University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE A Temple in Memphis.
Enter Pheron and Syphoces.
SYPHOCES.
If Glorious Structures, and Immortal Deeds
Enlarge the Thought, and set our Souls on Fire,
My Tongue has been too Cold in Egypt's Praise,
The Queen of Nations, and the Boast of Times,
Mother of Science, and the House of Gods!
Scarce can I open wide my Labouring Mind
To comprehend the vast Idea, big
With Arts and Arms, so Boundless in their Fame.

Pher.
Thrice happy Land! did not her dreadful King,
Far-fam'd Busiris, whom the World reveres,
Lay all his shining Wonders in Disgrace,
By Cruelty and Pride.

Syph.
By pride indeed;
He calls himself the Proud, and Glories in it,
Nor would Exchange for Jupiter's Almighty.
Have we not seen him shake his Silver Reins
O'er Harness'd Monarchs, to his Chariot yok'd?
In sullen Majesty they stalk along,
With Eyes of Indignation, and Despair,
While He aloft displays his impious State,
With half their rifled Kingdoms o'er his Brow,
Blazing to Heaven in Diamond, and Gold.

Pher.
Nor less the Tyrant's Cruelty, than Pride;
His horrid Altars stream with Human Blood,
And Piety is Murder in His Hand.

[A great Shout.
Syph.
There rose the Voice of twice two hundred thousand,
And broke the Clouds, and clear'd the Face of Day:
The King, who from This Temple's airy Height,
With Heart dilated that great Work surveys,
Which shall proclaim What can be done by Man,
Has struck his Purple Streamer, and descends.

Pher.
Twice ten long Years have seen that haughty Pile,
Which Nations with united Toil advance,
Gain on the Skies, and labour up to Heaven.

Syph.
The King—or prostrate fall, or disappear.

[Exeunt.
Enter Busiris attended.
Bus.
This ancient City, Memphis the Renown'd,
Almost Coæval with the Sun himself,
And boasting Strength scarce sooner to decay,
How wanton sits she amid Nature's Smiles,
Nor from her highest Turret has to view,
But Golden Landskips, and Luxuriant Scenes,
A Waste of Wealth, the Storehouse of the World!
Here, fruitful Vales far-stretching fly the Sight,
There, Sails unnumber'd whiten all the Stream,
While from the Banks full twenty Thousand Cities
Survey their Pride, and see their gilded Tow'rs
Float on the Waves, and break against the Shore:
To crown the Whole, this rising Pyramid
[Shews the Plan.
Lengthens in Air, and ends among the Stars,
While every other Object shrinks beneath
Its mighty Shade, and lessens to the View,
As Kings compar'd with me.

Enter Auletes, he falls prostrate.
Aul.
O live for ever,
Busiris, first of Men!

Bus.
Auletes, rise.

Aul.
Ambassadors from various Climes arrive,
To view your Wonders, and to greet your Fame;
Each loaden with the Gifts his Country yields,
Of which the meanest rise to Gold, and Pearl:
The rich Arabian fills his ample Vase
With sacred Incense; Ethiopia sends
A thousand Coursers fleeter than the Wind;
And their black Riders darken all the Plain:
Camels and Elephants from other Realms,
Bending beneath a Weight of Luxury,
Bring the best Seasons of their various Years,
And leave their Monarchs poor.

Bus.
What from the Persian?

Aul.
He bends before your Throne, and far out-weighs
The rest in Tribute, and out-shines in State.

