 | Ulysses |  |
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Enter Telemachus and Antinous.Ant.
The King return'd? So long conceal'd in Ithaca?
Æthon the King? What Words can speak my Wonder?
Tel.
Yes, my Antinous, 'tis most amazing,
'Tis all the mighty Working of the Gods,
Unsearchable and dark to human Eyes:
But oh let me conjure thee by our Friendship,
Since to thy faithful Breast alone I've trusted
The fatal Secret, to preserve it safe,
As thou woud'st do the Life of thy Telemachus.
Ant.
Wrong not the Truth of your devoted Slave,
To think he wou'd betray you for whole Worlds.
Have you not said it, that your own dear Life
And all your Royal Race depends upon it?
Far from my Lips within my Breast I'll keep it,
Nor breathe it softly to my self alone,
Lest some officious murmuring Wind should tell it,
And babbling Eccho's catch the feeble Sound.
Tel.
No, thou art true, such have I ever found thee;
But haste, my Friend, and summon to thy Aid
What Force the shortness of the Time allows thee,
Then with thy swiftest Diligence return,
Since, as I urg'd to thee before, it may
Import the Safety of my Royal Parents.
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Contriv'd against the Honour of the Queen.
Ant.
E'er Night a busie Rumour ran around
Of armed Parties secretly dispos'd
Between the Palace Gardens and the Sea,
Bold Cleon strait and Arcas I dispatch'd
To search the Truth, that known with haste to raise
And arm our Citizens for your Defence:
E'er this they have obey'd me, when I've join'd
The Pow'r their Diligence has drawn together
I'll wait you here again upon the Instant.
[Exit Antinous.
Tel.
Oh Love, how are thy precious, sweetest Minutes
Thus ever crost, thus vext with Disappointments!
Now Pride, now Fickleness, fantastick Quarrels
And sullen Coldness give us Pain by turns,
Malicious medling Chance is ever busie
To bring us Fears, Disquiet, and Delays;
And ev'n at last, when after all our waiting
Eager we think to snatch the dear-bought Bliss,
Ambition calls us to its sullen Cares,
And Honour stern, impatient of Neglect,
Commands us to forget our Ease and Pleasures,
As if we had been made for nought but Toil,
And Love were not the Bus'ness of our Lives.
Enter Eurymachus.
Eur.
The Prince yet here! Twice have I sought, since Night,
To pass in private to the Queen's Appartment,
But sound him still attending at the Door;
What can it mean?
Tel.
It is Semanthe's Father!
Ha!—Sure the Gods in Pity of our Loves
Have destin'd him to 'scape Ulysses Vengeance.
Eur.
How comes it, gentle Youth, when Wine and Mirth
Chear ev'ry Heart to Night, and banish Care,
I find thee pensively alone, avoiding
The Pleasures and Companions of thy Youth,
And like the sighing Slave of Sorrow, wasting
The tedious Time in melancholy Thought?
Tel.
Behold the Ruins of my Royal House,
My Father's Absence, and my Mother's Grief,
Then tell me if I have not Cause too great
To mourn, to pine away my Youth in Sadness.
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Our Daughter once was wont to share your Thoughts,
Believe me, she has Reason to complain,
If you prefer your Solitude to her;
While here you stay, disconsolate and musing,
Lonely she sits, the tender-hearted Maid,
And kindly thinks of you, and mourns your Absence.
Tel.
The constant, faithful Service of my Life,
My Days and Nights devoted all to her,
Poorly repay the fair Semanthe's Goodness:
Yet they are hers, ev'n all my Years are hers,
My present Youth, my future Age is hers,
All but this Night, which here I've sworn to pass,
Revolving many a sad and heavy Thought,
And ruminating on my wretched Fortunes.
Eur.
How! here!—to pass it here!—
Tel.
Ev'n here, my Lord.
Eur.
Fantastick Accident!—Whence cou'd this come?
[Aside.
Well, Sir, pursue your Thoughts, I have some Matters
Of great and high Import, which on the Instant
I must deliver to the Queen, your Mother.
Tel.
Whate'er it be, you must of Force delay it
'Till Morning.
Eur.
How, delay it!—'tis impossible.
But wherefore?—Say.
Tel.
The Queen is gone to Rest,
Opprest and wasted with the Toil of Sorrows,
Weary as miserable painful Hinds,
That labour all the Day to get 'em Food,
She seeks some Ease, some Interval of Cares,
From the kind God of Sleep, and sweet Repose.
