University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A Port: With a distant Prospect of the Sea, and a Watch-Tower on Rocks.
A Peal of Thunder is heard.
Enter Orestes and Pylades.
Orest.
How instant is this Calm! The howling Winds
Have spent their Rage; the swelling Waves subside;
And all the Wreck of Elements is hush'd.

Pylad.
And yet, but now, how dreadful was the Tempest!
How were we circled with a Night of Clouds!
What Bursts of Thunder fell! What Lightnings flash'd!
While hoarse conflicting Winds, from Pole to Pole,
Rush'd on the Surge, and whirl'd it to the Stars.

Orest.
When Crimes unequal'd tempt the righteous Gods,
'Tis time, their Vengeance should put on a Form
Suiting its Cause.—Behold me, Pylades,
Most like this hideous Storm; lawless, and wild,
As the rude Winds that lash the Sea to Madness:
Clouded with Guilt, that stains the Face of Day;
And braving the sweet Sanctity of Heav'n
With foulest Parricide. For this, the Furies
O'er Sea and Land pursue my wand'ring Steps;
For this, a Mother's pale and bleeding Spectre
Stalks in my Sight, and blasts me with her Wound;
For this, obedient Tempests plow the Main;
And urge Destruction on an impious Son.

Pylad.
Man is the Sport of Fate; and oft Despair,
Blinding with Fears our better Judgment, makes us
Construe the Purpose of the Gods amiss.
Th'Offence, which gives this Rack of Thought, remember,
Had first the Sanction of a God's Command;
And sacred Phœbus bad you strike the Blow.

Orest.
Thence only dawns a feeble Ray of Comfort:
There all my Hopes of Innocence are shelter'd.

Pylad.
O could we turn o'er Fate's eternal Volume,
And trace the Reasons of its dark Decrees,
How might we find the Guilt of buried Fathers
Rise on their Offspring, and in them aveng'd!
How might we find the Hands of guiltless Sons
Made Instruments to scourge their Fathers Trespass!
Had Atreus ne'er transgress'd the Laws of Jove,
Your Sire, perchance, imperial Agamemnon,
Had scap'd the Edge of a domestick Sword;
Nor you been warn'd by Piety, and Heaven,
To do stern Justice on an impious Mother.

Orest.
O Pylades, you paint my Crime too fair,
And touch it with the Pencil of a Friend.
Can I suppose, that Deed was authoriz'd,
When Furies haunt my Soul, Storms wreck my Vessels,
To mark me out the Hatred of the Gods?

Pylad.
Yet, spight of Tempests, have you reach'd the Clime,
To which th'oraculous Command did point.
Did not the awful Voice, in Terms express,
Charge you to seek the Coast of Tauric Scythia,
Diana's Temple there, and thence to bring
Her Statue, which they boast to've dropt from Heav'n?
So should the Tumults of your Soul be calm'd,
And Rest and Joy succeed to both our Labours.

Orest.
We have, indeed, the barbarous Tauri reach'd,
Where Rest eternal shall conclude my Toils.
But I conjure thee in the Name of Friendship,
Now while the favouring Breeze invites thy Sails,
Fly from this savage, this inhuman Coast;
Avoid the Partnership of certain Ruin;
And spare thy Friend the Torture of thy Suff'rings.

Pylad.
What means Orestes? Have we sworn for this,
To stand the dread Events of Fate together,
And shall a Shew of paltry Danger part us?

Orest.
Oh! call it not a Shew, an empty Fear;
Think on the horrid Law that here prevails.
What hapless Grecian, cast on this dire Land,
E'er 'scapes from its inhospitable Shore?
Mistaken Zeal and murth'rous Superstition
Here doom us Victims to the purple Shrine:
Here stern Diana is ador'd in Blood,
And Altars steam alone with human Gore.
Fly, ere the Pomp of Death is drest in Horror;
Ere yet the fatal Chaplet binds thy Brow,
The solemn Hymn is sung, th'unhallow'd Fires
Blaze, or the sacrificing Steel is drawn.

Pylad.
Then, how have you determin'd?

Orest.
Here to die:
A Wretch devoted to th'infernal Gods.

Pylad.
My Breast, as yours, is arm'd; and Death is welcome.

Orest.
No! Thou art destin'd to some whiter Lot:
Remember Iphigenia:—O my Sister!
If she survives, thy Vows have made thee hers,
And thou'rt no longer Master of thy self.

Pylad.
And would'st thou sacrifice the Royal Maid
To him, whose base and abject Heart could stoop
Poorly to leave his Friend alone to perish?

