 | Merope |  |
SCENE the Temple of Hymen.
Eumenes discover'd on the Altar with the Axe of Sacrifice in his Hand. Merope kneeling, Priests, Attendants and Guards.
[Trumpets and Shouts heard.
MEROPE.
Now, now, ye Gods, my Pray'rs are heard.
[A loud Clap of Thunder.
EUMENES.
Hark! Madam, Heav'n approves! th' attentive Gods
Hear Hearts, and make Voice needless—Doubt not then
They are the good Minds Guardians—my Deliverance
Proves how they lov'd your Virtue: in your Safety
I feel their Blessing perfect—may I live
In Deeds, not Words, to thank the Good they gave.
MEROPE.
Deeds, Words, and Thoughts are theirs—
Heav'n claims us all.
EUMENES
to the People.
Hear me, my People, take your King, and with him,
Heav'n's best Gift, your Liberty—Haughtier Monarchs
Place Greatness in Oppression: Let my Throne
Find Safety, but in saving—
Pride is too apt to harden prosp'rous Pow'r,
But he, whose Youth is chasten'd by Distress
Makes Subjects Happy, and himself ador'd.
Enter Narbas, Euricles and Ismene. All speaking, kneeling.
Hail! and be ever bless'd, O King! O Queen!
MEROPE.
Rise—and lament no more, ye happy Friends
Of Virtue, and of Heaven!—See! what the Gods
Have done—to shame Suspicion, into Faith!
Oh! never let the Innocent despair:
The Hand, that made, can save: and best knows when.
[To Eumenes.
—Son of Alcides!—for, what Heart, but His,
Nourish'd in Misery! by Wants obstructed!
Ere sprung, like thine, at Youth's first Shoot, to Glory?
Trod on a Tyrant, and redeem'd a People?
EUMENES.
'Tis but the low, the last, the lightest Duty
Of a King's Hand, to dare. 'Tis His, to save;
To think, to hear, to labour, to discern,
To form, to remedy,—to be—but one:
Yet, act, and love, and fear, and feel,—for All.
—Oh, Madam! I am yours, midst all these Claims.
Be Those my Glory's, This my Duty's Care,
To add my Royal Father's Love, to mine:
And, with a doubled Rev'rence, seek your Comfort.
—Narbas! what Power can Language lend my Love,
To paint the Joy, Thy Sense of Pleasure gives me?
Thou Source, and Soul, and Author, of my Virtues:
Suspend we Thoughts, thus tender.—Let us, now,
Summon Mycene's Chiefs, and calm her People.
[To Merope.
Come, Madam! He who reigns, but climbs to Care;
Tho' Safe, his Throne, he finds no Softness, there.
Dangers, and Doubts, and Toils, each Moment seize,
Hang on his Business, and perplex his Ease.
Bright but by Pomp of Woe, Kings shine in vain;
Envy'd for Anguish, and adorn'd for Pain.
Eumenes discover'd on the Altar with the Axe of Sacrifice in his Hand. Merope kneeling, Priests, Attendants and Guards.
[Trumpets and Shouts heard.
MEROPE.
Now, now, ye Gods, my Pray'rs are heard.
[A loud Clap of Thunder.
EUMENES.
Hark! Madam, Heav'n approves! th' attentive Gods
Hear Hearts, and make Voice needless—Doubt not then
They are the good Minds Guardians—my Deliverance
63
I feel their Blessing perfect—may I live
In Deeds, not Words, to thank the Good they gave.
MEROPE.
Deeds, Words, and Thoughts are theirs—
Heav'n claims us all.
EUMENES
to the People.
Hear me, my People, take your King, and with him,
Heav'n's best Gift, your Liberty—Haughtier Monarchs
Place Greatness in Oppression: Let my Throne
Find Safety, but in saving—
Pride is too apt to harden prosp'rous Pow'r,
But he, whose Youth is chasten'd by Distress
Makes Subjects Happy, and himself ador'd.
Enter Narbas, Euricles and Ismene. All speaking, kneeling.
Hail! and be ever bless'd, O King! O Queen!
MEROPE.
Rise—and lament no more, ye happy Friends
Of Virtue, and of Heaven!—See! what the Gods
Have done—to shame Suspicion, into Faith!
Oh! never let the Innocent despair:
The Hand, that made, can save: and best knows when.
[To Eumenes.
—Son of Alcides!—for, what Heart, but His,
Nourish'd in Misery! by Wants obstructed!
Ere sprung, like thine, at Youth's first Shoot, to Glory?
Trod on a Tyrant, and redeem'd a People?
EUMENES.
'Tis but the low, the last, the lightest Duty
Of a King's Hand, to dare. 'Tis His, to save;
To think, to hear, to labour, to discern,
To form, to remedy,—to be—but one:
Yet, act, and love, and fear, and feel,—for All.
—Oh, Madam! I am yours, midst all these Claims.
Be Those my Glory's, This my Duty's Care,
To add my Royal Father's Love, to mine:
64
—Narbas! what Power can Language lend my Love,
To paint the Joy, Thy Sense of Pleasure gives me?
Thou Source, and Soul, and Author, of my Virtues:
Suspend we Thoughts, thus tender.—Let us, now,
Summon Mycene's Chiefs, and calm her People.
[To Merope.
Come, Madam! He who reigns, but climbs to Care;
Tho' Safe, his Throne, he finds no Softness, there.
Dangers, and Doubts, and Toils, each Moment seize,
Hang on his Business, and perplex his Ease.
Bright but by Pomp of Woe, Kings shine in vain;
Envy'd for Anguish, and adorn'd for Pain.
| Merope | |