E'er she retir'd she left most strict Command,
None shou'd approach her 'till the Morning's Dawn.
Eur.
Whate'er those Orders were, I have my Reasons
To think my self excepted:—And whoe'er
Brought you the Message, through officious Haste
Mistook the Queen, and has inform'd you wrong.
Tel.
Not so, my Lord, for as I honour Truth,
Ev'n from her self did I receive the Charge.
Eur.
Vexation and Delay!—Then 'tis thy own,
Thy Error, and thou heard'st not what she said.
I tell thee, Prince, 'tis at her own Request,
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I wait her here, detain me then no more
With tedious vain Replies, for I must pass.
Tel.
Were it to any but Semanthe's Father,
That Mistress of my Reason and my Passions,
Who charming both makes both submit alike,
Perhaps I shou'd in rougher Terms have answer'd,
But here imperious Love demands Respect,
Constrains my Temper, to my Speech gives Law,
And I must only say You cannot pass.
Eur.
Ha!—Who shall bar me?
Tel.
With the gentlest Words
Which Reverence and Duty can invent
I will intreat you not to do a Violence,
Where nought is meant to you but worthiest Honour.
Eur.
Oh trifling, idle Talker!—know, my Purpose
Is not of such a light, fantastick Nature,
That I shou'd quit it for a Boy's Intreaty.
More than my Life or Empire it imports,
All that good Fortune or the Gods can do for me
Depends upon it, and I will have Entrance.
Tell.
Nay then 'tis time to speak like what I am,
And tell you, Sir, You must not, nor you sha'not.
Eur.
'Twere safer for thy rash, unthinking Youth
To stand the Mark of Thunder, than to thwart me;
Beware lest I forget thy Mother's Tears,
The Merit of her soft complying Sorrows,
Dreadful in Fury lest I rush upon thee,
Grasp thy frail Life, and break it like a Bubble,
To be dissolv'd, and mixt with common Air.
Tel.
Oh 'tis long since that I have learnt to hold
My Life from none, but from the Gods who gave it,
Nor mean to render it on any Terms,
Unless those Heav'nly Donors ask it back.
Eur.
Know'st thou what 'tis to tempt a Rage like mine?
But listen to me, and repent thy Folly.
This Night, this Night ordain'd of old for Bliss,
Mark'd from the rest of the revolving Year,
And set apart for Happiness by Fate,
The charming Queen, thy Mother, is my Bride.
Tel.
Confusion! Curses on the Tongue that spoke it!
Eur.
To Night she yields, ev'n for thy sake she yields:
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Reveals her Stores of Beauty long reserv'd,
She bids me revel with the hidden Treasure,
And pay my self for all her Years of Coldness.
Tel.
Perdition on the Falshood!
Eur.
Dare not then
To cross my Transports longer; if thou dost,
By all the Pangs of disappointed Love,
[Drawing.
I'll force my Way, thus, through thy Heart's best Blood.
Tel.
How is my Piety and Virtue lost,
And all the Heav'nly Fire extinct within me!
I hear the sacred Name of her that bore me
Traduc'd, dishonour'd by a Ruffian's Tongue,
And am I tame!—Love, and ye softer Thoughts,
I give you to the Winds.—Know, King of Samos,
Thy Breath, like pestilential Blasts, infects
The Air, and grows offensive to the Gods:
If thou but whisper one Word more, one Accent
Against my Mother's Fame, it is thy last.
Eur.
Brav'd by a Boy!—a Boy!—the Nurse's Milk
Yet moist upon his Lip,—feeble in Infancy,
Essaying the first Rudiments of Manhood,
With Strength unpractis'd yet, and unconfirm'd,
Oh Shame to Arms!—But I have born too long,
Fly swift, avoid the Tempest of my Fury,
Or thus I'll pour it in a Whirlwind on thee,
Dash thee to Atoms thus, and toss thee round the World.
Tel.
I laugh at all that Rage, and thus I meet it.
[They fight.
Eur.
Hell and Confusion!—to thy Heart.—
Tel.
To thine
This Greeting I return.—
Eur.
The Furies seize thee,
[Eurymachus falls.
Thou hast struck me to the Earth, blasted my Hopes,
The partial Gods are leagu'd with thee against me,
To load me with Dishonour—oh my Fortune!
Where is my Name in Arms, the boasted Trophies
Of my past Life for ever lost, defac'd,
And ravish'd from me by a beardless Stripling.
Tel.
What means this soft Relenting in my Soul?
What Voice is this that sadly whispers to me,
Behold Semanthe's Father bleeds to Death?
