University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE, A Vault in the Temple.
Enter Hermione and Iphigenia.
Hermione.
Sure, the blest Gods, by thy Discov'ry wrought,
Dear Iphigenia, point out high Events
Purpos'd in Fate, and mark the rip'ning Blessings.—
You're not to learn by what Command I came,
And know the Motives of my willing Voyage.
What more induc'd, for Truth becomes our Sex,
Was to decline a Tyrant-Lover's Suit;
The fierce Achilles' Son, the haughty Pyrrhus;
Who, pluming on my Father's free Consent,
Join'd to his Services in Troy subdued,
Sollicits not my Love; but, rudely boist'rous,
Demands me as I were the Prize of Arms,
And came a Captive to his forc'd Embrace.

Iphig.
Does he not know, your Hand and Faith are giv'n
To young Orestes, my Imperial Brother?
Does he not fear, the gallant Youth, return'd,
Shall ask strict Justice for his Bed usurp'd;
And dearly punish the intended Rape?

Herm.
Alas! Fear dwells not in Pelides' Race;
Rapine, and War, and Violence, and Rage,
Are the tumultuous Guests that haunt his Bosom.
Then,—how should poor Orestes find Revenge,
Who to himself is lost? his noble Sense
Wild and untun'd; his Reason quite dislodg'd;
And ev'ry tranquil Faculty of Soul
The Prey to Frenzy, and imagin'd Horrors?
There, there, Hermione is again undone:—
His Fever, spreading like th'infectious Plague,
Burns thro' my Veins, and drives me into Madness.

Iphig.
Fear not, dear Maid, but when this Slumber leaves him,
The Rage of his Distemper will be quench'd.
Thus ever, when the Fit of sudden Frenzy
With horrid Forms has harass'd his hurt Mind,
Spent with the Toil and Agonies of Thought,
His languid Limbs sink down into Repose;
And wounded Nature's heal'd by that sweet Balm.

Herm.
Perchance, he will not know me.

Iphig.
Do not doubt,
But your good Beauties, like the sov'reign Sun,
Shall call each scatter'd Ray of straggling Sense
Back to its Sphere; pour Day upon his Soul;
And drive those ugly Phantoms of Despair,
That hang, and brood, o'er his benighted Mind.
Now, all his Senses, late so wildly tost,
Are lull'd to Rest; sweet as those Infants' Slumbers,
When in their Dreams, as fonder Mothers think,
They see Elysium dawn, and smile with Transport.

Herm.
You saving Gods! If we are worth your Care,
Let all the medicinal Pow'rs of Sleep
Be doubled in his Cure!—Ye Spirits of Health,
Breathe Restauration on its honied Dews;
Chase ev'ry Image of fantastick Horror;
And peaceful Visions crown the soft Oppression!

Iphig.
Fear not, dear Princess; but to my Apartment
Retire awhile:—Our gen'ral Safety calls me
To high Concerns: Ere yet the circling Hour
Strikes on the Bell of Night, I'll seek you there;
And wait to lead you to your lov'd Orestes.
[Leads Hermione to the Scene, and returns.
Now Fate be busy! Prosper me, ye Gods,
And aid the glorious Enterprize of Virtue!
[Exit Iphigenia at the opposite Side.

SCENE II.

Circe's Magical Cave.
Enter Chief Magician.
Ch. Mag.
'Tis now the very Noon of silent Night,
When Nature's duller Sons are steep'd in Rest;
And only Murth'rers and Magicians wake.
Wolves cease to howl; and the shrill-yelping Cur
No longer bays the Moon. The hoarse Wind sleeps;
The lazy slacken'd Surge scarce beats its Shore:
And the moist Element above is hush.
This solemn Hour demands our covert Rites;
While shiv'ring Ghosts steal from the recent Shrowd,
And glide disquiet, to their late-lov'd Homes:
While Demons frolick; and the Satyr's Tread
Makes bare the Ringlets in the flow'ry Field.
But soft! the Partners of my Toils return.
Enter several other Magicians.
Say, is your Task perform'd at full?
Caught you the Lamb of fable Wool?
Chose you the dank unwholesom Pit,
In barren Earth, by Thunder split;
In some dark Vale, which, all the Year,
Nor Show'rs bedew, nor Sun-beams chear?
And thither backward o'er the Heath
Drew you the Victim to her Death?

