES.
—No more.
—It shall not be.—See! my repugnant Soul
Shrinks from th' abhorr'd Conception. The felt God,
The God, glows, in me: swells, against Controul:
And every springy Nerve is active Fire!
Come on, Friends! Father! Mother!—trust my Firmness.
See, if I bear a Heart, that brooks this Wrong:
That poorly pants, for a base Hour of Life—
And let a Woman's Blood outdare a King's.

[Going.
MEROPE.
Oh! stay: return.—Call: stop him.

EURICLES.
Sir!

NARBAS.
Prince!

MEROPE.
Son!

EUMENES,
(Returning.
Look out: see yonder: view my Father's Tomb.
Know you his Voice! Are you a Queen?
Come listen—
I hear him—Hark!—my King, my Father calls!

MEROPE.
Methinks the God
He talk'd of, swells, indeed, his widening Soul,
Lifts him above himself—above Mankind.

EUMENES.
Come—let me lead you to the Altar's Foot.
There hear, there, see—there, dwells th'Eternal's Eye!

MEROPE.
Ah! what is thy Design!

EUMENES.
To die,—to live.
Friends!—in this warm Embrace, divide my Soul.
[To Narbas, who presses him tenderly.
—Weep not, my Narbas.
No Blush, for Deeds unworthy your Instructions,
Shall stain Remembrance of the Care, I cost you.
Stay thou, that this good Lord returning from me,
May find thee, and impart a ripening Hope
Whereon your Council may direct and save.
On to the Work of Fate—it calls me hence—
I hear it, and obey.

[Ex. Eum. Mer. and Eur.
NARBAS.
Away—I wou'd not see thee share my Sorrow.

ISMENE.
Oh! 'twere too poor a Wish. Heaven knows, I seek
No Share,—I long for Power, to bear it, All.

NARBAS.
Thou art too good, for Courts—where Ruin preys
On Innocence; and nought but Guile is safe.
—What are thy Thoughts, of this lost Prince's Virtues?

ISMENE.
I am unskill'd in Men: and, most, in Kings.
But, sure! if ever Beauty dwelt in Form,
Courage in Gentleness, or Truth in Grandeur,
All those adorn'd Perfections meet, in Him.

NARBAS.
Yet, see! how Heaven, that gave him all these Claims,
Forgets 'em, and resigns him.—Let That teach thee,
When, soon, as soon they will, thy Splendors fall,
Thou losest nothing, but a Right to Woes:

ISMENE.
Shou'd the Queen,
Best, of her Sex!
Leave this loud Stage of Pain,—and rest in Death,
Oh! teach my willing Feet to find some Gloom,
Dark, as my Prospects, deep inclos'd, for Safety;
And silent, as the Brow of midnight Sleep!

NARBAS.
Yes, we will go, my sweet Ismene, go,
Where Sorrow's sharpest Eye shall fail to find us.
Where we may mix with Men, who ne'er deceiv'd,
And Women, born to be, the Charms they look.
—There is a Place, which my Eumenes lov'd,
Till Youth's fond Hope of Glory dash'd his Peace;
Where Nature, plainly noble, knows no Pomp;
And Virtue moves no Envy:
[Shouts.
—Hark! That Cry
Bodes Horror—'tis the Signal of some Fate.
—Listen, again—

[Shouts.
ISMENE.
Again I hear: and tremble.
Who knows, but, now, the Queen's too direful Deed
Has ended all her Mis'ries!—

NARBAS.
No more these Eyes shall find thee, fated King!
Cresphontes, and his Race, are, All, no more.

ISMENE,
at a Window.
Hence, from the Temple, to the Palace Gate,
The scattring Crowd runs, wide, a thousand Ways:
All busied, without View—All, driven, by Terror!