University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Scene a grand room in the palace.
ARCAS discovered leaning on the pedestal of a pillar.
ÆTHON enters to him.
ÆTHON.
Arcas!—what, musing?—On thy bended brow
Anguish and care seem seated!—Painful guests.
Say, kind and venerable friend, whose love
Supplied a father's part, untimely lost,
To form my mind, and fashion it to greatness;
Say if a man on earth has dar'd to wrong thee?
And here's a sword and arm for thy revenge.

ARCAS.

ÆTHON.
You mean that baleful monster, black Ægysthus:
Whom Agamemnon, when he led to Troy,
In glorious league, confederated Kings,
Nam'd with his Queen, his lovely Clytemnestra,
Joint-substitute in delegated sway.
O fatal choice! from whence temptation rose
T'abuse a monarch's trust, defile his bed,
And from his murder mount his sacred throne.

ARCAS.
Such were indeed the steps by which he reach'd
That violated seat, the guardian once,
And nurse of ev'ry virtue. Now the source
Of hard oppressions and unceasing wrongs.
But will ye, Gods! continue to behold
Unpity'd, unredress'd, our royal Orphan?
See the griev'd people of two kingdoms bend
Beneath a tyrant's scourge? Authority
Defil'd by guilt? and streams of tears and blood,
Sluic'd from barbarity, or drain'd for sport,
By one who knows no feelings of a man?
Who wanting ev'ry virtue to endear him,
On terror would establish usurpation.

ÆTHON.
Unhappy lot of Argos and Mycenæ.
But theirs supremely whose exalted rank
Superior woes distinguish.—Oh! my friend,
To what were Agamemnon's offspring born!

ARCAS.
True! 'tis a theme on which reflection wrings
The heart of pity. From all converse, light
And comfort sever'd, in a dungeon's depth,
Electra wails a murder'd father's fate,
A hapless brother's exile; driv'n from home
The succour of compassion to implore,
And ask of Kings, the equals of his birth,
Shelter and food—the sordid beggar's boon.

ÆTHON.
Thrice has Electra suffer'd such hard durance,
From the keen malice of his jealous guilt
Who construes sorrows crimes, and silence treason.

ARCAS.
Well might the groans of her impatient grief
Untimely issue: well provoke his ire
Whose stinging conscience startles at reproach.
To minds that fly rememb'rance—fear remorse—
To guilt—the tears of innocence are galling:
She fears no enemy like that within,
Nor contemplation like her own dark deeds.

ÆTHON.
What then, my friend, must Clytemnestra feel?
Seduc'd to frailties which impell'd her on
To crimes of dire necessity?

ARCAS.
What, Æthon?—
Why all that thro' the close disguise of art,
Of female vanity and regal pride,
The eye of penetration sees her suffer.
Else, 'midst the revels of voluptuous pomp,
Why is she thoughtful?—silent?—Whence the sigh
Which oft involuntary heaves her breast?
Whence her lone wand'rings in sequester'd shades,
Her downcast musings, and her tear-swol'n eyes,
But from the terrors of a soul dismay'd?
Tormented by internal stings, while aw'd
By her deluder once—her tyrant now.

ÆTHON.
To what bewild'ring ills does error lead!—
But turn we from the regions of despair,
To the sweet mansion of alluring hope.
Say, my good Arcas, from the court of Phocis,
Where now our royal fugitive resides,
When gain'd you tidings?—At Mycenæ's gates,
When shall we greet deliv'rance with our King?

ARCAS.
The moon her vary'd course hath travell'd thro',
And in a second blunts her silver horns,
Since to my hands a trusty messenger
Brought letters from my friend, good Melisander,
The guide and guardian of his Monarch's flight;
Advising royal Strophius was preparing,
With succours worthy of so great a cause,
To send our blooming hero to assert
His sov'reign rights.—But no Orestes yet—

ÆTHON.
Soft!—for the minion of Ægysthus comes:
The catiff Lycon. He whose guile is task'd
To sharpen persecution, and delight,
By ev'ry outrage, a licentious monster.

SCENE THE SECOND.

ARCAS, ÆTHON, and LYCON.
LYCON.
Hail, noble Argians! With a friendly greeting,
I give ye tidings will, I know, be welcome.
Oft have I heard ye, humbled to the Gods,
With tears invoke 'em in Electra's cause;
While to your supplications mine were added,
That heav'n would persecute no more the race
Of royal Agamemnon; but restore
To light, to liberty, to ev'ry comfort,
That suff'ring Princess, whose transcendant charms
And matchless virtues raise our equal wonder!
At length relenting destiny accords,
For regal mercy has announc'd her freedom.