Bus.
Away, he sees me not, I know his Purpose,
A Spy upon my Greatness, and no Friend:
Take his Ambassador, and shew him Egypt,
In Memphis shew him various Nations met,
As in a Sea, yet not confin'd in Space,
But streaming freely thro' the spacious Streets,
Which send forth Millions at each Brazen Gate,
When-e'er the Trumpet calls; high over head
On the broad Walls the Chariots bound along,
And leave in Air a Thunder of my own:
Jove too has pour'd the Nile into my Hand,
The Prince of Rivers, Ocean's eldest Son:
Rich of my Self, I make the Fruitful Year,
Nor ask precarious Plenty from the Sky—
Throw all my Glories open to his View,
Then tell him, in Return for Trifles offer'd,
I give him This; and when a Persian Arm
[Gives him a Bow.
Can Thus with Vigour its Reluctance bend,
And to the Nerve its stubborn Force subdue;
Then let his Master think of Arms—but bring
More Men than yet e'er pour'd into the Field;
Mean time, thank Heav'n, our Tide of Conquest drives
A different way, and leaves him still a King:
This to the Persian—I receive the rest,
And give the World an Answer.
[Ex. Busiris.

Mandane, attended by Priests and her Virgins, is seen Sacrificing at a Distance.
A Hymn to Isis is sung, the Priests go out.
Mandane, attended by her Maids, advances.
Mand.
My Morning Duty to the Gods is over,
Yet still this Terror hangs upon my Soul,
And saddens every Thought—I still behold
The dreadful Image, still the threat'ning Sword
Points at my Breast, and glitters in mine Eye.—
But 'twas a Dream, no more. My Virgins, leave me.
And thou Great Ruler of the World be present!
O kindly shine on this important Hour!
This Hour determines all my Future Life,
And gives it up to Misery, or Joy.
[She advances.
These lonely Walks, this deep, and solemn Gloom,
Where Noon-day Suns but glimmer to the View,
This House of Tears, and Mansion of the Dead,
For ever hides him from the hated Light,
And gives him Leave to groan.
Back Scene draws, and shews Memnon leaning on his Father's Tomb.
Was ever Scene
So mournful! If, my Lord, the Dead alone
Are all your Care, Life is no more a Blessing.
How cou'd you shun me for this dismal Shade,
And seek from Love a Refuge in Despair?

Mem.
Why hast thou brought those Eyes to this sad Place,
Where Darkness dwells, and Grief wou'd sigh secure,
In welcome Horrors, and beloved Night?
Thy Beauties drive the friendly Shades before them,
And Light up Day even here. Retire, my Love,
Each joyful Moment I would share with thee,
My virtuous Maid, but I wou'd mourn alone.

Man.
What have you found in me so mean, to hope
That while you sigh my Soul can be at Peace?
Your Sorrows flow from your Mandane's Eyes.

Mem.
Oh my Mandane!—

Man.
Wherefore turn you from me?
Have I Offended, or are you Unkind?
Ah me! A Sight as strange, as pitiful!
From his big Heart, o'ercharg'd with gen'rous Sorrow,
See the Tide working upward to his Eye,
And stealing from him in large silent Drops,
Without his Leave!—can those Tears flow in vain?

Mem.
Why will you double my Distress, and make
My Grief my Crime, by discomposing you?—
And yet I can't forbear! Alas! my Father!
That Name excuses all; what is not due
To that Great Name, which Life or Death can pay?

Mand.
Speak on, and ease your labouring Breast, it swells,
And sinks again, and then it swells so high,
It looks as it wou'd break. I know 'tis big
With something you wou'd utter. Oft in vain
I have presum'd to ask your mournful Story;
But ever have been answer'd with a Frown.

Mem.

Mand.
So black a Story well might shun the Day.

Mem.
Artaxes' Friends (a virtuous Multitude)
Were swept away by Banishment, or Death
In Throngs, and sated the devouring Grave.
My Father.—Think, Mandane, on your own,
And pardon me!—
[Weeps
The Tyrant took me, then of tender Years,
And rear'd me with his Son, (a Son since dead)
He vainly hop'd, by Shews of guilty Kindness,
To wear away the Blackness of his Crime,
And reconcile me to my Father's Fate;
Hence have I long been forc'd to stay my Vengeance,
To smooth my Brow with Smiles, and curb my Tongue,
While the big Woe lies throbbing at my Heart.—

Enter Pheron at a Distance.
Pher.
So close! so loving! here I stand unseen,
And watch my Rival's Fate.