Why would you urge me?
[To Eurymachus.
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Off, and come not near me,
But let me curse my Fate, and die contented.
Tel.
And see he sinks yet paler to the Earth,
The Purple Torrent gushes out impertuous,
And with a guilty Deluge stains the Ground:
No help at Hand! what hoa!—Antinous!
[Exit.
Eur.
Let there be none, no Witness of my Shame,
Nor let officious Art presume to offer
Its Aid, for I have liv'd too long already.
Enter Semanthe.
Sem.
Sure I have staid too long, and while I sate
Sadly attentive to the weeping Queen,
Hearing her tell of Sorrows upon Sorrows,
Ev'n to a lamentable length of Woe,
Th'appointed Hour of Love pass'd by unheeded;
My Lord perhaps will chide; oh no!—He's gentle,
And will not urge me with my first Offence.
Just as I enter'd here the Bird of Night
Ill-boading shriek'd, and strait, methought, I heard
A low complaining Voice, that seem'd to murmur
At some hard Fate, and groan to be reliev'd
Ye gracious Gods be good to my Telemachus!
Eur.
Ha! What art thou that dost thy Hostile Orisons
Offer to Heav'n for my Mortal Foe?
Sem.
Guardians of Innocence, ye Holy Pow'rs,
Defend me, save me.
Eur.
Art thou not Semanthe?
Sem.
My Father!—On the the Ground!—Bloody and Pale!
[Running to him, and kneeling by him.
Oh Horror! Horror!—Speak to me—Say who—
What cursed Hand has done this dreadful Deed?
That with my Cries I may call out for Justice,
Call to the Gods, and to my dear Telemachus,
For Justice on my Royal Father's Murderer.
Eur.
If there be yet one God will listen to thee,
Sollicit him, that only equal Power,
To rain down Plagues, and Fire, and swift Destruction,
Ev'n all his whole Artillery of Vengeance,
On him, who aided by my adverse Stars,
Robb'd me of Glory, Love and Life—Telemachus.
Sem.
What says my Father!—no!—it is impossible!
He could not—would not—for Semanthe's sake.—
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Tel.
Alas!—there is none near—no Help—Semanthe!
[Crying out.
Eur.
And see he bears the Trophy of his Conquest;
Behold his Sword yet reeking with my Blood,
Then doubt no more, nor ask whom thou shou'dst curse:
It is Telemachus—on whom revenge me,
But on Telemachus—Why do I leave thee
A helpless Orphan in a Foreign Land,
But for Telemachus, who tears me from thee?
Telemachus—why is thy King and Father
Stretch'd on the Earth a cold and lifeless Coarse,
Inglorious and forgotten—Oh! Telemachus!
[Dies.
Sem.
Cruel!—unkind and cruel!—
[She faints and falls upon the Body of Eurymachus.
Tel.
She faints,
Her Cheeks are cold, and the last leaden Sleep
Hangs heavy on her Lids—wake, wake, Semanthe,
Oh let me raise thee from this Seat of Death;
[Raising her up, and supporting her in his Arms.
Lift up thy Eyes—Wilt thou not speak to me?
Sem.
Let me forget the use of ev'ry Sense,
Let me not see, nor hear, nor speak again
After that Sight, and those most dreadful Sounds.
Where am I now?—What!—lodg'd within thy Arms!
Stand off, and let me fly from thee for ever,
Swifter than Light'ning, Winds or winged Time;
Fly from thee 'till there be whole Worlds to part us,
'Till Nature fix her Barriers to divide us,
Her frozen Regions, and her burning Zones,
'Till Danger, Death and Hell do stand betwixt us,
And make it Fate that we shall never meet.
Tel.
'Tis just; I own thy Rage is just, Semanthe;
Each fatal Circumstance is strong against me;
Then if thy Heart severely is resolv'd
Never to listen when I plead for Mercy,
Tho' Piety and Honour join with Love,
And humbly at thy Feet make Intercession:
If thou art deaf to all, then this alone
Is left me, to receive my Doom, and die.
Sem.
Are Love, are Piety and Honour Parricides?
Are they like thee? Do they delight in Blood?
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Friendly Forgiveness, Gentleness and Peace,
Mercy and Joy; but thou hast violated
The Sacred Train, brought Murder in amongst 'em
And see, displeas'd, to Heav'n they take their Flight,
And have abandon'd thee and me for ever.
Tel.
If sudden Fury have not chang'd thee quite,
If there be any of Semanthe left,
One tender Thought of that dear Maid remaining,
Yet I conjure thee hear me.