Mag.
The Trench was barren; Victim black;
And o'er the Heath we drew her back.

Ch. Mag.
Did you the streaming Honey pour,
Made thin with Milk, to mix the Gore?
And when the Pit receiv'd the Flood,
With blighted Slips of Cypress Wood
Light you the Pile, and o'er its Flame
Thrice call'd on Hecat's awful Name?

Mag.
All, as your Will requires, is done;
What yet remains the Charm to crown?

Ch. Mag.
Instant the Sprigs of Hemlock cull,
Dipt in the cold and mantled Pool,
And with our Spell, and baneful Hymn,
Made rank, as those on Lethe's Brim:
Around the steaming Venom throw;
And with it deadly Night-shade strew.
Then wake those Sounds, that fright the Snake;
And split her in the lonely Brake:
Which pierce the Deep, and call up Sprights
That revel in our Midnight Rites.

[Harsh Musick.
INCANTATION, Sung by three Magicians.

Ch. Mag.
Enough:—dread Hecat comes; the Schriech-owl's Voice
Pierc'd shrill my Ear: the silent Bat has flown
Across our Cavern; and the drowsy Humm
Of swarming Beetles trumpets her Approach.

Hecat rises.
Hec.
Say, Slaves, on what important Theme,
By Victim slain, and grateful Steam,
Am I thus sudden hither drawn?
What Mischiefs must prevent the Dawn?
What Deaths by Land, at Sea what Wrecks,
Are wish'd this Under-globe to vex?
Pronounce some dear Distress of Price,
Pleasing beyond your Sacrifice:
Some Havock, worthy well our Trade,
Your Thirst for Ill, and Hecate's Aid.

Ch. Mag.
Nor Death, nor Havock, now employs our Charms;
Tho', haply, both may follow.—Mighty Regent!
The Daughter of the Sun, Imperial Circe,
Bow'd with Love's Anguish, gives this hasty Summons.
Ev'n now she waits our finish'd Rites, to know
What Issue's writ in Fate; what saving Arts
Remain to snatch the darling Youth from Death.

Hec.
Base Triflers! Do you thus fulfill
Your sworn Obedience to my Will?
My Presence claims momentous Things,
Ruin of Lands, and Death of Kings:
To scatter the red Plague i'th' Air,
And blast the Promise of the Year.
And am I call'd from far to save
A wanton Minion from the Grave?
Tell her, I do your Spells withstand;
And will not deal in her Command.

Ch. Mag.
Alas! You know her Gifts: Has she not Pow'r
With sudden Clouds t'obscure the sacred Day?
Rowl Waters backward, and untie the Wind?
From her pale Sphere call down the frighted Moon?
And task the Demons both of middle Air,
And Hell's black Deeps, to execute her Purpose?

Hec.
She should have practis'd Deeds of Hate:
To love, befits a vulgar Fate.
The thwarting Gods oppose her Flame,
Dooming Events we must not name.
She comes:—Take heed, your Answers all
Be doubtful, and equivocal.
If farther she require to know,
The rest we will in Vision shew;
With mystick Meaning circled round,
And dark, and intricate t'expound.

[Hecat descends.
Enter Circe.
Cir.
My lab'ring Bosom swells with strong Impatience;
Dreadful Uncertainty, what Racks of Soul
Attend thy Intervals!—Ye Snails in Art,
Most prompt of Promise, Drones to execute!
What say th'Infernal Pow'rs?—Pronounce, and ease me.

Ch. Mag.
When next the Prince from Bonds is freed,
Unless your Hands assist the Deed,
He breaks for ever from your Arms:
Few Hours are granted to your Charms.
You must his Chains release this Night,
Or, ere the Dawn, he takes his Flight.

Circe.
Ha! takes his Flight?—that Sentence chills my Blood:
A dreadful Fate is menac'd in this Warning.
—'Tis Death, or I, alone can set him free.
And, if my Efforts fail, the Tyrant's Steel
Must drink his Blood,—and so he takes his Flight.—
Prevent it, Gods!—Say, is not this denounc'd?
Explain the Horrors of your dark Prediction.

Ch. Mag.
The Pow'rs, reluctant to your Pray'r,
Permit not farther to declare.

