 | Orestes |  |
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!
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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.
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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.
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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.]
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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.
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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.
| Orestes | |