Sem.
'Tis in vain,
And that known Voice can never Charm me more.
Tel.
Be Witness for me, Heav'n, with what Reluctance
My Hand was lifted for this Fatal Stroke,
With Injuries which Manhood could not brook,
With Violence, with proud insulting Scorn,
And ignominious Threat'nings was I urg'd;
Long, long I strove with rising Indignation,
And long repress'd my swelling, youthful Rage;
I groan'd, and felt an Agony within:
'T was hard indeed—but to my self I said,
It is Semanthe's Father, and I'll bear it.
Sem.
And cou'dst thou do more? Call'st thou these Sufferings?
These short, tumultuous, momentary Passions?
What would not I have born for thee, thou cruel one?
For thee, so fondly was my Heart set on thee,
Forgetful of my tender, helpless Sex,
I would have wander'd over the wide World,
Known all Calamities and all Distresses,
Sickness and Hunger, Cold and bitter Want;
For thee retir'd within some gloomy Cave,
I would have wasted all my Days in Weeping,
And liv'd and dy'd a Wretch to make thee happy;
'Till I had been a Story to Posterity;
'Till Maids, in After-times, had said, Behold
How much she suffer'd for the Man she lov'd.
Tel.
And is there any one, the most afflicting
Of all those Miseries Mankind is born to,
Which for thy sake I would refuse?—But oh
Mine was a harder, a severer Task;
The Queen, my Mother, trusted to my Charge,
My Royal Father's Honour, and my own,
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United urg'd, and call'd upon my Sword.
Sem.
What is this vain, fantastick Pageant, Honour,
This busie, angry thing, that scatters Discord
Amongst the mighty Princes of the Earth,
And sets the madding Nations in an Uproar?
But let it be the Worship of the Great,
Well hast thou warn'd me, and I'll make it mine;
Yes, Prince, its dread Command shall be obey'd,
Our Samian Arms shall pour Destruction on you,
Your yellow Harvests and your Towns shall blaze,
The Sword shall rage, and universal Wailings
Be heard amongst the Mothers of your Ithaca,
'Till War it self grow weary and relent,
And that poor bleeding King be well reveng'd.
Tel.
Haste then, and let the Trumpet sound to Arms,
Semanthe's Vengeance shall not be delay'd;
Prepare for Slaughter and wide-wasting Ruin,
Prepare to feel her Wrath, ye wretched Ithacans;
Lift not a Sword, nor bend a Bow against her,
But all, like me, with low Submission meet her,
And let us yield up our devoted Lives,
Nor once implore her Mercy—for alas!
Cruel Semanthe has forgot to pardon:
For Blood, Destruction and Revenge she calls,
And Gentleness and Love are Strangers to her.
Sem.
Love!—Did'st thou speak of Love?—Oh ill-tim'd Thought!
Behold it there! behold the Love thou bear'st me;
[Pointing to the Body of Eurymachus.
Behold that! that!—more dreadful than Medusa,
It drives my Soul back to her inmost Seats,
And freezes every stiff'ning Limb to Marble.
Seest thou that gaping Wound, and that black Blood
Congealing on that pale, that ashy Breast;
Then mark the Face—how Pain and Rage, with all
The Agonies of Death sit fresh upon it:
This was my Father—Was there none on Earth,
No Hand but thine?—
Tel.
Within my own sad Heart
I felt the Steel before it reach'd to his.
How much more happy is his Lot?—The Sleep
Of Death is on him, and he is in Peace,
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Mourn for my self, and, to compleat my Woes,
Feel all thy Pains redoubled on Telemachus.
Sem.
I know thou hat'st me, and that deadly Blow
Was meant to do a Murther on Semanthe.
But oh! it needed not, for thy Unkindness
Had been as Fatal to me as thy Sword.
If one cold Look, one angry Word had told me,
That thou wert chang'd, and I was grown a Burthen to thee,
I should have understood thy cruel Purpose,
Sate down to Weep, and broke my Heart and dy'd.
Tel.
It is too much, and I will bear no more;
Oh thou unjust, thou lovely false Accuser,
How hast thou wrong'd my tender, faithful Love,
In spight of all these Horrors, of my Guilt,
And that malignant Fate that doom'd me to it;
In spight of all, I will appeal to thee,
Ev'n to thy self, inhuman as thou art,
If ever Maid was yet belov'd before thee
With such Heart-aking, eager, anxious Fondness,
As that with which my Soul desires my dear Semanthe.
