University of Virginia Library

Actus Primus.

Scæna Prima.

The Scene a wide spacious Land, ruinous and almost cover'd with dead Bodies, suppos'd to be after a great Battel, wherein Cyrus had Overthrown Crœsus.
Enter Cyaxares, Artabasus, Officers and Attendants.
Cyax.
Stand.

Arta.
Stand—'Tis the King's Pleasure each Commander
Draw up his Men, and close upon this Heath.

Cyax.
How far have we to Cyrus's Camp from hence?
And how far distant do th'Assyrians lie?
Where stands this great and mighty Babylon,
The Mistress of the World, the glorious City?
Whose proud, ambitious Arms have still inclos'd
The greatest Emperors that ever were?
So Proud, so Vain, and Awful was she once,
She almost reach'd the Heavens with her Tow'rs.

Art.
Just from th'ascent of that small rising Hill,
And but a few Miles distant, you may see
The three great Miracles of all the Earth;
Nearest in view your Faithful Valiant Medians,
With all the rest of your Confed'rates lie,
Compos'd of fierce Hyrcanian Horse,
Armenian Foot, and brave Cadusian Archers.
The Troop of Cyrus own Immortal Guards,
The Persian Homotyms, each nobly Born,
Valiant and Wise enough to be a General—
These are ordain'd to hold the World in Chains,
With Cyrus, God-like Cyrus at their Head.

Cyax.
Cyrus! Thou speak'st as if thou ne'er hadst knewn
Astyages, or wert thy self no Mede—
Answer me not, but as you did, go on.

Arta.
Distant from Cyrus's Camp, some twenty Furlongs,
And just as many from the Imperial Town,
Lies the great Army of th'Assyrian King,
Fill'd up with such a multitude of Nations,
You'd think that all the Living of the World
Were there assembl'd to defie the Gods,
Not fight with Cyrus—
Betwixt these Armies, as the Prize of all,
Stands the bright Virgin Queen, rich Babylon,
Incouraging the Soldiers on each side,
As if she said, that she and all the World,
Were, till this great decision, set at Stake,
To come in Triumph to the Victor's Arms.

Offic.
Her Spires and Temples so with Beauty shine,
Did not the Smoak which from both Armies rise,
Eclipse the Light, you might with wonder see
She than the Sun wou'd make a brighter Day.

Cyax.
A brave Reward, more worth than is the danger!
But I unmanly come to share the Spoil,
Without the hazarding of one poor Battel;
All's done already, no more Crowns to win,
Those that have scap'd, are all for shelter run
Under the Wings of this huge Armies Body—
This is the Field whose sad remains can tell
Of Cræsus's late and dreadful Overthrow—
Behold the Triumph of unstable Fortune!
Are these the Men that made such mighty noise!
How they lie low, cut off like wither'd Corn,
Where proudly once they flourish'd, and grew up.
Cræsus the Rich, the Happy, and the Wise,
His Scale of Fortune now that lies so low,
Gives Cyrus leave to mount and touch the Sky.

Arta.
A fatal Glory fires ambitious Man,
That is for ever with destruction gotten,
Bright Ruine is the gilding of his Doys,
And humbl'd Nations with his height must fall.
Our Eyes no other Objects can behold,
But near and distant Plains all harras'd o'er,
And great and beauteous Palaces unveil'd.

Cyax.
No Corn does here inrich the bloody Field,
Nor Grass adorn the Meads with wanton Green;
The Trees, the Earth's tall Sons, are all cut off,
All Places mourn where Cyrus Horse has trod.

Offic.
The poor and plunder'd Peasants peep abroad
With piteous Eyes and Hands lift up to Heav'n,
To see their Labour turn'd to dismal Spoil,

Arta.
So Shipwrack'd Passengers cast on the Shore,
That but a few past moments saw themselves
Rich in a Calm, watching the Tides decrease,
Pick up small pieces of their scatter'd Wealth,
Which the relenting Waves left on the Sands—
The utmost Corners of the World have heard him,
And frighted at the Trumpet of his Fame,
Have straight obey'd.—All Mortal Eyes look up,
Nay, God's themselves with Envy now look down
Upon the growth of this prodigious Man,
Wond'ring as they behold such monstrous Greatness,
How they so lavishly decreed.

Cyax.
No more, get thee to Cyrus back,
Do, and forget what late thou wert, when first
I moulded thee from humble Earth, and plac'd
Thee o'er the Heads of twenty thousand Great Ones;
And thou for this, e're Cyrus dawn, declin'd
Thy Royal Master, left me in a time,
When he, with all his Train of early Hopes
Cou'd scarcely comprehend the meanest Star,
Dropt from the Sphere where all my Deeds are written.

