University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

An Apartment in the Palace.
MEROPE, mournful, on a Couch.
ISMENE, leaning melancholy, below; and Attendants.
ISMENE.
See! where the lone majestic Mourner weeps;
Lost, even to Musick's Power!—try: strain each Note,
In Melody's wide Compass.—Happily,
Some Change, through sad, to lively, may have Force,
To strike recov'ring Sense, and wake Regard.
—First, in low Sympathy of Sorrow's Softness,
Sooth her dejected Soul—then, start at once
To Swells of Joy—and storm Attention's Ear.

[Musick with Trumpets.]
After the Musick Merope rises, and comes forward.
MEROPE.
Let me, when, next, thy too officious Love,
Faithful Ismene, trys th' harmonious Charm,
Let me, have Musick, solemn, all, and slow,
Sad-suited to my Thoughts—Mix not for me,
Who have no Power to taste, such spritely Notes,
As they who are more Happy, find more Sweet?

ISMENE.
Why, when the Gods grow gentle, are You sad?
You felt their Anger, sharply.—Now they smile,
Embrace their proffer'd Bounty—All the Lords
Of glad Mycene, in full Senate met,
Take Measures to proclaim you reigning Queen:
You, whom Distress but brightens!—to whose Charms,
Made aweful by your Grief, Woes add new Majesty!

MEROPE.
What, no News yet, of Narbas? or my Son?

ISMENE.
May it be soon!—No Prince, of Birth like His,
Where-e're conceal'd, can 'scape such Search, unknown.

MEROPE.
Will ye, at length, ye Powers, reward my Tears?
Will ye, at last, restore Eumenes, to me?
—If he yet lives—this only remnant Heir
Of his wrong'd Mother's Miseries!—oh, save him.
From his dear Breast, strike wide the Murd'rer's Dagger.
Is he not Your's? a Branch, from Great Alcides?
What, tho'—(forget it, and be hush'd, O Faith!)
What, tho' to Traitors prosp'rous Swords, you gave
His Father's fated Life—ah, yet! desert not
This Image of his Form, that fills my Soul.

ISMENE.
Dear, tho' he doubtless was, and justly mourn'd,
Shou'd you exclude all Sense of Bliss, beside?

MEROPE.
I am a Mother:—with a Mother's Fears.

ISMENE.
But, can a Mother's Fears efface the Stamp
Of Hero's Soul, that marks a Race like yours?
—Sweet, tho' his infant Smiles, they dwell, too fix'd,
Too deep, on your touch'd Memory!—Long Years
Are past, since first you lost him.

MEROPE.
Lost him?—never.—
In twice seven dreadful Years, no Moment's Light
Broke on my Eyes, but brought His Image with it.
Why tell'st thou me of Time?—Days, Months, and Years,
Have grown; but with 'em grew, my Pain, to lose him.
—Weigh that last fatal Hint, thy Father sent me.
Hope, soon, said he, to see the Prince Eumenes
All, you wou'd wish:—fear All, from Poliphontes.

ISMENE.
Wisely, you fear him.—but 'twere wiser, still,
So fearing, to prevent him.—Hear the States:
Quit, at their Prayer, this Regent's Name—be crown'd:
And rise, indeed the Queen they meant to make you.

MEROPE.
Is not the Crown my Son's?

ISMENE.
A Son, so lov'd—
Shou'd he return, wou'd thank—

MEROPE.
Perish the Heart,
That, meanly proud, and poorly fill'd for Self,
Swells, from Another's Losses!

ISMENE.
Public Interest—

MEROPE.
Curse on all Int'rest, that includes not Honesty!
—But, here, ev'n Int'rest brings no Plea to tempt me.
What can a childless Mother hope, from Empire?
What has Distress to do, with Pomp's vain Luster?
—I see the very Light of Heav'n, with Pain.
Never shall Splendor chear these blasted Eyes,
That saw my bleeding Lord, my murder'd Children;
Saw my Friends fall: Saw Men and Gods forsake me.
—O, Guilt! O, Perfidy!—oh! Death's dire Day!
Present, for ever, to my frighted Soul.

ISMENE.
Oft have I wept,—to hear that Day's sad Tale.

MEROPE.
I hear it now!—Even yet their Cries rise round me!
Save, save, the King—save the poor gasping Princes:
Save the distracted Queen!—I scream—I fly—
On every Side I turn meet battling Crowds:
Swords, glitt'ring Spears, loud Shouts, and mingled Groanings.
Meet, last—a Sight—beyond all Sense of Horror!
Meet—an expiring Husband's out-stretch'd Eye,
Strain'd, with a death-mix'd Tenderness on mine—
And struggling from his Blood, to reach and clasp me.

ISMENE.
Patience, O Madam, and forget these Horrors.

MEROPE.
—There two expiring infant Suff'rers fell,
The Eldest, of our Loves!—duteous, in Death!
Cross the King's Breast, they threw their little Bodies,
And lent their Hand's weak Aid—to save their Father.
—Only Eumenes—'scap'd th' Assassin's Fury.
Some interposing God vouchsaf'd to veil him:
And He, who screen'd him, then, may, once, restore him.
—Narbas, thy wise, thy faithful Father, bore him
Far from my Sight—to some dark safe Retreat:
Some Desart,—barren of Distress, and Man!