 | Cyrus |  |
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ACT IV.
SCENE, The Wood, &c.Mandane alone.
Mandane.
Suspense, thou cruel state of human sufferings,
Life's deadliest calm!—still, still my thoughts are fix'd
On that dear youth I dare not call my son:
Did he not plight his faith when next we met,
To ease my soul?—He did—and hark he comes,
And every doubt is o'er.
Enter Cambyses.
Mandane.
Ha! can it be?
What well known form—
Cambyses.
Mandane! O! 'tis she,
My life's best treasure!
[Embraces.
Mandane.
Is it possible!
Cambyses, do I once again enfold him?
Art thou escap'd from bonds? what friendly hand—
Cambyses.
A messenger from Harpagus o'ertook
The guard that led me—but some other time
Shall give thee all—for, O! I've much to tell thee,
And love impatient grudges each delay,
Each little pause of joy.
Mandane.
How hast thou borne
A life of absence? how return'd again?
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This dear embrace, speak where all words must fail—
Hast thou yet heard our son—
Cambyses.
O! there, Mandane,
Ev'n at this meeting, while I hold thee thus,
My heart weeps blood—his infancy preserv'd
From threaten'd death, bred up to ripening manhood,
Then, then to fall a sacrifice at last,
To a curst ruffian's rage!—
Mandane.
What means my love?
O! were this true, Mandane might indeed
Bid ev'ry joy farewell.
Cambyses.
Ha! true Mandane,
Is there a dawn of hope, that Cyrus lives?
Mandane.
Yes I have been taught to hope, that he who fell
Was an impostor that assum'd his name,
And that the youth who slew him, was our son.
Cambyses.
Confirm it, pitying pow'rs!—but say, Mandane,
Hast thou yet seen this youth?
Mandane.
'Twas not long since
He parted from me.
Cambyses.
As I cross'd the wood,
Where yon' tall poplars shade the dimpled pool,
I late beheld a youth, whose noble mien
Attracted my regard, I turn'd to gaze,
While with light steps he bounded o'er the turf;
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Quick was his piercing eye; his manly shoulders
A spotted tyger's dreadful spoils adorn'd,
Some gallant trophy of his sylvan wars.
Mandane.
'Tis he, 'tis that dear form that holds me now
In torture of suspense.
Cambyses.
But when thou saw'st him,
What said he?
Mandane.
Little he reply'd to all
My fond address, and when he spoke, the words
Half falter'd on his tongue: his thoughts confus'd,
Seem'd big with something which he fear'd to utter.
Cambyses.
Thy presence might abash a simple swain,
Brought up in woods, unskill'd in courtly phrase;
But who reveal'd to thee his birth?
Mandane.
Mithranes.
Cambyses.
Ha! did I hear thee right!
Mandane.
If we may trust
Mithranes' faith, by him was Cyrus bred
As his own son, and call'd by him Alcæus.
Cambyses.
O! treachery forg'd in hell! Detested slaves!
Too credulous Mandane!
Mandane.
Ah! what means
This frantic rage!
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Alcæus is the assassin
That murder'd wretched Cyrus, the dire blow
Was given by him, and at the king's command.
Mandane.
What says Cambyses!
Cambyses.
Yes, I heard it all—
When first arriv'd chance led me to the dwelling
Of this accurs'd Mithranes, there conceal'd
I heard the king propose the deed, I heard
Mithranes promise, that his son Alcæus
Should be death's fatal agent—O Mandane!
Judge what were then my thoughts? rage urg'd me soon
To start from my concealment, when with Mirza
The guards rush'd in, and I was made their prisoner.
Mandane.
Where, where are now the hopes I vainly fed?
All lost, for ever lost!
Cambyses.
Cyrus is slain,
And slain by this Alcæus—see'st thou not
Mithranes, fearing thy revenge, invents
This tale, to save his son from thy resentment?
Does not the silence now of Harpagus,
Whose loyal truth is known, too well confirm it?
Mandane.
O! 'tis too plain—Alcæus is the assassin—
Hence his confusion in my sight—for this
He flew from my embraces, and tho' he came
With purpose to deceive a mother's fondness,
His soul shrunk back, all traitor as he was,
And shudder'd at a thought of so much horror.
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Could'st thou so soon believe—
Mandane.
Hadst thou, Cambyses,
Heard how Mithranes spoke, while every word
Seem'd the pure dictates of his heart—to this,
A strange emotion that Alcæus rais'd,
Gave sanction to the tale—and add to all,
That what we wish we easily believe.