Arta.
O pardon, Royal Sir, my Love to Cyrus
Is but what you out of excess may spare;
It runs to him in narrow, shallow Streams,
But never ceases to o'erflow the Fountain.

Cyax.
Ah! Artabasus, wert not thou to blame,
To counsel me to give the Reins to Cyrus,
Pleas'd me with Hopes, and fed my longing Ears
With cunning Tales, of this ambitious Boy,
And when my self wou'd fain have lead my Armies,
Made me lie down in Sloth, yielding to him
These Hands, these Feet, my Legions, and my Strength,
And left me then a weak and limbless Body,
Drench'd in Delights, and drown'd in studied Pleasures.
Bane to my Bliss, and my Renown for ever!
How canst thou answer this?—

Arta.
If you will hear—

Cyax.
Why Father, great Astyages, did not
Thy Martial Ghost affright me in this Slumber?
Call to my Mind the Deeds that thou hast done,
When Young, and scarcely risen from my Cradle,
Thou leadst me round the Frontiers of the Globe,
And brought me to a Nation blest by Heav'n,
Elysium sure it was, a Land of Wonders,
Whose Leaves and Trees still blossom'd like the Spring,
And Fields were clad with everlasting Green;
Its Streams ran Chrystal, and its Sands were Gold.
This Orient Miracle shone like a Gemm
Sate in the golden Circle of the World,
So swarm'd on by the fairest of the Living;
As if't had been indeed that happy Place
Where Souls are blest with an Eternal Being:
For there no Want was found, but all Increase
Sprung from the great and unknown Deity.
Through this Immortal Land we pierc'd our Arms,
Climbing the lofty Hills that rear'd the City,
And from their Temple built of shining Gold,
Bore all the holy Vessels of their God,
And took Five hundred thousand Slaves away.
Thunder and Lightning, Darkness seems to cover the Field.
Heark, heark—A horrid Thunder sounds at distance.

Arta.
Now here it answers with a Force as dreadful—
A sudden Darkness seems to spread the Field—
There you may see that cloudy Curtain drawn,
Whilst Lightning rushes from the parting Heav'ns,
And to my wond'ring Eyes discovers Swarms
Of hellish Insects flying in the Air.

Cyax.
The Gods are sportive sure, and seem to mock
At what bold Cyrus has perform'd below.

Arta.
The Scene of Horrour yet discloses further—
My Sight deceives me if I do not see
Spirits descend into their Humane Forms
Again, and the dead Bodies slain by Cyrus
Begin to move.

Cyax.
Something does tread the Ground—
Look, Artabasus, see, what monstrous things
Betwixt a Mortal and a Devil's Shape,
Are those?

Arta.
I see distinctly now, and I'll
Release you from your Wonder—These are Witches,
Or Wizards else, that all this Land is fam'd for—
What Nation is there but has oft been told
Strange Tales of the Chaldean Sorcerers.
When they wou'd know th'Event of things on Earth,
Like ravenous Vultures haunting bloody Battels,
They still attend the Fortune of the Field,
When they may exercise their loathsome Charms
And hateful Practices upon the Dead.
With sulph'rous Herbs, and devillish Incantations.
They wrack their quiet Spirits in the Shades,
Driving their Souls back to their Flesh again,
And force 'em to reveal what's writ below,
What Heav'n had bound up in the Book of Fate.
Th'Infernal Gods are master'd by their Power,
Or else perswaded by some Piety
That pleases them; deny these Wretches nothing.

[Dance of Wizards.
Cyax.
Behold—Look yonder—Is not that a Man,
That rises from amongst the Heaps of slain,
And with an awful March comes steady towards us?

A dead Carkass of one of the slain rises, and comes to them upon the Stage.
Arta.
Fear't not, my Lord—See, it wou'd speak.

Dead Cark.
From the dark Region of Eternal Night,
Where numerous Souls in mingled Tortures live,
And fry like Atomes in the Sun-beams Heat;
Alternately from Flames and then to Frost;
First dipp'd into a liquid Fire, and thence
Whole Shoals are plung'd into a Deep of Ice:
Whilst Pluto's great Divan in Council sit,
T'invent new Plagues to practise on the Damn'd.
From thence, as I stood gazing on the Lake,
Waiting my Passage to that place of Horrour,
A Summons from the Fiery King was sent
By Charon brought, wherein I was commanded
By Power on Earth, which that in Hell controll'd,
That I shou'd straight glide back into the World,
Quick as pent Light disclos'd, it self disperses,
And re-assumes this Corpse yet uninterr'd,
Till Cyaxares Ears had reach'd my Charge,
What of thy Fates decreed, which I shall speak,
And Pluto dictate—This the Oracle.
In vain's thy vast Ambition and thy Envy,
A Genius yet more great shall conquer thine,
And when thy Rashness leads thee next to fight,
To Cyrus Glories thou shalt add thy Life,
And leave thy Empires, and thy Darling Crowns,
To be possess'd by him whom Fate adores,
Whom, for a time, Heav'n, Hell, and all the World
Obey—I am recall'd,—my Task is done,
And subtil Fiends come thronging to the Light
To drive me into Torments back again.

