 | Merope |  |
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ACT I.
Scene I.
An Apartment in the Palace.MEROPE, mournful, on a Couch.
ISMENE, leaning melancholy, below; and Attendants.
ISMENE.
See! where the lone majestic Mourner weeps;
Lost, even to Musick's Power!—try: strain each Note,
In Melody's wide Compass.—Happily,
Some Change, through sad, to lively, may have Force,
To strike recov'ring Sense, and wake Regard.
—First, in low Sympathy of Sorrow's Softness,
Sooth her dejected Soul—then, start at once
To Swells of Joy—and storm Attention's Ear.
[Musick with Trumpets.]
After the Musick Merope rises, and comes forward.
MEROPE.
Let me, when, next, thy too officious Love,
Faithful Ismene, trys th' harmonious Charm,
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Sad-suited to my Thoughts—Mix not for me,
Who have no Power to taste, such spritely Notes,
As they who are more Happy, find more Sweet?
ISMENE.
Why, when the Gods grow gentle, are You sad?
You felt their Anger, sharply.—Now they smile,
Embrace their proffer'd Bounty—All the Lords
Of glad Mycene, in full Senate met,
Take Measures to proclaim you reigning Queen:
You, whom Distress but brightens!—to whose Charms,
Made aweful by your Grief, Woes add new Majesty!
MEROPE.
What, no News yet, of Narbas? or my Son?
ISMENE.
May it be soon!—No Prince, of Birth like His,
Where-e're conceal'd, can 'scape such Search, unknown.
MEROPE.
Will ye, at length, ye Powers, reward my Tears?
Will ye, at last, restore Eumenes, to me?
—If he yet lives—this only remnant Heir
Of his wrong'd Mother's Miseries!—oh, save him.
From his dear Breast, strike wide the Murd'rer's Dagger.
Is he not Your's? a Branch, from Great Alcides?
What, tho'—(forget it, and be hush'd, O Faith!)
What, tho' to Traitors prosp'rous Swords, you gave
His Father's fated Life—ah, yet! desert not
This Image of his Form, that fills my Soul.
ISMENE.
Dear, tho' he doubtless was, and justly mourn'd,
Shou'd you exclude all Sense of Bliss, beside?
MEROPE.
I am a Mother:—with a Mother's Fears.
ISMENE.
But, can a Mother's Fears efface the Stamp
Of Hero's Soul, that marks a Race like yours?
—Sweet, tho' his infant Smiles, they dwell, too fix'd,
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Are past, since first you lost him.
MEROPE.
Lost him?—never.—
In twice seven dreadful Years, no Moment's Light
Broke on my Eyes, but brought His Image with it.
Why tell'st thou me of Time?—Days, Months, and Years,
Have grown; but with 'em grew, my Pain, to lose him.
—Weigh that last fatal Hint, thy Father sent me.
Hope, soon, said he, to see the Prince Eumenes
All, you wou'd wish:—fear All, from Poliphontes.
ISMENE.
Wisely, you fear him.—but 'twere wiser, still,
So fearing, to prevent him.—Hear the States:
Quit, at their Prayer, this Regent's Name—be crown'd:
And rise, indeed the Queen they meant to make you.
MEROPE.
Is not the Crown my Son's?
ISMENE.
A Son, so lov'd—
Shou'd he return, wou'd thank—
MEROPE.
Perish the Heart,
That, meanly proud, and poorly fill'd for Self,
Swells, from Another's Losses!
ISMENE.
Public Interest—
MEROPE.
Curse on all Int'rest, that includes not Honesty!
—But, here, ev'n Int'rest brings no Plea to tempt me.
What can a childless Mother hope, from Empire?
What has Distress to do, with Pomp's vain Luster?
—I see the very Light of Heav'n, with Pain.
Never shall Splendor chear these blasted Eyes,
That saw my bleeding Lord, my murder'd Children;
Saw my Friends fall: Saw Men and Gods forsake me.
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Present, for ever, to my frighted Soul.
ISMENE.
Oft have I wept,—to hear that Day's sad Tale.
MEROPE.
I hear it now!—Even yet their Cries rise round me!
