SCENE THE FIRST.
Scene, an anti-chamber in the palace.
ORESTES and PYLADES, meeting.
ORESTES.
My Pylades!—most happily return'd.
You went to mark the tyrant's progress—say,
How did my subjects seem affected with it?
PYLADES.
Sure never triumph wore so sad a face.
As thro' the city, in imperial pomp,
Ægysthus rode, I mingled with the crowd,
Observant in their eyes to read their hearts.
The blaze of splendor was august and proud:
But little satisfaction seem'd to give
To those for whose delight it was display'd.
The gay retinue of the pageant king
Chaunted a solemn pæan—which the people
Answer'd with deep-fetch'd sighs, and groans of anguish.
Where-e'er I look'd, each bosom heav'd opprest,
And ev'ry eye was dimn'd with mournful moisture.
ORESTES.
Blest be the omen!—ev'ry eye be blest
That dropt one tear in pity to Orestes.
PYLADES.
The wary tyrant with his guards gone forth,
The city now is open to surprize—
And I impatient for the glorious struggle
Will lift thee to a throne. But, my Orestes,
The part thou'st now to act will task thy pow'rs.
I know thy nature gentle, therefore warn thee
To arm thy heart with double resolution,
Lest stealing pity for a guilty mother
Should soften rigour, and defeat thy justice.
ORESTES.
A guilty mother!—My belov'd companion,
From out the palace-windows that command,
In distant prospect, great Apollo's fane,
Send an observing eye, and nicely mark
The motions of our friends. I know not why,
But my imagination's on the rack—
Go, my good Pylades, and bring me word
What you observe is passing.
PYLADES.
I'll away.
But must adjure thee, by thy thirst for glory,
To rouze resentment—harden indignation—
And arm thy soul to combat ev'ry horror.
