Agamemnon :: :: University of Virginia Library

Arcas, Melisander.
Arcas.
And have I found my long-lost Friend again?
My Melisander! But so chang'd your Look,
So sickly'd with a kind of thoughtful Sadness,
So sunk each Feature, by seven drooping Years
Spent in that desart Isle, as baffled quite
My wandering Recollection.

Melisander.

True, dear Arcas:
For what a helpless Creature, by himself,
Is the proud Lord of this inferior World,
Vain feeble Man! The Commoners of Nature,
Each Wing that flits along the spacious Sky,
Is less dependant than their boasted Master.

Hail social Life! into thy pleasing Bounds
Again I come, to pay the common Stock
My Share of Service; and, in glad Return,
To taste thy Comforts, thy protected Joys.

Arcas.
O greatly welcome! You deserve them well,
You well deserve the social Life you polish.
Still on my thought your strange Delivery dwells.
By Agamemnon left to aid the Queen,
With faithful Counsel, while he warr'd at Troy;
And thus by Agamemnon to be sav'd,
Returning from that Conquest! Wondrous Chance!
Or rather wondrous Conduct of the Gods!
By Mortals, from their Blindness, Chance misnam'd.

Mean time, instruct me, while the King reposes,
How was you snatch'd away? And how, so long,
Could you this dreadful Solitude support?
I burn to know the whole.

Melisander.
'Tis thus, my Friend.
While sunk in unsuspecting Sleep I lay,
Some midnight Ruffians rush'd into my Chamber,
Sent by Egisthus, who my Presence deem'd
Obstructive (so I solve it) to his Views;
Black Views I fear, as you perhaps may know.
Sudden they seiz'd, and, muffled up in Darkness,
Strait bore me to the Sea, whose instant Prey
I did conclude my self, when first, around
The Ship unmoor'd, I heard the chiding Wave.
But these fell Tools of cruel Power, it seems,
Had orders in a desart Isle to leave me;
There hopeless, helpless, comfortless, to prove
The utmost Gall and Bitterness of Death.
Thus Malice often overshoots it self,
And some unguarded Accident betrays
The Man of Blood.—Next Night—a dreary Night!
Cast on the wildest of the Cyclade Isles,
Where never human Foot had mark'd the Shore,
These Ruffians left me—Yet, believe me, Arcas,
Such is the rooted Love we bear Mankind,
All Ruffians as they were, I never heard
A Sound so dismal as their parting Oars.—
Then horrid Silence follow'd, broke alone
By the low Murmurs of the restless Deep,
Mixt with the doubtful Breeze, that now and then
Sigh'd thro' the mournful Woods. Beneath a Shade
I sat me down, more heavily oppress'd,
More desolate at Heart, than e'er I felt
Before. When Philomela, o'er my Head,
Began to tune her melancholy Strain,
As piteous of my Woes; till, by degrees,

The balmy Sleep on wounded Nature shed
A kind but short Relief. At early Morn,
Wak'd by the Chaunt of Birds, I look'd around
For usual Objects: Objects found I none,
Except before me stretch'd the toiling Main,
And Rocks and Woods, in savage View, behind.
Wrapt for a Moment in amaz'd Confusion,
My Thought turn'd giddy round; when, all at once,
To Memory full my dire Condition rush'd.

Arcas.
But of each Comfort each Convenience void,
How could you Life sustain? how fence against
Inclement Skies?

Melisander.

A mossy Cave, that fac'd
The Southern Sea, and in whose deep Recess
Boil'd up a lovely Fountain, was my Home.
Herbs were my Food, those blessed Stores of Health!
Only when Winter, from my daily Search,
Withdrew my verdant Meal, I was oblig'd
In faithless Snares to seize, which truly griev'd me,
My sylvan Friends; that ne'er till then had known,
And therefore dreaded less the Tyrant Man.

But these low Hardships scarce deserve Regard:
The Pangs, that sharpest stung, were in my Mind;
There Desolation reign'd; and there, cut off
From social Life, I felt a constant Death.
And yet these Pangs at last forgot to throb:
What cannot lenient gentle Time perform?
I eat my lonely Meal without a Tear;
Nor sigh'd to see the dreadful Night descend.
In my own Breast, a World within my self,
In Streams, in Groves, in sunny Hill and Shade;
In all that blooms with vegetable Life,
Or joys with kindred animal Sensation;
In the full-peopled Round of azure Heaven;

Where'er I, studious, look'd, I found Companions.
But, chief, the Muses lent their softning Aid.
At their enchanting Voice my Sorrows fled,
Or learn'd to please; while, thro' my troubled Heart,
They breath'd the Soul of Harmony anew.
Thus, of the great Community of Nature,
A Denizen I liv'd; and oft, in Hymns,
And rapturous Thought, even with the Gods convers'd,
That not disdain sometimes the Walks of Man.

So pass'd the Time, when, lo! within my Call,
Arriv'd the Ship, which Hope had often promis'd—
The Ship!—O it surpass'd my fondest Dream,
E'er to imagine the gay Ship that came!
As on the Deck I Agamemnon saw,
All glorious with the Spoils of conquer'd Troy;
Ye Gods! what Transport, what Amazement seiz'd me!
What Adoration of your wondrous Ways!
Expression sinks beneath them.

Arcas.
Sweet Reward
Of manly Patience! that, to Fortune still
Superior, scorns Despair.

Melisander.

This Theme, my Friend,
Will better suit a leisurable Hour.
The high Concerns of Life now claim our Care.

I have already to the King imparted
Suspicions of Egisthus, and remain
In this Disguise, not to alarm his Guilt,
Till it more full appear, and proper Steps
To punish his Misgovernment be taken.
If he has ill Designs, you, Arcas, you
Must, while you seem'd regardless, must have pierc'd them.

Your calm but keen Inspection, not disturb'd
By the vain Flutter of ill-tim'd Discourse,
Must reach the very Bottom of his Purpose.
In you the King confides, of you demands,
As of his best-lov'd Subject in Mycenæ,
The Truth.

Arcas.

O, I have precious Truths in store!
And that best Treasure will unlock before him.
Long has my silent Observation trac'd
Egisthus, thro' the doubling Maze of Treason,
But now his ill Designs are too too plain,
To all Mycenæ plain: and who, indeed,
Who can have good ones, that corrupts a People?

It was, however, hard, a bitter Task!
To wink at publick Villany; to wipe
Each honest Passion from my livid Face,
To bind my Hands, and seal my quiv'ring Lips,
While my Heart burn'd with Rage, and treasur'd up
A Storm of Indignation—

Melisander.
Give it way!
O 'tis a glorious Luxury! Opprest,
For Years, beneath a Load of wicked Power,
To heave it off indignant, and assert
The dear dear Freedom of a virtuous Mind.
Curse on the Coward or perfidious Tongue,
That dares not, even to Kings, avow the Truth!
Let Traitors wrap them in delusive Incense,
On Flattery Flattery heap, on Falshood Falshood:
Truth is the living liberal Breath of Heaven;
That sweeps these Fogs away, with all their Vermin.
And, on my Soul, methinks, that Agamemnon
Deserves some touch of Blame. To put the Power,
The Power of blessing or oppressing Millions,
Of doing or great Good or equal Mischief,
Even into doubtful Hands, is worse than careless.

Ye Gods, avert the Miseries that hence
On him and on his Family may fall!
But, see, the King.