Save, save, the King—save the poor gasping Princes:
Save the distracted Queen!—I scream—I fly—
On every Side I turn meet battling Crowds:
Swords, glitt'ring Spears, loud Shouts, and mingled Groanings.
Meet, last—a Sight—beyond all Sense of Horror!
Meet—an expiring Husband's out-stretch'd Eye,
Strain'd, with a death-mix'd Tenderness on mine—
And struggling from his Blood, to reach and clasp me.
ISMENE.
Patience, O Madam, and forget these Horrors.
MEROPE.
—There two expiring infant Suff'rers fell,
The Eldest, of our Loves!—duteous, in Death!
Cross the King's Breast, they threw their little Bodies,
And lent their Hand's weak Aid—to save their Father.
—Only Eumenes—'scap'd th' Assassin's Fury.
Some interposing God vouchsaf'd to veil him:
And He, who screen'd him, then, may, once, restore him.
—Narbas, thy wise, thy faithful Father, bore him
Far from my Sight—to some dark safe Retreat:
Some Desart,—barren of Distress, and Man!
SCENE II.
MEROPE. ISMENE. EURICLES.ISMENE.
Madam!—Lord Euricles—
MEROPE.
Welcome—what Hope?
EURICLES.
Vain was our Search—From Peneus' Bank, it spread,
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Enquiry, lab'ring, lost its fruitless Prayer.
Description cou'd not wake the least Idea.
None knew, none ever heard of, Narbas' Name!
MEROPE.
Alas! he breaths no more—my Son is dead.
ISMENE.
So, Fear makes real every fansied Woe.
—You've heard, that, on Report of this new Peace,
My Father guides him, secret, to your Hopes.
EURICLES.
Just was his Caution! Narbas, wisely loyal,
Veils his Return, and cautiously conveys him.
Narbas knows All his Dangers—I, mean while,
Watch, with a guardful Eye these Murd'rers Motions:
And, with determin'd Hand, prepare to save him.
MEROPE.
On Faith so try'd as Thine, even Woe leans, easy.
EURICLES.
Doubt but my Power's Defect: My Will finds none.
—But I have News more threat'ning.
Th' assembled Senate vote, in warm Debate,
A Consort in your Crown.—
MEROPE.
Presumptuous Care!
You shou'd have call'd it Insult.
EURICLES.
Words were vain.
Truth, unsustain'd by Power, but fights, to fall.
The partial People roar for Poliphontes:
And Right, and Law, and Pity, sink before him.
MEROPE.
Can Fortune, then, reduce the Great to Pity!
Can Kings, in their own Realms, contract to Slaves?
EURICLES.
Something must be resolv'd, to check their Speed.
MEROPE.
Yes—I will face these Lords, of Kings, and Law:
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That sparkle by the Fire they steal from Majesty!
I will go dart Truth's Light'ning in their Eyes,
And thunder in their Ears the Rights of Thrones.
I will revive lost Sense of Trust and Duty:
I will assert their Sov'reign's near Return.
(going.)
EURICLES.
Oh, Heav'n! be wary—That way, Ruin lies.
Their Tyrant Leader starts, already fir'd,
By that Alarm: and dreams, of what he dreads.
MEROPE.
What can he, more—so much already one?
EURICLES.
Jealous of Danger, Men make Haste in Guilt:
Work, to be safe, and hold no Means too wicked.
Mycene, but by Faction, freed from Faction,
Claim'd like a Conquest, he computes His own.
No Tye so sacred binds endanger'd Valour,
Where hot Ambition spurs it—Every Rampart
Gives Way, before him. Law, corrupted, guards him.
Wealth dresses, Poverty attends, Pride leads:
And Priesthood presses Gods who hate—to serve him.
MEROPE.
I see th' Abyss, before me—Let it be.
If I plunge in, and crush this Poliphontes,
'Tis but, to fall for Vengeance.
EURICLES.
Soft!—he comes.
Exeunt Euricles and Ismene.
MEROPE.
Wear for a Moment, Heart! the Veil thou hat'st.
SCENE III.
MEROPE. POLIPHONTES.POLIPHONTES.
Ever in Tears, my Queen!—lend a long Truce
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Shake, from those injur'd Eyes, each Cloud that dims 'em:
And to the Voice of Love, vouchsafe your Ear.
—You frown—
MEROPE.
