University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Outside of the Tent of Athridates; the Walls of Sinope in view on the Left; at a Distance, on the Right, the Camp, and a distant View of the Euxine Sea.
ARTABANES and ARTAXIAS.
ARTABANES.
Blest be the favouring gods! may whitest omens
Still mark the chosen day which saw me come
From yon proud walls, th' ambassador of peace,
To royal Athridates' warlike camp!

ARTAXIAS.
The hostile monarchs, wearied with contention,
Now sheathe the slaughtering sword. Great Athridates
Yields to the voice of nature, nor rejects
A daughter's suit.

ARTABANES.
The royal Thamyris,
Our beauteous queen, whose all-transcendent charms,
With Hymen's torch enkindled that of discord,
(The fatal cause of enmity) becomes
The happy pledge of peace. No more the peasant
Sees the swift blaze devour the season's hope;
Again he breaks the soil: yon ravag'd fields,
Late drench'd in blood, red with destructive slaughter,
Again receive, well-pleas'd, the golden grain,
And promise future years of smiling plenty.

ARTAXIAS.
Fell discord is no more: our conquering army,
Which pour'd the tide of victory along,
And like a torrent overflowed your plains,
Now ebbs, retiring, at our monarch's voice,
Who, when his vows with those of brave Pharnaces,
Before the awful shrine of righteous Themis
Are interchang'd, his martial thunder points
At other foes, and gives to Pontus peace.

ARTABANES.
For ever sheath'd be the remorseless sword!
True happiness is of domestic growth,
It blossoms in the shade.—The meanest hind,
Who in the flowery lap of calm content
Rests from his healthful toil, and meets at eve
The faithful partner of his homely dwelling,
Is happier than the laurel'd conqueror,
Deaf to his people's welfare, who rejects
The sacred gifts of peace.

ARTAXIAS.
Those sacred gifts
No longer are withholden: raging Mars,
With cypress wreath'd, and garments dropping blood,
Unwilling quits the field.

ARTABANES.
A subject born,
Respect should seal my lips; yet sure, Artaxias,
Too long our land has felt your monarch's rage;
Seven rolling years have seen unhappy Pontus
A prey to savage war.

ARTAXIAS.
Great was the crime
His fury thus pursu'd: bright Thamyris,
His last remaining hope, his kingdom's heir,
Forc'd from his palace at the midnight hour,
When, all-secure, beneath the olive's shade
His eyes were seal'd in sleep. Nor could he deem
His sceptred guest, a lawless ravisher.

ARTABANES.
The crime of tenderness a parent's breast,
To kind impressions apt, may surely pardon;
Young, loving, and belov'd, Pharnaces came,
A king, a blooming conqueror, to your court;
The regal diadem adorn'd his brow,
Twin'd with the verdant laurel.—Thamyris
Had long been promis'd to his ardent vows—
By Athridates promis'd; and her heart,
Pleas'd with a father's sanction, own'd its lord;
Yet then, even at that moment, when Pharnaces,
His heart high-beating with a bridegroom's transport,
Approach'd the flaming altar, Athridates,
Seduc'd by Rome, and dazzled by her friendship,
Broke the strong fetters of long-plighted faith,
And tore her from his wishes:—stung to madness,
And too regardless of a father's right,
Impell'd by love, he bore the princess thence,
And plac'd her, half-reluctant, on his throne.

ARTAXIAS.
No more, my friend; behold the king approaches.