[Aside.
Mem.
But thou my Fair,
Thou art my Peace in Tumult, Life in Death,
Thou yet can'st make me blest.

Mand.
As how, my Lord?

Mem.
Ah, why wilt thou insult me?

Mand.
Memnon.—

Mem.
Speak.

Mand.
Nature forbids, and when I wou'd begin,
She stifles all my Spirits, and I faint:
My Heart is breaking, but I cannot speak.
Oh let me fly.—

Mem.
You pierce me to the Soul.

[Holding her.
Mand.

Mem.
To place it
Beyond the Power of Fate to part our Loves;
Be this our Bridal Night, my Life!—My Soul!

[Emb.
Pher.
Perdition seize them both! and have I lov'd
So long, to catch her in another's Arms!
Another's Arms for ever! Oh the Pang!—
Heart-piercing Sight!—but Rage shall take its Turn,
It shall be so—and let the Crime be His
Who drives me to the black Extremity;
I fear no farther Hell than that I feel.
[Exit.

Mem.
Trembling I grasp thee, and my anxious Heart
Is still in doubt if I may call thee Mine.
Oh Bliss too great! Oh painful Extasie!
I know not what to utter.

Mand.
Ah my Lord!
What means this Damp, that comes athwart my Joy,
Chastising thus the Lightness of my Heart?—
I have a Father, and a Father too
Tender as Nature ever fram'd.—His Will
Should be consulted.—Should I touch his Peace,
I should be wretched in my Memnon's Arms.

Mem.
Talk not of Wretchedness.

Mand.
Alas! this Day
First gave me Birth, and (which is strange to tell)
The Fates e'er since, as watching its Return,
Have caught it as it flew, and mark'd it deep
With something Great, Extremes of Good or Ill.

Mem.
Why should we bode Misfortune to our Loves?
No, I receive thee from the Gods, in lieu
Of all that Happiness they ravish'd from me;
Fame, Freedom, Father, All return in thee.
Had not the Gods Mandane to bestow,
They never would have pour'd such Vengeance on me;
They meant me thee, and could not be severe.
Soon as Night's favourable Shades descend,
The Holy Priest shall joyn our Hands for ever,
And Life shall prove but one long Bridal-Day.
Till then, in Scenes of Pleasure lose thy Grief,
Or strike the Lute, or smile among the Flowers,
They'll sweeter smell, and fairer bloom for Thee.—
Alas! I'm torn from this dear tender Side,
By weighty Reasons, and important Calls,
Nay even by Love it self—I quit Thee now,
But to deserve thee more.

[They embrace.
Mand.
Your Friends are here.
[Exit Mand.

Mem.
Excellent Creature! how my Soul pants for thee?—
But other Passions now begin their Claim,
Doubt, and Disdain, and Sorrow, and Revenge,
With mingling Tumult tear up All my Breast:
Oh how unlike the Softnesses of Love!

Enter Syphoces.
Syph.
Hail, worthy Memnon.

Mem.
Welcome, my Syphoces.
And much I hope thou bring'st a bleeding Heart;
A Heart that bleeds for other's Miseries,
Bravely regardless of its own, tho' great,
That first of Characters.

Syph.
And there's a second,
Not far behind, to rescue the Distress'd,
Or Dye.

Mem.
Yes dye; and visit those brave Men,
Who, from the first of Time, have bath'd their Hands
In Tyrant's Blood, and grasp'd their honest Swords
As Part of their own Being, when the Cause,
The publick Cause demanded. Oh my Friend!
How long shall Egypt groan in Chains? how long
Shall her Sons fall in Heaps without a Foe?
No War, Plague, Famine, Nothing but Busiris,
His People's Father! and the State's Defence!
Yet but a Remnant of the Land survives.