Cambyses.
Has then delusive hope but lur'd us on,
To plunge us deep in fathomless despair?
Mandane.
To lead a wretched mother to caress
The murderer of her son—O! my Cambyses,
It is not grief I feel—'tis rage, 'tis madness,—
Cambyses.
Thou shalt be satisfied,—
This arm, Mandane, shall revenge—farewell.
Mandane.
But whither would'st thou go?
Cambyses.
To seek Alcæus,
To pierce his murderous heart—not all the powers
Of earth oppos'd shall save him from my sword;
Where, 'wixt yon' steepy hills, th'embo'wring wood
Forms a dark vale, Astarte's fountain flows
With lonely noise; there will I wait, that path
Leads to his home—my fury now is loose,
And when this hand greets thee again, Mandane,
It greets thee with revenge.
[Exit.
Mandane
alone.
Strike home, Cambyses,
And tell him 'tis a mother gives the blow!
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He comes!—O heaven! I shudder at his sight.
Enter Cyrus.
Cyrus.
Entering.]
Bear, bear me swiftly to her—some kind spirit
Breath gently on her sense, and bid her wake
To all a parent's rapture—Turn, Mandane,
Behold your son, your now acknowledg'd Cyrus.
Mandane.
O! most abandon'd slave!
[Aside.
Cyrus.
At length, Mithranes
Consents that in this wish'd embrace—
[Advancing.
Mandane.
Forbear!
And dwells deceit in such a form!
[Aside.
Cyrus.
Ye gods!
How are those features chang'd! what means that glance
Of keen resentment! why am I repuls'd!
Or is it thus I'm punish'd for my silence
When last we met! What would my mother? Speak.
Mandane.
The name of mother rives my bleeding heart—
Cyrus.
If I've offended, here I'll kneel and pray
Forgiveness for my fault—I swear by Mithras,
Whose chearing beam enlightens all, whose eye
Surveys the soul's recess, that while my lips,
Restrain'd by solemn ties, durst not confess
The feelings of a son, warm and alive
To nature's strongest pow'r, my suffering heart
Bled for Mandane's pangs.
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Be still my rage—
[Aside.
There lives not one whose breast more warmly feels
Maternal tenderness—betwixt yon' trees
Methought I heard some lurking spies—these woods
Are full of guilt and treason—smiling villain!
[aside.
Cyrus.
Then let us seek some safer part to vent
These struggling passions—lead me where thou wilt,
I wait thy bidding—or if yet thou fear'st
To come with me might give suspicion birth,
Where shall we meet?—O! say.
Mandane.
I cannot speak.
[Aside.
Cyrus.
Say, thou wilt follow, and I'll haste to where
Astarte's fountain bathes the neighbouring wood
Of thickest growth; in that sequester'd gloom
No prying eyes shall witness to our meeting
Thy Cyrus there—know'st thou the place?
Mandane.
I do.
[Impatiently.
Cyrus.
Let me not long expect thee.
Mandane.
Hence, be gone!
[looking furiously at him.
Cyrus.
Celestial pow'rs!—wherefore that dreadful look!
Mandane.
I would give way—but leave me—
Cyrus.
Yes, I'll go;
And while I wait thy coming, ev'ry breeze
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Each little sound shall seem a mother's step,
Stealing to clasp a much-lov'd son! Remember
Astarte's sacred fount—
[Exit.
Mandane alone.
Mandane.
O young deceiver!
He's gone!—What means my heart? Departing hence
He left, methought, a strange emotion here;
Yes, spite of all my fury, I confess
The feelings of my sex—his graceful mien,
His tender speech, his blooming years, excite
Involuntary pity—wretched mother,
What must she suffer, when she sees her son
All gash'd, and bleeding with a thousand wounds—
But hence, this vain remorse!—wilt thou, Mandane,
Compassionate the grief that others feel,
Forgetful of thy own?—no—let him die,
Thou art a mother too—
Enter Aspasia.
Aspasia.
Tell me, Mandane,
Know'st thou what fortune yet awaits Alcæus?
Say, does he live? is he absolv'd, or sentenc'd?
Mandane.
For pity's sake, name not Alcæus to me,
My ears detest the sound—yes, curst Mithranes,
I come—inspire me now with direst rage,
Give venom to my tongue, that every word
May plant a dagger in his heart!
[Exit.
Aspasia
alone.
How shall I learn his fate!—unhappy youth!