I do, indeed: and gaze, with Horror!
POLIPHONTES.
Gaze on.—I am no stranger to myself:
Nor to a Woman's Passions.—I grew grey
Beneath a Weight, of Winters spent in Arms.
—I know, Time's Furrows are no Paths to Love.
I know it, All—But, Wisdom knows it not.
—Weigh not my Offer in Disdain's light Balance.
You are the Daughter, Mother, Wife, of Kings:
But the State wants a Master.—What avails
Vain Title, till some Sword, like mine, supports it.
MEROPE.
Bold Subject, of a King who call'd me Wife!
Dar'st thou defame the Mem'ry of thy Lord,
With such audacious Hope?—Aspire to me!
Me, to supplant my Child! my Heart's whole Care:
Stain his dishonour'd Throne, with Guilt and Thee!
Me, can'st thou dream so base, to wed Thy Lowness:
And crown with Empire's Wreath a Soldier's Brow?
POLIPHONTES.
Soldier? immortal Gods!—Who more deserves
To govern, States, than He who, best, can save?
He who was, first, call'd King, e're That, was Soldier.
Great, because brave; and scepter'd by his Sword.
I am above Descent; and prize no Blood.
Scarce is my own left mine; 'tis lost, for Glory:
Spilt in my Country's Cause: in Yours, fair Scorner!
Take Safety—'tis my Gift. Fill half my Throne;
My Party calls All mine: Love shares it yours.
MEROPE.
Party? Thou fell Provoker, of Reproach!
Party should tremble, where a Monarch rules?
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There will be Parties; and there must be Kings:
And he, who best can curb, was form'd to reign.
—I, who reveng'd your Lord, by Right succeed him.
MEROPE.
Succeed him, Traitor?—Has he not a Son?
Gods were his Great Forefathers,—thence, his Claim.
POLIPHONTES.
Far other Value, bears Mycene's Crown.
Right, to rule Men, is now no longer held
By dull Descent, like Land's low Heritage:
'Tis the pluck'd Fruit of Toil—'tis the paid Price
Of Blood, lost nobly: And 'tis, thence, my Due.
MEROPE.
What hast thou done, thou Wretch! to dare such Hope?
POLIPHONTES.
Bethink you, of that Day, when these proud Walls
Blush'd with the Blood you boast, from Traitor's Swords.
Review your helpless Husband—see your Sons,
Expiring, round you.—Wipe those gushing Eyes—
And view me, what I was: Not, then, too low
To share your ruffled Passions—Yes: 'Twas I,
From your freed Palace chas'd th' o'erwhelming Foe:
Sav'd your Herculean Sceptre, and its Queen.
—I, I, repell'd,—the Woes you could but weep.
See there, my Right, my Rank, my Claim to Love.
MEROPE.
Hear, hear him, Heaven! and give me back my Son.
POLIPHONTES.
Yes: Let him come, this Son!—He shall be taught
Lessons of Glory: Taught my Arts to reign.
—Joy to the Blood of Hercules!—I, too,
Revere: Let others dread it. My Ambition
Climbs, beyond Progeny—To spring from Gods,
Is less, than mine—who, like a God, command.
MEROPE.
If thou wouldst emulate a God, be just:
Man can be brave, too boldly.—Hercules
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—Woud'st thou resemble Hercules?—Protect
Unfriended Innocence. Assert thy Prince.
Restore th' unhappy Wand'rer to my Arms;
Cease to afflict; and give him, to my Fondness.
—Thus, cou'd thy Influence move, so try'd, so courted,
Who knows—for, Gratitude has Power, like Love—
Who knows—how far I might forget my Glory—
And—if Peace dwells with thee—Expect it not—
I will not bid you hope—that I can stoop
So low.—Bend, I am sure, I cannot.
[Exit Merope.
SCENE IV.
POLIPHONTES, EROX.EROX.
Ent'ring, I heard her too presumptuous Scorn,
And wonder'd, at your Patience! Waits a King,
For a weak Woman's Wish, to fix his Throne?
Greatly and bravely have you clear'd your Way
To the Hill's Foot: Yet, when it courts your climbing,
Fall back, to sigh; and seek her Hand, to lead you!
POLIPHONTES.