[Falls down again.
Cyax.
Ha! Art thou fall'n! Stay, speak, who sent thee, Soldier?
What greater Devil lurking here on Earth
Made the black God obey his threatning Summons,
And charm'd the Powers of Hell to my Destruction?

Arta.
A meer cold Clod, a bloody mangl'd Coarse.

Cyax.
Here, take this hellish Carkass,
And throw it to wild Beasts to be devour'd—
What, hast thou Hell invok'd too on thy side!
Can Cyrus trust his helping Gods no more!
So little do I fear thee now, false Persian,
That, stoodst thou guarded like the King of Furies,
Ten thousand glaring Spirits round about thee,
With burning Tridents, and hot Scourges arm'd,
To hurry me from Earth like Mortal damn'd,
I'd through 'em all to meet thee, daring Boy.

Arta.
Recall your Temper, Sir, and blame not Cyrus,
Who, bating his Ambition, still is Virtuous.
His Soul, pure as the first created Mortals,
Who in the Worlds prime Innocence began,
'Ere Lust and Power defac'd the tender Image,
And crept into the Frailties of Mankind—
This was perform'd by some Magician's Art,
At the Command of the Assyrian Monarch,
Who, since his late Defeat, basely and cowardly,
Is forc'd to have recourse to Hellish Tricks,
And in his sinking State catches at Air,
Grasps any thing to save him from o'erwhelming.
The Gods will guard you through an Host of Devils,
Then as Hell's Malice only this esteem.

[Noises of singing within.
Cyax.
Whence comes this Sound of Musick, and of Voices?
[Captain goes off.
Am I awake! Is't real Artabasus
That we have seen, or that we now do hear?

[Captain re-enters.
Capt.
The brave Hystaspes, Sir, is just arriv'd,
With Presents from his Royal Master Cyrus
To Cyaxares his Imperial Unkle.

Enter to them Hystaspes, with Panthea, Women, and Attendant.
SONG.

CHORUS.
Such is the Force of Love! the Great, the Brave,
All must submit, sometime put on the Slave.

Cyax.
Blest Sight! and happy Cyrus much more blest,
That in thy boundless Prodigality,
Canst throw away so rich, Immense Delights,
And scatter Pleasures as the Gods do Blessings.

[Panthea and her Maids weep.
[Hystaspes kneels.
Hyst.
The Great, the Valiant, and the faithful Cyrus,
The Light of Empires, and the World's great Soul,
To whom all Nations bend, bids me to kneel
To his dear Uncle, Father, Master Cyaxares,
And as an earnest of succeeding Glories,
Lay here the Queen of Beauty at your Feet.
Not Crowns nor Kingdoms does he send by me,
Those he reserves with all Religious Duty
To plant himself about your Royal Temples,
And with his own Victorious Hands to give you
More Laurels, and more heaps of Monarchs Riches,
Then e're adorn'd the Shrines of Deities;
And her whose so much celebrated Charms
Made all the World, and Cyrus Ears in Love,
Yet wou'd not your brave Nephew trust his Eyes
With the least sight of what they so much long'd for,
Lest they shou'd Rivals prove to Cyaxares.

Cyax.
Are these, O Love, Rewards of Victory!
Or the blest Consorts of the Gods themselves,
By some more aw'd Divinity brought thence,
Leaving th'Immortals mourning Widowers—
But what is she that shines above the rest,
As Cynthia does amongst her Starry Train,
Shedding more precious Essence from her Eyes
Then Phœbus wantonly each Morning draws
From Beds of Violets, or the Dew of Roses—
Speak thou more fair than finest thought can form,
Or but thy self, the Sun did ever see.

Hyst.
God's! Was Hystaspes born to be your hatred!
Is it her Griefs, or what, that makes this change
Within my Bosom? I wou'd no call it Love—
O Cyrus, had'st thou view'd these dangerous Beauties,
Thou hadst not mark'd thy Friend out to be wretched.

Cyax.
What, not a Word t'inrich thy humble Creature?
There is no Goddess that can speak like thee—
Thy Griefs keep concord with thy Virgins Songs,
Who, to thy Sorrows, set their warbling Notes,
Whilst thou add'st Tears to ev'ry Syllable,
And with thy Sighs, gives the sad Tunes the Time;
Or was not this the Musick of the Spheres,
Never before made known to mortal sence,
And thou the Goddess of that happy Place.

