 | Orestes |  |
[[SCENE VI.]]
SCENE changes to the Port.Enter Circe, attended with Women.
Circe.
What sullen Gods yet disappoint my Charms?
The Seas are calm, the Moon serenely shines,
Help, Pow'rs of Hell, to blot the Face of Nature!
Earth, from your hidden Gulfs pour Floods of Flame:
Ye pent-up Winds, burst your confining Caves,
And raise a Wall of Waters to the Skies!
[A Ship appears here under Sail.
Wake, ye hoarse Thunders, split their Keels of Oak!
Ye sulph'rous Lightnings, burn their outspread Sails!
76
Let Uproar loose; bid the big Tempest roar:
Tis well:—'This is a Pomp becoming Circe.
[Thunder; a Shower of Fire.
Ha! See, they drive before th'obedient Wind,
And the lewd Sea spreads wide her liquid Bosom.—
My Magic fails, and Hell grows deaf.—Despair,
Thou Demon of the World, be present to me!
And oh! thou Sun, once thought my boasted Sire,
I here disclaim thy pure, eternal Essence:
I would derive all from my mortal Mother;
Be mortal all;—for Life's become my Curse.
—Yet, let me not expire like common Wretches,
Unmark'd and fading in ignoble Silence.
Awake, Confusion, while I give this Blow.
[Stabs herself.
Let Nature feel it; let my dying Groans
Ride on the Storm, and with Convulsions shake her!
O that the loosen'd Globe would now dissolve,
And Order sicken with one vast Destruction!
Enter Thoas.
Thoas.
The Fates mock all the Efforts of my Arms.
'Tis plain, the Gods are factious on the Side
Of Iphigenia and her princely Brother:
Their Sufferings have been great: and oft 'tis found,
There is a secret Merit in Distress,
That at a Season reconciles the World;
And draws Opinion to befriend the Cause.
Ha! the Queen!—
Weltring in Blood, and grov'ling on the Earth?
Quick, seek out Aid.
Circe.
O Sir, all Aid is vain.
77
Yet, ere I die, forgive a hapless Queen,
Whom Love's resistless Passion has undone.
A Woman's Hand atones a Woman's Crime.
[Dies.
Thoas.
There fled her furious Spirit.—What Pity 'tis,
The Virtues of the Mind match'd not her Form!
'Tis the Gods doing, who still make our Passions
The Instruments to scourge our proper Ills.
How safe, and virtuous to revere their Dictates!
These Greeks, 'tis said, obey'd divine Command;
And prosper in it—From these high Events
I'll learn to think, howe'er Misfortunes wound
Our inward Peace, and seeming Plagues surround;
Upright of Soul, while We the Heav'ns obey,
Blessings, tho' late, shall our worst Toils repay.
| Orestes | |