ARCAS.
How, Lycon, free!—Said'st thou Electra's free?—
Speak it again—nor in my gladden'd heart
Leave gloomy doubt a corner to possess.

LYCON.
Indulge such wish'd—such well-encounter'd joy—
Electra has her freedom.

ARCAS.
Gracious Pow'rs!
I weep my thanks.

ÆTHON.
Say on—the cause, good Lycon?

LYCON.
Some minutes past, while absent from the city,
The King, on rural altars, to their Gods,
Guardians of fleecy flocks and grazing herds,
Pays in rich sacrifice his yearly tribute,
A posting stranger to the palace came
With letters he proclaim'd of high import,
Demanding quick admittance to the throne.
The Queen receiv'd him: and no sooner read
Th' imparted tidings, than a sudden flame
Blaz'd on her cheek; which in an instant chang'd
To livid paleness—from averted eyes
While tears stole silent.—But regaining soon
The firmness of her mind, diffusive smiles
Brighten'd her form, and beam'd delight around her!

ARCAS.
Know you not what those letters might reveal?
Or from whose hand the messenger received them?

LYCON.
Neither. I, on the instant, was commanded
To hasten to the King, and urge his coming
To meet intelligence so fraught with joy
As will reward his swiftest speed to hear.
Then, as I parted, loud I heard her cry,
Release Electra—set the Princess free.
More know I not. And now, by duty urg'd,
Like Maia's winged son, when from the throne
Of Jove supreme he bears divine behests
To kindred deities, I fly to greet
Their sacred substitute, the Lord of Argos.

SCENE THE THIRD.

ARCAS and ÆTHON.
ARCAS.

ÆTHON.

ARCAS.
O worthy wish!—Believe experienc'd age,
One who has journey'd thro' the wilds of life,
Now, at his ev'ning, on the verge of rest,
And happy that his course is near an end—
Of all the blessings here pursu'd by man,
You'll find one only permanent and great,
The solace of a just and steadfast heart.
Be master but of that, and soon you'll learn
To set the rage of tyrants at defiance.
Truth is a buckler of most sure defence,
And honour mightier than the arm of pow'r.
Possess'd of those, you'll wage successful war,
Be vanquisher of woes, and lord of death.
Disgrace may seize, and persecution strike,
But vainly both while conscience is unhurt.
Tho' wrong'd, assaulted, ruin'd, trampled—crush'd,
Till the last hope of human aid expires,
Ev'n then the soul of probity directs
A steady look to thrones of kindred Gods!
And on unerring justice rests resign'd.

ÆTHON.
Behold an instance of such suff'ring virtue—
Electra! Whose high dignity of spirit,
More than the strong resemblance of her features,
Speaks her the daughter of great Agamemnon.

SCENE THE FOURTH.

ARCAS, ÆTHON and ELECTRA.
ELECTRA.

ARCAS.
Much-injur'd Princess, more than feeble words,
These falling drops express your servant's joy
For your implor'd deliv'rance.

ELECTRA.
Gentle friend,
The friend of Agamemnon's injur'd house—
What, Æthon too? and melting to behold me!
This mournful comfort hath affliction then,
I am not wretched to the last extreme;
Since fell oppression leaves one gen'rous pair
To mingle sorrows with a child of grief.

ÆTHON.
Sorrow is fruitless. Vengeance better suits
A cause like yours—the cause of all mankind.

ELECTRA.
Where is my brother? Does Orestes come,
Like hea'vn's high delegate, a righteous Monarch,
To call offenders to severe account?
Hears he the cries his suff'ring subjects raise,
And, like a parent, yearns for their deliv'rance?
The call of nature—is he deaf to that?
Or comes he, with his falchion flaming high,
To strike for vengeance; and, in pious rage,
With an assassin's, a usurper's blood,
To make oblation to his father's ghost?

ARCAS.
The womb of fate, in folds impenetrable,
Securely still that long'd-for secret wraps.
Warm are our wishes, but the hop'd event
Is in the hand of heav'n.

ELECTRA.
But does he come—
O ease my wild impatience! Does he come
Like happy tidings to the pining heart,
Like welcome day-light to the frozen pole,
A wish'd reliever? Are his subjects tongues
Eager to hail him King? and all their swords
To aid his cause, and seat him on his throne?

ARCAS.
We hope he comes. His last dispatches told
We might expect him ere the present hour.
And here ten thousand hearts, with fierce impatience,
Pant to avow and vindicate his claim.

