 | Dione |  |
SCENE I.
A plain at the foot of a steep craggy mountain.DIONE. LAURA.
Laura.
Why dost thou fly me? stay, unhappy fair,
Seek not these horrid caverns of despair;
To trace thy steps the midnight air I bore,
Trod the brown desart, and unshelter'd moor:
Three times the lark has sung his matin lay,
And rose on dewy wing to meet the day,
Since first I found thee, stretch'd in pensive mood,
Where laurels border Ladon's silver flood.
Dione.
O let my soul with grateful thanks o'erflow!
'Tis to thy hand my daily life I owe.
Like the weak lamb you rais'd me from the plain,
Too faint to bear bleak winds and beating rain;
Each day I share thy bowl and clean repast,
Each night thy roof defends the chilly blast.
But vain is all thy friendship, vain thy care:
Forget a wretch abandon'd to despair.
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Despair will fly thee, when thou shalt impart
The fatal secret that torments thy heart;
Disclose thy sorrows to my faithful ear,
Instruct those eyes to give thee tear for tear.
Love, love's the cause; our forests speak thy flame,
The rocks have learnt to sigh Evander's name.
If fault'ring shame thy bashful tongue restrain,
If thou hast look'd, and blush'd, and sigh'd in vain;
Say, in what grove thy lovely shepherd strays,
Tell me what mountains warble with his lays;
Thither I'll speed me, and with moving art
Draw soft confessions from his melting heart.
Dione.
Thy gen'rous care has touch'd my secret woe.
Love bids these scalding tears incessant flow,
Ill-fated love! O, say, ye sylvan maids,
Who range wide forests and sequester'd shades,
Say where Evander bled, point out the ground
That yet is purple with the savage wound.
Yonder he lies; I hear the bird of prey;
High o'er those cliffs the raven wings his way;
Hark how he croaks! he scents the murder near.
O may no greedy beak his visage tear!
Shield him, ye Cupids; strip the Paphian grove,
And strow unfading myrtle o'er my love!
Down, heaving heart.
Laura.
—The mournful tale disclose.
Dione.
Let not my tears intrude on thy repose.
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I'll speak; though sorrow rend my lab'ring breast.
Know then, fair shepherdess; no honest swain
Taught me the duties of the peaceful plain;
Unus'd to sweet content, no flocks I keep,
Nor browzing goats that overhang the steep.
Born where Orchomenos proud turrets shine,
I trace my birth from long illustrious line,
Why was I train'd amidst Arcadia's court?
Love ever revels in that gay resort.
Whene'er Evander past, my smitten heart
Heav'd frequent sighs, and felt unusual smart.
Ah! hadst thou seen with what sweet grace he mov'd!
Yet why that wish? for Laura then had lov'd.
Laura.
Distrust me not; thy secret wrongs impart.
Dione.
Forgive the sallies of a breaking heart.
Evander's sighs his mutual flame confest;
The growing passion labour'd in his breast;
To me he came; my heart with rapture sprung,
To see the blushes, when his falt'ring tongue
First said, I love. My eyes consent reveal,
And plighted vows our faithful passion seal.
Where's now the lovely youth? he's lost, he's slain,
And the pale corse lies breathless on the plain!
Laura.
Are thus the hopes of constant lovers paid?
If thus—ye powers, from love defend the maid!
Dione.
Now have twelve mornings warm'd the purple east,
Since my dear hunter rouz'd the tusky beast;
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Swift as the wind, his eager steps pursu'd:
'Twas then the savage turn'd; then fell the youth,
And his dear blood distain'd the barb'rous tooth.
Laura.
Was there none near? no ready succour found?
Nor healing herb to staunch the spouting wound?
Dione.
In vain through pathless wood the hunters crost,
And sought with anxious eye their master lost;
In vain their frequent hollows echo'd shrill,
And his lov'd name was sent from hill to hill;
Evander hears you not, he's lost, he's slain,
And the pale corse lies breathless on the plain.
Laura.
Has yet no clown (who, wandring from the way,
Beats ev'ry bush to raise the lamb astray)
Observ'd the fatal spot?
Dione.
—O, if ye pass
Where purple murder dyes the wither'd grass,
With pious finger gently close his eyes,
And let his grave with decent verdure rise.
[Weeps.
Laura.
Behold the turtle who has lost her mate:
Awhile with drooping wing she mourns his fate,
Sullen, awhile she seeks the darkest grove,
And cooing meditates the murder'd dove;
But time the rueful image wears away,
Again she's cheer'd, again she seeks the day.
Spare then thy beauty, and no longer pine.
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Yet sure some turtle's love has equall'd mine,
Who, when the hawk has snatch'd her mate away,
Hath never known the glad return of day.
Who, when the hawk has snatch'd her mate away,
Hath never known the glad return of day.
When my fond father saw my faded eye,
And on my livid cheeks the roses die;
When catching sighs my wasted bosom mov'd,
My looks, my sighs confirm'd him that I lov'd.
He knew not that Evander was my flame,
Evander dead! my passion still the same!
He came, he threaten'd; with paternal sway
Cleanthes nam'd, and fix'd the nuptial day:
O cruel kindness! too severely prest!
I scorn his honours, and his wealth detest.
And on my livid cheeks the roses die;
When catching sighs my wasted bosom mov'd,
My looks, my sighs confirm'd him that I lov'd.
He knew not that Evander was my flame,
Evander dead! my passion still the same!
He came, he threaten'd; with paternal sway
Cleanthes nam'd, and fix'd the nuptial day:
O cruel kindness! too severely prest!
I scorn his honours, and his wealth detest.
Laura.
How vain is force! love ne'er can be compell'd.
Dione.
Though bound by duty, yet my heart rebell'd.
One night, when sleep had hush'd all busy spies,
And the pale moon had journey'd half the skies;
Softly I rose and drest; with silent tread,
Unbarr'd the gates; and to these mountains fled.
Here let me sooth the melancholy hours!
Close me, ye woods, within your twilight bow'rs!
Where my calm soul may settled sorrow know,
And no Cleanthes interrupt my woe
[Melancholy music is heard at a distance.
With importuning love—On yonder plain
Advances slow a melancholy train;
Black cypress boughs their drooping heads adorn.
Laura.
Alas! Menalcas to his grave is born.
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He saw, he sigh'd, he lov'd, was scorn'd and dy'd.
Dione.
Where dwells this beauteous tyrant of the plains?
Where may I see her?
Laura.
—Ask the sighing swains.
They best can speak the conquests of her eyes,
Whoever sees her, loves; who loves her, dies.
Dione.
Perhaps untimely fate her flame hath crost,
And she, like me, hath her Evander lost.
How my soul pities her!
Laura.
—If pity move
Your generous bosom, pity those who love.
There late arriv'd among our sylvan race
A stranger shepherd, who with lonely pace
Visits those mountain pines at dawn of day,
Where oft' Parthenia takes her early way
To rouze the chase; mad with his am'rous pain,
He stops and raves; then sullen walks again.
Parthenia's name is born by passing gales,
And talking hills repeat it to the dales.
Come, let us from this vale of sorrow go,
Nor let the mournful scene prolong thy woe.
[Exeunt.
| Dione | |