Orest.
Thou hast a Plea t'alledge, that I did order—

Pylad.
What Friendship and Renown must blush t'obey.
O! with what Triumphs would this glorious Flight
Honour the Name of Pylades in Greece!
How would thy zealous Subjects throng the Gates,
To meet this brave Deserter of their Prince!
How would the Royal Guardian of your Throne,
Old Menelaus, with open Arms receive me;
While from behind his beauteous Daughter comes,
The bright Hermione, with streaming Eyes,
And bleeding Heart, t'applaud my gen'rous Care!

Orest.
Ha! there thou hast awak'd a sleeping Torture;
I feel the Pangs shoot through each vital Part;
They sting me to Distraction.—O my Friend!
Reflection doubles ev'ry Pain upon me,
Sets to my View the Image of my Love,
All pale, and languishing, and bath'd in Tears,
Her Youth and Freshness sicklied o'er with Grief,
And sunk in Anguish of her lost Orestes.
O my Hermione! I feel for thee;
Thy Sorrows wake me to a righteous Fear,
And make me wish this hated Life prolong'd.

Pylad.
Now thou'rt again thy self.—And see! Occasion
Calls to defend the Life we wish prolong'd.
[Looking out.
Our Landing is espied; and, as it seems,
An armed Band advances to surprize us.

Orest.
Then all is ended; Fate has wound us in;
And wills us to submit.

Pylad.
Submit! To what?

Orest.
To Custom, and the barb'rous Climate's Law.

Pylad.
We will contest the Justice of that Law:
Force shall oppose their Force.

Orest.
Alas! how vain
Is Opposition, when o'er-match'd with Odds!

Pylad.
Odds are the Exercise of Heroes' Virtues,
And lift them to their own high Rank. Shall we,
Who in the Register of both our Bloods
Boast Gods enroll'd, stand on Equalities;
And weigh the Poise of Danger with the Niceness,
The Fears, and the Distrust of common Mortals?
It is the great Alternative of Valour
To conquer; or, subdued, to die reveng'd.

Enter Barzanes, and Scythians: Orestes and Pylades, drawing their Swords, stand on their Guard.
Barz.
Strangers, submit; and come before our King.

Orest.
Stand off, presumptuous Men, and know your Danger.

Barz.
What means this Rashness? See you not our Numbers?
'Tis Desperation, and not Valour, urges
To try this frantick, and unequal Struggle.

Pylad.
Away, or learn what 'tis to match with Greeks.

Barz.
Yet hold, and spare yourselves the certain Ruin.

Orest.
How insolent th'undaring Villain talks!
Thinks he to prate us into Scythian Fears?
We will no longer parley.

As they are going to engage, Enter Thoas, and Circe, attended.
Thoas.
Hold, coward Slaves! Was it not our Command,
That you should bring these Strangers bound before us?
And could you tremble at such weak Resistance?
Give up your Swords, brave Youths: know, 'tis a King
Now warns you to submit; nor tempt the Shame
Of their inglorious Force.

Pylad.
Boast you the King?
Confess it in the Justice of your Pow'r:
Content your self to lord it o'er your own;
Nor proudly aim to stretch Controul o'er those,
Who are not subject to your Scepter's Sway.
Kings, who impose Commands that are unjust,
Forfeit that Name to wear the Brand of Tyrants.

Thoas.
Am I contemn'd?

Orest.
You are, when you compel us
To do an Act would blast a Grecian's Glory.
Fearless of Death, we ne'er were taught to yield,
But leave that Triumph to your Scythian Baseness.

Thoas.
Now by the vengeful Goddess, whom we worship,
Whose Victims you are doom'd, my Blood is stir'd;
And I grow jealous of their noble Daring.
Hear me, you Slaves.—Disarm, but hurt them not.
[To the Guard.
Their Lives are sacred to th'Infernal Gods,
And Racks shall expiate the Wounds you give them.
Ha! Dastards, stir you not?

[Circe waves her Wand, and the Swords of Orestes and Pylades drop out of their Hands.]
Circe.
What needs the Hazard,
The vain Profusion of your Subjects' Blood,
When, see, the Strangers yield themselves your Captives?

Thoas.
And is it thus you Greeks maintain your Boasts?
Thus drive Invasion back, and foil the Foe?
But this, bright Princess, is your proper Conquest.

Orest.
Immortal Gods! What mean your dreadful Pleasures?
What dire Enchantment works these strange Effects?
Whence is it, that the Sword forsakes my Gripe?
Whence, that my Strength is wither'd, Nerves unbraced,
And Limbs, grown disobedient to the Will,
Forget their Vigour, and their natural Function?
My Feet are fix'd to Earth, my Knees made weak,
And ev'ry Pow'r, but that of Soul, subdued.