Sem.
Detested be the Name of Love for ever!
Henceforth let easie Maids be warn'd by me,
No more to trust your Breasts that heave with Sighing,
Your moving Accents, and your melting Eyes;
When e'er you boast your Truth then let 'em fly you,
Then scorn you, for 'tis then you mean Deceiving;
If yet there should some fond Believer be,
Let the false Man betray the Wretch like thee,
Like thee the lost, repenting Fool disclaim,
For Crowns, Ambition, and your Idol Fame;
When warm, when languishing with sweet Delight,
Wishing she meets him, may he blast her Sight,
With such a Murder on her Bridal Night.
Exit.
Tel.
Now arm thee for the Conflict, oh my Soul,
And see how thou can'st bear Semanthe's Loss;
For she is lost—most certain—gone irrevocable,
Mentor nor Æthon now, my King, my Father
Shall need t'upbraid me with th'unhappy Passion;
Ha! that has wak'd a Thought—'Tis certain so,
And this is all the Work of cruel Policy:
The Danger of the Queen was from Eurymachus,
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That it might cut the Bands of Love asunder,
Oh Dreamer that I was!—
Enter Antinous, Cleon and Arcas with Soldiers.
Ant.
My Lord, where are you?
Thus to his Son our King, the great Ulysses
By me commands, Your Royal Mother's Danger
Is now no more, since all the Rival Princes
Are in the Hall beset, and ev'n this Moment
Revenge and Slaughter are let loose among 'em;
Haste then to join your God-like Father's Arms,
To bring your pious Valour to his Aid,
And share the Conquest and the Glory with him.
Tel.
Ha! Com'st thou from the Hall, Antinous?
Ant.
Ev'n now, my Lord, as I was hasting hither
It was my Chance to meet my Royal Master;
Eager with Joy I threw me at his Feet,
With wond'rous Grace he rais'd me and embrac'd me,
Then bid me fly to bear his Orders to you.
By the loud Cries, the Shouts, and clash of Arms,
Which just as I had left him struck my Ear,
I guess e'er this the Combat is begun.
Tel.
Yes, yes, my Friend, that Danger of the Queen
Is now no more—However be thou near
To guard her, to support her, lest the Terrors
Of this tumultuous, this most dreadful Night,
May shake her Soul—I will obey the King,
And gladly lose the Life he gave me for him.
And since the Pleasure of my Days is lost,
Since my Youth's dearest, only Hopes are cross'd,
Careless of all, I'll rush into the War,
Provoke the lifted Sword and pointed Spear,
'Till all o'er Wounds I sink amidst the Slain,
And bless the friendly Hand that rids me of my Pain.
[Ex. Tel.
Cleon.
Behold, my Lord, and wonder here with us;
The Samian King!—
Ant.
Eurymachus!—'Tis he;
Surprising Accident!—Whence came this Blow?
But 'tis no matter since it makes for us,
Nor have we Time to waste in vain Inquiry,
Let it suffice that we have lost an Enemy.
Haste to the Queen, my Cleon, and persuade her
To seek her Safety with us in the City;
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Do you attend him.—
[To the Soldiers.
Arc.
Had you ta'ne my Counsel,
The Prince shou'd not have 'scap'd us.
Ant.
Arcas, no!
A Life like his is but a single Stake,
Unworthy the Contention it might cost us:
Gaining the Queen, I have whate'er I wish.
Fear of the Samians and the subtle King
Forbad my coming with a stronger Power,
Lest they had ta'ne th'Alarm, and turn'd upon us:
Therefore I held it safer by a Wile
To work upon the Youth, and send him hence,
And that way gain Admittance to his Mother.
Arc.
Our Ithacans, who give the King for lost,
Shall deem this Tale of his Return a Fable;
Or tho' they should believe it, yet will join us,
And with united Arms assist your Cause.
Why do we linger then?—Heard you that Cry?
[Cry of Women within.
Successful Cleon, of his Prey possess'd,
Leads us the Way, and hastens to the City.
Ant.
Come on, and let the crafty fam'd Ulysses
Repine and rage, by happier Frauds excell'd.
Let the forsaken Husband vainly mourn
His tedious Labours, and his late Return;
In vain to Pallas and to Jove complain,
That Troy and Hector are reviv'd again.
Possess'd, like happy Paris, of the Fair,
I'll lengthen out my Joys with Ten Years War,
And think the rest of Life beneath a Lover's Care.
[Exeunt.
End of the Fourth Act.
| Ulysses | |