Mandane's frantic grief—'tis thence I dread
Some cruel mischief—but my father comes.
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Harpagus.
Aspasia, where's the princess?
Aspasia.
But ev'n now
She went from hence, in all the pangs of sorrow.
Harpagus.
What can this mean? Has she not seen her son?
I fear some mystery. [Aside.]
Tell me, Aspasia,
Aught said she of Alcæus?
Aspasia.
No, my lord,
But when I ask'd her of his fate—with looks
All pale and wild, she started at the sound,
Then charg'd me never more to name Alcæus,
And vanish'd from my sight.—You seem disturb'd,
Forgive me, Sir, if with a daughter's love,
I press too boldly on your private thoughts:
Indeed I am to blame—but yet I fear
All is not well.
Harpagus.
The time is teeming now
With great events, and think not that thy father,
When hopes and fears divide each other's breast,
Can unconcern'd survey the hour decreed,
Perhaps to fix the freedom of his country.
Aspasia.
Ere the glad hour of peace, while dangers rise,
Shall I not tremble for a father's safety?
Cyrus is slain, and by his death deprives
The people of their long expected joy
To hail the kingdom's heir.—Who knows from hence,
What insurrections may be fear'd? the king
Is by his nature cruel, ever feeds
Suspicion in his soul; that oft' incites him
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Your lov'd Arsaces, fall an early victim?
Harpagus.
O! my poor boy! here dwells thy fate! and vengeance
Alone can blot it thence.
[Aside.
Aspasia.
Why, gracious pow'rs!
Was I not steel'd with manly fortitude?
Why throbs this breast with more than female terrors?
O! that a better sex had given me sanction
To share in all your toils!
Harpagus.
No more, my daughter,
The milder fame that waits on passive virtue,
Is woman's boast—but tho' thy gentle kind
Forbids to mix in the rough scenes of life,
Yet thus far let me tell thee, Harpagus,
From this eventful day, expects to gather
A fruit long planted, that Alcæus—
Aspasia.
Sir!
[with emotion.
Harpagus.
Be not alarm'd, I see that name has warm'd
The roses in thy cheek. Fear not, my child,
I will not chide thee; no, thou art my joy.
When first with me thou saw'st Mithrane's son,
Scarce now three moons elaps'd, thou may'st remember
Thy father's caution—
Aspasia.
And these faithful lips
Have never breath'd his name.
Harpagus.
I know it well—
O! thou art goodness all—and 'tis with grief,
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There is a cause—if thou regard'st thy peace,
If thou regard'st a parent's will, expunge
A passion from thy soul, which ere the sun
Descends, may whelm thee in despair.
Enter Mirza.
The king,
My lord, requires your presence.
Harpagus.
I attend him:
Farewell, Aspasia, and remember—
[Exit.
Aspasia
alone.
O!
I see, I see it all,—remorseless love,
In every day of my succeeding life,
Plants the sharp thorns of sorrow—still, my father,
I will obey thee: yes, I will contend
Against this fatal passion; yet forgive me
If all is vain, at least the smother'd flame
Shall burn within, and if I cannot cease
To love, I can resolve to be unhappy.
[Exit.
SCENE. The Grove before the Dwelling of Mithranes. Mithranes, Mandane.
Mandane.
There needs no more, Mithranes, I confess thee
A mirror of unsully'd truth—proceed
No further in thy tale—I know already
What thou hast done for Cyrus, and Cambyses
Knows it not less—Invention has been rack'd
How to reward thy worth—perfidious slave!
[Aside.
'Tis true, the recompense that's giv'n, will ever
Fall short of thy desert—yet what is done,
Tho' it seem little in Mandane's eyes,
Mithranes, when he hears, may find too much.
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What means Mandane? wherefore speak'st thou thus
Of recompense and merits? by yon' heaven,
My soul abhors the mercenary sounds!
Learn that my duty to my prince fulfill'd,
Comprizes all reward—this humble garb
Debases not the mind: thou know'st in me
These weeds are voluntary, that I chose
To lead this life of rustic solitude,
To keep, what still I boast, this breast unstain'd,
And never prove what thou would'st seem to think me.
Mandane.
Gods! can he thus dissemble?
[Aside.
Mithranes.
Thou hast started
A thought that calls a blush to these old cheeks,
And wrongs my honest services.
Mandane.
Forgive me,
I must confess, the warmth of gratitude
Transported me too far: I know full well
That to exalted minds, their deeds alone
Are their reward: and he who can attain,
As thou hast done, the sov'reign height of virtue,
Finds all within himself, tranquility
With endless pleasure, that in part resembles
The state of the immortals—speak, Mithranes,
Hast thou not prov'd such happiness?
