University of Virginia Library

SCENE THE FIRST.

Scene a grand room in the palace.
ARCAS discovered leaning on the pedestal of a pillar.
ÆTHON enters to him.
ÆTHON.
Arcas!—what, musing?—On thy bended brow
Anguish and care seem seated!—Painful guests.
Say, kind and venerable friend, whose love
Supplied a father's part, untimely lost,
To form my mind, and fashion it to greatness;
Say if a man on earth has dar'd to wrong thee?
And here's a sword and arm for thy revenge.

ARCAS.

ÆTHON.
You mean that baleful monster, black Ægysthus:
Whom Agamemnon, when he led to Troy,
In glorious league, confederated Kings,
Nam'd with his Queen, his lovely Clytemnestra,
Joint-substitute in delegated sway.
O fatal choice! from whence temptation rose
T'abuse a monarch's trust, defile his bed,
And from his murder mount his sacred throne.

ARCAS.
Such were indeed the steps by which he reach'd
That violated seat, the guardian once,
And nurse of ev'ry virtue. Now the source
Of hard oppressions and unceasing wrongs.
But will ye, Gods! continue to behold
Unpity'd, unredress'd, our royal Orphan?
See the griev'd people of two kingdoms bend
Beneath a tyrant's scourge? Authority
Defil'd by guilt? and streams of tears and blood,
Sluic'd from barbarity, or drain'd for sport,
By one who knows no feelings of a man?
Who wanting ev'ry virtue to endear him,
On terror would establish usurpation.

ÆTHON.
Unhappy lot of Argos and Mycenæ.
But theirs supremely whose exalted rank
Superior woes distinguish.—Oh! my friend,
To what were Agamemnon's offspring born!

ARCAS.
True! 'tis a theme on which reflection wrings
The heart of pity. From all converse, light
And comfort sever'd, in a dungeon's depth,
Electra wails a murder'd father's fate,
A hapless brother's exile; driv'n from home
The succour of compassion to implore,
And ask of Kings, the equals of his birth,
Shelter and food—the sordid beggar's boon.

ÆTHON.
Thrice has Electra suffer'd such hard durance,
From the keen malice of his jealous guilt
Who construes sorrows crimes, and silence treason.

ARCAS.
Well might the groans of her impatient grief
Untimely issue: well provoke his ire
Whose stinging conscience startles at reproach.
To minds that fly rememb'rance—fear remorse—
To guilt—the tears of innocence are galling:
She fears no enemy like that within,
Nor contemplation like her own dark deeds.

ÆTHON.
What then, my friend, must Clytemnestra feel?
Seduc'd to frailties which impell'd her on
To crimes of dire necessity?

ARCAS.
What, Æthon?—
Why all that thro' the close disguise of art,
Of female vanity and regal pride,
The eye of penetration sees her suffer.
Else, 'midst the revels of voluptuous pomp,
Why is she thoughtful?—silent?—Whence the sigh
Which oft involuntary heaves her breast?
Whence her lone wand'rings in sequester'd shades,
Her downcast musings, and her tear-swol'n eyes,
But from the terrors of a soul dismay'd?
Tormented by internal stings, while aw'd
By her deluder once—her tyrant now.

ÆTHON.
To what bewild'ring ills does error lead!—
But turn we from the regions of despair,
To the sweet mansion of alluring hope.
Say, my good Arcas, from the court of Phocis,
Where now our royal fugitive resides,
When gain'd you tidings?—At Mycenæ's gates,
When shall we greet deliv'rance with our King?

ARCAS.
The moon her vary'd course hath travell'd thro',
And in a second blunts her silver horns,
Since to my hands a trusty messenger
Brought letters from my friend, good Melisander,
The guide and guardian of his Monarch's flight;
Advising royal Strophius was preparing,
With succours worthy of so great a cause,
To send our blooming hero to assert
His sov'reign rights.—But no Orestes yet—

ÆTHON.
Soft!—for the minion of Ægysthus comes:
The catiff Lycon. He whose guile is task'd
To sharpen persecution, and delight,
By ev'ry outrage, a licentious monster.