Syph.
What Havock have I seen? have we not known
A Multitude become a Morning's Prey,
When troubled Rest, or a Debauch has sowr'd
The Monster's Temper? then 'tis instant Death;
Then fall the Brave and Good, like ripen'd Corn
Before the sweeping Scythe, not the poor Mercy
To Starve, and Pine at Leisure in their Chains.—
But what fresh Hope, that we receive your Summons
To meet you here this Morning?

Mem.
Know, Syphoces,
'Twas on this Day my Warlike Father's Blood,
So often lavish'd in his Country's Cause,
And greatly sold for Conquest, and Renown;
'Twas on this execrable Day it flow'd
On his own Pavement, in a peaceful Hour,
Smoak'd in the Dust, and wash'd a Ruffian's Feet.
This guilty Day returning, rouzes all
My smother'd Rage, and blows it to a Flame.
Where are our other Friends?

Syph.
At Hand. Rameses,
Last Night when gentle Rest o'er Nature spread
Her still Command, and Care alone was waking,
Like a dumb, lonely, discontented Ghost,
Enter'd my Chamber, and approach'd my Bed;
With Bursts of Passion, and a Peal of Groans
He recollects his Godlike Brother's Fate,
The drunken Banquet, and the midnight Murder,
And urges Vengeance on the guilty Prince.
Such was the Fellness of his boiling Rage,
Methought the Night grew darker as he Frown'd.

Mem.
I know he bears the Prince most deadly Hate;
But this will enter deeper in his Soul,
[Shews a Letter.
And rouze up Passions, which till now have slept:
Murder will look like Innocence to This.

Syph.
How, Memnon?

Mem.
This reminds me of thy Fate;
The Queen has courted thee with proffer'd Realms,
And sought by Threats to bend thee to her Will;
She languishes, she burns, she wastes away
In fruitless Hopes, and dies upon thy Name.

Syph.
Oh fatal Love! which stung by Jealousie,
Expell'd a Life far dearer than my own
By cursed Poyson—Ah Divine Apame!
And cou'd the Murdress hope she shou'd inherit
This Heart, and fill thy Place within these Arms?—
But Grief shall yield—Revenge, I'm wholly thine.

Mem.
The Tyrant too is wanton in his Age,
He shews that all his Thoughts are not in Blood;
Love claims its share; he envies poor Rameses
The Softness of his Bed; and thinks Amelia
A Mistress worthy of a Monarch's Arms.

Syph.
But see, Rameses comes, a sullen Gloom
Scowls on his Brow, and marks him through the Dusk.

Enter Rameses, Pheron, and other Conspirators.
Mem.
To what, my Friends, shall Memnon bid you Welcome?
To Tombs, and melancholy Scenes of Death?
I have no costly Banquets, such as spread
Prince Myron's Table, when your Brother fell.
[To Ram.
I have no gilded Roof, no gay Apartment,
Such as the Queen prepar'd for thee, Syphoces.
Yet be not discontent, my valiant Friends,
Busiris reigns, and 'tis not out of Season
To look on ought may mind us of our Fate:
His Sword is ever drawn, and furious Myris
Thinks the Day lost that is not mark'd with Blood.

Ram.
And have we felt a Tyrant twenty Years,
Felt him, as the raw Wound the burning Steel,
And are we murmuring out our Midnight Curses,
Drying our Tears in Corners, and Complaining?
Our Hands are forfeited. Gods! Strike them off.
No Hands we need to fasten our own Chains,
Our Masters will do that; and we want Souls
To raise them to an Use more worthy Men.

Mem.
Ruffles your Temper at Offences past!
Here then, to sting thee into Madness.

[Gives the Letter. Rameses reads.
Ram.
Oh!

Syph.
See how the struggling Passions shake his Frame!