Circe.
Reluctant! Force the stern and sullen Demons;
Do it and claim our richest Grace to friend you:
Refuse, and all the Plagues, my baleful Arts
Have Pow'r t'inflict, shall make your Lives accurst.

Ch. Mag.
What more your doubting Heart would know,
Forbid to us in Words to shew,
Fantastick Forms shall instant rise,
In Vision shadowing to your Eyes.

[The Priest waves his Wand, and at the Mouth of the Cave appear, and cross over, four Priests of Diana, the Statue of the Goddess born on the Pedestal; Grecians with their Swords drawn, following it; Iphigenia, led by Pylades; Orestes leading Hermione, follow'd by Hermes.]
Circe.
The Statued Goddess born in solemn Pomp,
Guarded, as 'twere the Spoil of hostile Bands?
The Priestess too, led by the Grecian's Friend,
Discharg'd of Bonds, and smiling in his Fate?—
And there the lovely Prince—but ha! what Maid
Of Grecian Garb, in Pride of blooming Youth,
Graces his Hand, and seems to charm his Soul?
He sees me now—Confusion! how he frowns,
And turns his Eye as from an hated Object!—
Then Hermes—wherefore follows he, and seems
To guide the Train committed to his Charge?
What mean the riddling Pow'rs? Alas! I fear.
—'Tis Hermes' Office to conduct the Dead.
But why the Priestess? Is she too to die?
There the dark Pageantry confounds my Sense;
And warns me how I trust its mystic Purport.
Back to the Temple then—There all my Doubts
Shall stand resolv'd: Employ the fav'ring Night;
Make strong thy Arts to save the darling Youth,
Or perish with him at the fatal Altar.

[Exeunt Circe, and Magicians severally.

SCENE III.

Vault of the Temple.
Orestes discover'd seated on a Couch.
Enter Iphigenia, and Hermione.
Iphig.
See, where with Eyes down-cast, as wrapt in Thought,
Calm and at Ease, the much lov'd Youth reclines.

Herm.
Heav'n shield, this Gloom portend not black Despair!
Then we are lost—

Iphig.
Think better of the Gods,
Who shape all Causes to their purpos'd End.
Approach his Couch: Your Presence shall revive,
And charm each Sense with unexpected Pleasure.
Something of Moment yet remains undone,
T'ensure our Safety: that dispatch'd, I'll speed,
To share your Joys.
[Exit Iphigenia.

Orest.
[Rising.]
Was she not an Adult'ress?
'Tis true, I kill'd her: Pardon that, ye Gods!
But she did first with sacrilegious Hand
Invade her Royal Husband's sacred Life.

Herm.
Alas! he raves, he raves: the fatal Cause
Dwells on his Mind, and urges fresh Distraction.

Orest.
See, there she stands; the vengeful injur'd Spectre;
And not to be appeas'd with all my Torments.
The silent, stern Reproaches of her Eye
Wound me beyond a thousand Scorpions' Stings.

Herm.
Where are the Comforts fled, that flatt'ring Hope,
My foolish fond Desires, had drawn to cheat me?

[Weeps.
Orest.
Ha! Sure, she weeps.—Can she at length forgive?
Her Eyes are mild and gentle; and her Voice
Soft as the Close of distant, dying, Musick.
What mean the Pow'rs?—Are yet my Senses safe?
Or all bewilder'd in a gay Delusion?
I cannot be deceiv'd: her Form, her Looks,
The blended Grace of Majesty and Sweetness,
Steal in, and whisper to my ravish'd Soul,
It is, it must be, my Hermione.

Herm.
If 'tis your Joy to entertain the Thought,
I am indeed Hermione, and yours.

Orest.
O Transport more than crouding Words can utter!
[Embracing her.
Than Action speak, or struggling Life support!
What God, indulgent to Orestes' Woes,
Could send thee to restore his Mind to Peace,
To long-lost Peace?—Did thy relenting Sire
At length consent? Or mighty Love persuade,
Thy matchless Love, to tempt th'advent'rous Voyage?

Herm.
Love, only Love: the Fears thy Absence gave
Inspir'd, and made me bold, to share thy Dangers.

Orest.
Transcendent Goodness! O thou all Perfection!
I will not tax Heav'n's Wrath, but think my Suff'rings
O'erpaid with Weight—O my Hermione,
I have a thousand Questions yet to ask,
Which, as thou would'st resolve, impatient Fondness
With fresh Enquiries still shall break thy Tale;
And Kisses interrupt the lov'd Narration:
So shall the varied History renew;
And, lost in sweet Confusion of Delight,
Be ever to begin, and never finish.