Pylad.
In me, alike, the ministerial Organs
Obey the Malice of her baneful Spells;
But oh! remember, how we were forewarn'd;
And let the sacred Caution give us Safety.
This is the Sorc'ress, this the fair Inchanter,
Of whom unerring Phœbus bad beware.
Guard thee but from the Magick of her Eyes,
And all her hellish Charms shall fail to reach us.

Thoas.
Accept our Thanks, great Daughter of the Sun,
Thou worthiest Partner of a Monarch's Bed;
I'm lost in Wonder, while I see thy Skill
Controuling Nature with a Force above her.

Circe.
The Gifts I boast are Servants to your Throne,
And shall be all employ'd to rear its Grandeur.
Come, we unbind the Rigour of our Charm;
But know, your hurtful Pow'rs are circumscribed.
The Gods do this in scorn of Insolence,
And overbearing Courage.—Human Prowess,
Presumption stretching it beyond its Bound,
Swells Man to Giant; who, but for Reproof,
And Curbs to his licentious proud Conceit,
Would soar at Heav'n, and make those Thrones unsafe.

Orest.
Madam, we know your Arts; and you in vain
Would cloak the Demon with this fair Instruction.
Greece is no Stranger to Thessalian Witchcrafts;
And in ourselves we've felt your baneful Pow'r.
We're not to learn, what Mischief swells your Breast,
And Aspicks' Poisons lurk beneath your Tongue.

Thoas.
Ha! Straight, our Guard.—

Circe.
What means my throbbing Heart?
Where is my Pride, that I can brook such Language?

[Aside.
Thoas.
Such Arrogance but ill beseems a Slave.—
Forgive, fair Queen, the Insults of this Greek.
Soon shall his bold, upbraiding Tongue be mute,
And he in Death atone the Railer's Outrage.
Go, lead them to their Dooms;—

Pylad.
—Oh my lov'd Friend!
Was this the Promise of the righteous Gods?

Orest.
It matters not: Death is an easy Task
To Minds resolv'd, and Life's beneath my Care.

[They are led off, guarded.
Circe.
He must not die.
[Aside.
His Gallantry and Mien have caught my Soul:
And I must stop his Fate, or perish with him.
Might I advise,—

Thoas.
Instruct my wishing Heart
What Thought is busy in bright Circe's Mind,
And call your Counsel a Command with Thoas.

Circe.
These Strangers by their Port, and manly Bearing,
Betray the Princely Rank: and being such,
Your Rites might well admit a single Victim;
Nor needs it, Both should die.

Thoas.
Then be it so.
To our fair Priestess we resign their Fate.
Conduct them to the Temple straight, with Charge
That sep'rate they be lodg'd, and guarded there,
Till Lots determine which of them shall bleed;
The other shall be free.

Circe.
Still Fears are active with my doubting Soul:
The Lot may fall on him, who must not die.
Or, grant him safe, he's lost to Love and Me;
And, freed from our inhospitable Bonds,
Will wing his Way for Greece.

Thoas.
The Queen grows thoughtful;
And Care drinks up the Lustre of her Eye.
What Cause of Gloom dares cloud that Brow of Beauty?

[Aside.
Circe.
You took me, Sir, a poor unscepter'd Exile,
Sarmatia's widow'd, titulary Queen;
Chas'd by the Malice of resentful Subjects;
You more than shelter, place me near your Throne:
And Gratitude, the Guest of nobler Hearts,
Makes me, perhaps, too anxious for your State.

Thoas.
Give me your Fears.

Circe.
I scarce can call them Fears:
Let them be rather deem'd unweigh'd Suspicions:
And Dangers magnify from female Weakness.
What if your Priestess, who on all Occasions
With strong Reluctance does her hallow'd Office;
Who holds her Life, at best, on hated Terms,
Detain'd on Force to tend the Goddess' Shrine;
What if she should, being herself a Greek,
On Pity's Motive, or in Hate to you,
Have Int'rest in these Grecian Pris'ners Lives,
And suffer them t'escape your sworn Resentment?

Thoas.
This kind Concern, built on so slight a Ground,
Assures us of the Dearness of your Friendship,
And claims our inmost Trust. Accept this Signet,
With it our Pow'r.—A Guard attend the Queen.
Surround the Temple; watch the doubted Priestess;
Make all, that you suspect, impracticable:
And bind a King more deeply to your Service.
But, oh, the Tribute due to this glad Day
Is yet unpaid, and chides my slacken'd Zeal.
Lead to the Palace:—Brightest Queen, your Hand.
Araxes, see our Will proclaim'd at full.

[Exeunt Thoas, Circe, and Train.