ELECTRA.
O wherefore loiters then th' unthrifty boy?
Had he the spirit that inflames my breast,
'Twould lend his purpose wings. Alas, my friends,
Less than a sister does the out-cast son
Of Agamemnon feel a father's wrongs,
Less feels his own, and hers who suffers for him.
Else had my prison-bars ere this been broke,
And his vex'd people rescu'd from oppression;
While signal justice to the world had shewn,
That Heav'n is active in behalf of Kings:
That royal hardships claim severe account,
And murder'd Majesty will have revenge.

ÆTHON.
All these he doubtless meditates with caution:
But slow the progress is of deep designs.

ELECTRA.
Had I been slow and cautious when the swords
Of Regicides, yet reeking with the blood
Of Agamemnon, with a father's blood,
Were ev'n uplifted, by determin'd arms,
To make a second sacrifice of his,
He instant had partook that father's fate.
No, 'midst my grief, my horror, my distraction!
I paus'd not, stopt not to secure his flight,
But seiz'd the first, the only lucky minute
That fate allow'd to snatch him from destruction;
Which, had I miss'd, could ne'er have been retriev'd.
O why delays he? Wherefore lingers thus?
Urge, gracious Gods! his haste, and save his honour,
Ere busy tongues proclaim such caution fear.

ARCAS.

ELECTRA.
Buoy'd by that hope, I struggle with the stream
Of rushing injuries, of raging woes—
Nor sink the victim of o'erwhelming anguish.

ÆTHON.
The Queen approaches!—

ELECTRA.
Aid me, Resolution.

SCENE THE FIFTH.

ELECTRA and CLYTEMNESTRA.
CLYTEMNESTRA.
Electra, is my earnest wish accomplish'd,
That chastisement, unwillingly inflicted,
Bows to obedience thy too-stubborn spirit?
Maternal fondness, ever pow'rful here,
Still prompts endeavour to promote thy bliss:
While, in severe return, a sullen gloom
Unceasing clouds thy brow; and from thy tongue
Break taunts invenom'd, daring menaces,
To all provoking—and to thee unsafe.

ELECTRA.
Could aught efface the sad rememb'rance here
Of injuries unequall'd, in the fate
My god-like father, Agamemnon, met,
Disgrac'd in dust, and bleeding on the floor,
The victim of their guilt who most had wrong'd him;
Could I forget but that, all other ills
I'd watch a lonely minute to lament,
And wear a smile forever in your sight.
But as it is, my tears, as would the blood
From my poor father's mangled body, stream
Whene'er his ruthless murderers approach.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Perverse and arrogant!—Have I no claim?
Is nothing due, no portion of regard,
To her who gave thee life—who train'd thy youth—
Has sought thy love—and suffer'd from thy rashness?
As mutual parent, sure the claim is mine,
From nature's fixt, irrevokable law,
To the same rev'rence that you owe a father.

ELECTRA.
Such claims were cancel'd all, when you devis'd
The ruin of my happiness and hopes.
A father's fondness and protection lost,
Were half my stock: and that by you I lost 'em,
Is a reflection that destroys the rest.
Since of Electra, then, her mother made
This slave of misery, this finish'd wretch,
O do not grudge her griefs, who only lives
To weep a father's fate, and wish her own.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

ELECTRA.
Had Clytemnestra fear'd no other wrongs
Than those her lord from ruin'd Ilium brought,
Great Agamemnon had not timeless bled,
Nor Priam's spotless daughter stood accus'd.
O there were inmates fiercer than resentment
To counsel such a desp'rate, dreadful deed!
Guilt, conscious guilt! with all her hideous train,
As skulking shame, and ghastly apprehension;
The awe of justice, dread of punishment,
And ev'ry demon of distemper'd minds.
These with the wretch—but let me hide the rest,
Nor picture what distracts me to remember.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
'Twas blood for blood: he shed my daughter's blood.
For wrongs on wrongs to me, he justly fell

ELECTRA.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
[Aside.

ELECTRA.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

ELECTRA.
Relieve me, Gods! in mercy, oh! relieve me!

CLYTEMNESTRA.
What now are all thy empty vaunts of vengeance?
Thy fancy'd triumph, a frail, airy vision,
Fades like the tincture of an ev'ning cloud,
Whose dazzling figure, bright as burnish'd gold,
This moment blazes, and the next is lost.

ELECTRA.
O pow'rless anguish—impotence of torture!

CLYTEMNESTRA.

SCENE THE SIXTH.

ELECTRA, ARCAS and ÆTHON.
ELECTRA.

ÆTHON.
Hah! Orestes?

ELECTRA.
Oh! he is gone for ever.

ARCAS.
Then these eyes
Last to behold the day, when nothing's left
To stir an old man's pulse—or wake one care.

ELECTRA.