Herm.
Nor when Occasion sorts, and better Hours,
Shall I regret the oft-repeated Tale,
Or come reluctant to repay thy Fondness.

Orest.
Wrong not thy self to talk of better Hours;
Occasion ever smiles, when thou art present;
And Time waits pleas'd, subservient to thy Beauties.
By Heav'n, I feel so absolute a Joy
To hold thee thus; such full Content of Soul;
Fate cannot disappoint the mighty Comfort.
Enter Pylades.
Come to my Arms, my best-lov'd Pylades;
Close to my Heart, that beats and bounds with Transport.
See here, and wonder how the Gods have blest me.

[Shews Hermione.
Pylad.
Already have I triumph'd in that Joy.
Welcome, bright Maid!—I've too a Tale of Comfort,
That warms my Veins, and sooths each vital Part.
The Gods show'r down Profusion of Delight:
The lovely Priestess—

Orest.
What of that kind Maid?

Pylad.
Stands now confest thy Sister—

Orest.
'Tis too much;
These sudden Whirls of Fate o'erpow'r my Mind.
My Sister, say'st thou?

Pylad.
She, th'imperial Charmer,
Whom Phœbus promis'd here, your Iphigenia,
Who waits to guide you to your Native Throne;
Your Pilot to Renown, to Joy, and Empire.

Orest.
How can her Weakness stem our rugged Fate?

Pylad.
Thro' her shall we elude the Tyrant's Rage;
Thro' her the statued Goddess climbs our Decks;
Thro' her th'attendant Priests assist our Flight;
And now, while Darkness aids the secret Purpose,
She stands prepared to lead you forth to Safety.
This was pronounc'd in Iphigenia found;
This, Iphigenia found demands t'accomplish.

Orest.
You equal Gods, who work these high Events,
Let not the Hand of Chance come in to cross
This Birth of Joy.—My best Hermione!
This is a blessed Hour—I see Content
[To Pylades.]
Sit on thy Brow, like that of new-crown'd Kings,
Pleas'd with the Tribute of their Peoples Smiles.
She's thine, my Friend; that glorious fav'ring Sun,
Which gives Hermione to my longing Arms,
Shall gild your Nuptials too.—

Pylad.
These rushing Joys
Must yet be stifled, lest they grow too loud,
And so prevent themselves: for here we stand
Circled with Dread, and rounded in with Danger.

Herm.
Alas! what Noise? Did not the Temple Gates
Creak on their brazen Hinge?

Orest.
Repress thy Fears:
'Twas but the Whistling of the nightly Breeze,
That murmurs hollow thro' these winding Vaults.

Enter Iphigenia.
Pylad.
But see, the lovely Maid—say, is all well?

Iphig.
Ev'n to our Wish. High on the Grecian Deck,
Incircled with our venerable Band,
Great Dian's hallow'd Statue safe is lodg'd.
The Ship is in her Trim; the Sailers yare
To weigh her Anchors; and the fav'ring Wind
Blows fresh, and ruffles in the outspread Sails.
Th'impatient Warriors wait in still Array,
And, fearful to disturb the Ear of Night,
Ask in low Whispers for their Prince Orestes.

Orest.
My Sister!—O what Words can Rapture furnish
To gratulate this Joy?

[Embraces her.
Iphig.
Of that hereafter.
The Time invites; and ev'ry Moment's Pause
Is big with Danger—See, the Lamps burn bright,
To guide us thro' the subterranean Vault,
That opens to the Shore.

Pylad.
Lead on, my Friend.

Orest.
Come, dearest Maids, be you our Stars of Hope,
To guide our Vessel thro' the darksom Seas.
And, awful Goddess, thou, whose sacred Image
Attends us by thy Brother's great Command,
Protect us for these pious Virgins sake.
And, friendly Jove, in whose Imperial Hand
The Care of Empire rests, look down and save
The poor Remains of Agamemnon's House.

Pylad.
And Heav'nly Juno! Thou that still hast stood
The Bulwark and Defence of lab'ring Greece!
O grant, this Promise of my Joys be crown'd
In a Friend rescued, and a Mistress found.

[Exeunt.