Hyst.
Sir, she's Panthea.
The fam'd fair Daughter of the Scythian Queen.

Panth.
O! yes, tell all my Woes too if thou canst,
And tell 'em with a Grace, that I may sooth
My many Sorrows to a little rest.
For I shall never say 'em in an Age.
I have a thousand swelling in my Soul,
Strugling at once, and rushing to get foremost,
So I can speak of neither, but at last
Call to my Aid my Sex's feeble temper,
And draw the sullen Vapour into Tears.

Cyax.
Divine Panthea—

Panth.
Call me what I am,
Tell me not what I was—I was Panthea,
Panthea rich in Friends, blest as their Hopes,
Prais'd and belov'd, or I was grosly flatter'd,
Who, from the fondness of my Parent's Arms,
(Hanging still round my Childish Infancy)
Found no false Change, no waining of my Joys,
But ev'ry day increas'd my Happiness;
And the same Stars that smil'd upon my Birth
Seem'd still to tempt, and draw all Eyes to me;
All Knees, all Hearts did bend where e'er I came,
And blest me as their Goddess, or the Spring;
And till this day, of all my Age accurst,
I never knew what a worse Moment was.

Hyst.
O thou art lost, undone Hystaspes quite,
The Glory of the Battel owes to thee,
But this bright Victim makes the Victor blush—
Yet to revenge me on my self, and Crime,
If Cyrus will not grant her Liberty,
I'll do't my self, with forfeit of my Life.

Cyax.
Go on, go on, thou charming Creature, do,
Each Word leaves Bliss and Wonder in my Soul.

Panth.
But oh! now to repeat the Summ of all,
That which methinks shou'd strike the Hearers dead.
When my full Joys had ripen'd for Enjoyment,
And I wrap'd up in harmless Extasie,
To such a height I saw no ground below,
And thought the Glass of that blest Hour wou'd ne'er
Be run, I mean (Gods, give me leave to say it)
As my dear Mother in the Temple gave me
A happy Bride, in shew to Abradatas,
The Brave, and most Heroick King of Susa—
Scarce had the Priests the Holy Rites perform'd,
When straight the Trumpets call'd, and Battel join'd,
Cyrus approaching with a fatal Charge
On Cræsus, and the Forces of our Army;
Then was my Love snatch'd from my Virgin Arms
To his Command, and I ran breathless on the Walls
To see my Abradatus Fight, and Conquer;
But soon, methought, I saw him round inclos'd
With Enemies, which sight so snatch'd my Senses,
That on a sudden follow'd by my Women,
I found me in our Camp, not knowing how
I went, nor waking from that wretched Slumber,
Till I was brought a Prisoner to Hystaspes.

Cyax.
Ah sweet Panthea! if thy Sorrows move so,
What canst thou do, dispersing Smiles around thee?
But oh the thoughts! I'll tear 'em from my Breast,
Pull out the Seeds just rooting in my Heart,
And die rather than live with the disgrace—
Down, down, thou fair infectious Charm of Beauty,
Down to thy first Abyss from whence thou camest,
Where Light lay hid, when all things were a Chaos,
Thou cheat of Sence, and blinder of all Eyes—
Cyrus is boasting now of his design,
That laid these Nets of Beauty in my march,
To stop my fair and quick return to Glory—
Away thou sweet destroyer of my Fame—
Hystaspes, haste with thy fair Charmer hence;
Go tell thy Master all that thou hast seen
Of Cyaxares; tell him that Panthea
Shou'd be esteem'd as Heav'n and Heav'nly Joys,
Not to be tasted by a Man, and live,
Therefore I give her to the Stars, from whence
She came—Bid Cyrus do the like—Begone,
Quickly, least I shou'd wish to look again.

Pan.
Ten thousand Glories crown your Head for this.
May this brave Action make your Name and Bliss
Renown'd on Earth, as is the God of War,
And when in Heav'n, a bright shining Star.

Hyst.
I am amaz'd—Can this be real, Sir?
I dare not tell the King of your refusal.

Cyax.
Do it, I charge thee, and inform him too,
That Cyaxares comes to meet him straight,
With Courage awful as Astyages,
When Cyrus, but a pratling Boy, admir'd him,
Look'd from the Ground, ador'd his Majesty,
And fear'd him like a God—Go from my Eyes—
Remove those gay bright Syrens that forerun
A Storm.

Hyst.
Come Madam.

Panth.
To kind Death, I hope—
Brave Cyaxares.

Cyax.
O speak no more—Thou conqu'ring Beauty go—
There lies your Path—We must take several ways;
If you look back, my ling'ring Virtue stays.

[Exeunt severally. Exeunt Omnes.