Near, as thou think'st I stand, my warier Eye
Marks, 'twixt the Throne and me, a Precipice,
Where Faith or I fall headlong.—Does not Merope
Know, her Eumenes near?—Shou'd he return,
Th' inconstant People wou'd with Shouts receive him,
And smooth his way to Empire, o'er my Bosom.
—Thou know'st, from Proofs, most timely intercepted,
This new Boy King returns, and hopes Mycene.
EROX.
Trust your high Fortune, and disdain to Doubt.
Foresight and Fierceness are the brave Man's Gods,
And his own Hand supports him.
POLIPHONTES.
My late Order?
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'Twas, with a silent Firmness, well obey'd.
—From Elis to Mycene, every Road
Is watch'd, by sleepless Warders.—If they come,
Narbas and He, their Gods must march before 'em:
Or not Alcides' Blood could scape the shedding.
Your Soldier's Zeal is warm.
POLIPHONTES.
But is it blind?
EROX.
It is.—None knows his Name, whose Life he waits.
All they have yet been told is, a sad Tale,
Of an old wily Traitor, leading with him,
On murd'rous Purpose, an Assassin Youth,
Urg'd by exacted Oaths, to seek your Death.
POLIPHONTES.
But, what this Rumour, of Misanthus kill'd,
Before Alcides' Temple?—Is that true?
EROX.
Too sure, he fell.—I chose his trusty Arm,
Join'd with his martial Brother's, as most fit,
To guard that likeliest Station; where, should Narbas
Dare, with his Exile, touch Mycene's Border,
First, they wou'd rest, to beg That Godhead's Care,
From whom their Race presumes its proud Descent.
POLIPHONTES.
'Twas Forecast, worthy of a Zeal, like Thine.
Nor cou'd thy Care have chosen an abler Hand,
Or one more try'd in Blood, than That Misanthus.
—'Twas He, thou know'st, that, faithful to my Cause,
On that black Night, attending, near Cresphontes,
Taught the King's Sword, amid the Dusk of Slaughter,
To pierce its Master's Breast.—An Act, so daring,
Deserv'd the Sword, tho' three rich Gems adorn'd it,
He had it: And he wore it, for his Pains.
EROX.
Yet, at Alcides' Temple, drew it rashly,
And lost it, with his Life.
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How scap'd his Brother?
EROX.
Scar'd, out of Mem'ry's Use, All he cou'd tell me
Was, that the God inspir'd some dreadful Form!
Some more than mortal Monster;—And He fled,
POLIPHONTES.
Vile Safety!—left his Brother unreveng'd:
And shun'd a Soldier's Death.—We must be watchful.
Some in-felt Bodings bid me call this Stranger
Eumenes: Or his Friend.
EROX.
That Fear was mine:
Till, on Reflexion that he came, alone,
It look'd unlikely.—Chance it, as it may,
Whene're he this way comes, he comes, to die.
POLIPHONTES.
True.—Yet, I cou'd have wish'd to spare this Crime,
But, one first chosen, the Rest grow necessary:
So falls the Son.—The Mother must not follow.
Her, I have Need of. Marriage mends my Reign.
Her rightful Title consecrates Ambition:
And Usurpation whitens into Law.
—The People love her: I, possessing her,
Hold her Friends too, in Dowry.—Erox!—thou,
Whose Fate grows close to mine, assist my Scheme.
Skill'd how to spread Craft's Nets, allure the People.
Train 'em, by ev'ry Art: poize ev'ry Temper,
Avarice will sell his Soul: Buy That, and mould it.
Weakness will be deluded; there, grow eloquent.
Is there a tott'ring Faith? Grapple it fast
By Flatt'ry: And profusely deal my Favours.
Threaten the Guilty. Entertain the Gay.
Frighten the Rich. Find Wishes, for the Wanton:
And Reverence, for the Godly,—Let none 'scape thee.
Dive into Hearts: Sound every Nature's Biass—
And bribe Men by their Passions.—But, These Arts,
Already Thine, why waste I Time to teach thee!
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Since, Fortune changing, Strength's lost Hope is flown.
But Art, call'd in, attracts reluctant Will:
And, what were lost by Power, is gain'd by Skill.
End of the First Act.
| Merope | |