Ram.
My Bosom Joy, that crowns my happy Bed
With tender Pledges of our mutual Love,
Far dearer than my Soul! and shall my Wife,
The Mother of my little Innocents,
Be taken from us! Torn from me! from mine!
Who live but on her sight! and shall I hear
Her Cries for Succour, and not rush upon him?
My Infant hanging at the Neck upbraids me,
And struggles with his little Arms to save her.—
These Veins have still some generous Blood in store,
The Dregs of those rich Streams his Wars have drain'd;
I'll give't in Dowry with her.

Pher.
Well resolv'd:
A tardy Vengeance shares the Tyrant's Guilt.

Ram.
Let me embrace thee, Pheron, Thou art brave,
And dost disdain the Coldness of Delay.
Curse on the Man that calls Rameses Friend,
And keeps his Temper at a Tale like this;
When Rage and Rancor are the proper Virtues,
And Loss of Reason is the Mark of Men.

Mem.
Thus I've determin'd; when the Midnight Hour
Lulls this proud City, and her Monarch dreams
Of humbled Foes, or his new Mistress' Love,
Then we will rush at once, let loose the Terrors
Of Rage pent in, and struggling twenty Years
To find a vent, and at one dreadful Blow
Begin, and end the War.
A more Auspicious Juncture cou'd not happen.
The Persian, who for Years has join'd our Counsels,
Stir'd up the Love of Freedom, and in private
Long nurs'd the glorious Appetite with Gold,
This Morn with Transport snatch'd the wish'd Occasion
Of throwing his Resentment wide, and now
He Frowns in Arms, and gives th'Event to Fate.

Ram.
This Hand shall drag the Tyrant from his Throne,
And stab the Royal Victim on This Altar.

[Pointing to the Tomb.
Mem.
Oh justly thought! Friends, cast your Eyes around,
All that most Awful is, or Great in Nature,
This solemn Scene presents; the Gods are Here,
And Here our fam'd Forefathers sacred Tombs;
Who never brook'd a Tyrant in this Land.
Let us not Act beneath the Grand Assembly!
The slighted Altars tremble, and these Tombs
Send forth a Peal of Groans to urge us on.
Come then, surround my Father's Monument,
And call his Shade to Witness to your Vows.

Ram.
Nor his alone. Oh all ye mighty Dead!
Illustrious Shades! Who nightly stalk around
The Tyrant's Couch, and shake his guilty Soul:
Whether already you converse with Gods,
Or stray below in melancholy Glooms,
From Earth, from Air, from Heaven, and from Hell,
Come, I conjure you, by the Prisoner's Chain,
The Widow's Sighing, and the Orphan's Tears,
The Virgin's Shrieks, the Heroe's spouting Veins,
By Gods blasphem'd, and Free-born Men enslav'd.

Mem.
Hear, Jove, and you most injur'd Heroes, hear,
While we o'er this thrice hallow'd Monument
Thus join our Hands, and kneeling to the Gods,
Fast bind our Souls to great Revenge!

All.
We Swear—

Mem.
This Night the Tyrant and his Minions bleed,
And Flames shall lay those Palaces in Dust,
Whose gilded Domes now glitter in the Sun.

Pher.
So now, my Foe is taken in the Toil,
And I've a second Cast for this proud Maid—
It is an Oath well spent, a Perjury
Of good Account in Vengeance, and in Love.

[Aside.
Mem.
We wrong the mighty Dead, if we permit
Our Eyes alone to count this grand Assembly,
A thousand unseen Heroes walk among us,
My Father rises from his Tomb, his Wounds
Bleed all afresh, and Consecrate the Day;
He waves his Arm, and chides our tardy Vengeance.
More than this World shall thank us. O my Friends!
Such our Condition, we have nought to lose,
And great may be our Gain, if this be great,
To crush a Tyrant, and preserve a State.
To still the Clamours of our Father's Blood,
To fix the Basis of the Publick Good,
To leave a Fame Eternal, then to soar,
Mix with the Gods, and bid the World adore.