Mithranes.
I have;
Nor would I change it for a thousand worlds.
Mandane.
I can no longer hold—detested villain!
Thou murderous traitor! monster!
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Say'st thou, princess!
Speak'st thou to me!
Mandane.
To thee—and could'st thou think
Thy frauds would be conceal'd? and didst thou hope,
Thou wretch, that for my own, I should have clasp'd
Thy son in my embraces—no, perfidious!
I am not yet so hateful to the gods.
I've lost my Cyrus, but I'm not to learn
By what curs'd means—I know by whom he fell,
And can and will revenge it.
Mithranes.
What distraction!
What cruel error clouds your reason!
Mandane.
Peace!
And mark me well!—now tremble if thou cann
Know that this instant, while I speak, thy son
Gasps for his latest breath.
Mithranes.
What say'st thou? ha!
Mandane.
Know too, thou wretch, 'twas I, 'twas I deceiv'd
And sent him to his fate.
Mithranes.
Thou!—Heav'nly pow'rs!
Mandane.
Now see if thou hast ought to hope, the place
Is far remov'd from help, and he who there
Awaits him, is—Cambyses.
Mithranes.
Ah! Mandane,
What hast thou done! O! haste! at least discover
The fatal place.
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Indeed—so might'st thou come
To intercept my vengeance—thou shalt know it,
But not 'till it is drench'd with blood, the blood
Of thy lov'd son, Alcæus.—
Mithranes.
Princess, yet
Have pity on yourself, he whom you think
Alcæus, is your Cyrus—is your son—
Mandane.
Hope not again to cheat my easy faith.
Mithranes.
Gape earth, and swallow these time-wither'd limbs;
Heaven's swiftest light'nings strike this hoary head,
If what I speak be false.
Mandane.
Vain imprecations!
Familiar to the wicked—where's the wretch,
Harden'd like thee, who fears with impious tongue
To invoke the gods to falsehood?
Mithranes.
Grant but this.
While here I'm kept in bands, haste thou, prevent
The horrid deed, and if I then deceive you,
Return and vent on me your keenest rage;
Tear this old breast by piece-meal, for each hour
I've dragg'd this wretched life, invent a pang,
'Till cruelty herself shall stand aghast.
Mandane.
O! subtle hypocrite! but naught avails thee;
I see thy purpose, driven to this extreme
At least thou would'st suspend the blow—thou know'st
I have no friend to trust, and thou may'st hope
The king mean time may hear, and bring thee aid.
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What shall I do? Instruct me, gracious pow'rs
O! my poor prince!—Unhappy, fruitless cares.
Have I then toil'd my age for this!—Mandane,
I here again adjure each pitying god,
In witness to this truth—the feign'd Alcæus
Is Cyrus—is your son—run, quickly save him;
Yet, yet believe me—If thou dost mistrust
This agony of grief, thou wilt become
An object hateful to the world, and all
Thy future days shall be despair and horror.
Mandane.
Rave on, for I enjoy it.
Mithranes.
Mighty gods!
Do these white hairs deserve so little faith?
These furrows fill'd with tears—
Mandane.
'Tis all in vain—
Those pangs but speak the parent—yes, barbarian,
Such is the state to which I am reduc'd
By thee—and such Cambyses feels—'tis now
Thy turn to prove what 'tis to lose a son!
Mithranes.
Blind, wretched mortals! that too oft' exult
When misery hovers o'er them—Speak, Mandane,
Say, where is Cyrus?—thou wilt speak, but O!
'Twill then be found too late!
Mandane.
Avaunt, thou traitor!
Hope not to shake my purpose!
Mithranes.
Do I wake!
Where am I? ha! what darkness gathers round me!
Tell me, inhuman!—Why too cruel, gods!
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O! let me fly—but whither? some kind power
Direct my steps—'tis all in vain—behold!
He dies!—O save him, save him!—
[Runs off.
Harpagus within.
Harpagus.
I've sought him, but in vain!
Mandane.
Sure 'tis the voice of Harpagus.
Enter Harpagus.
Mandane,
In happy time—hast thou beheld Alcæus?
Unless we find him, all our hopes are air.
Mandane.
Is this the purport of thy search—be calm,
I can inform thee of him.
Harpagus.
Thanks to heaven!
Direct me to him—he must now be brought
Before the people—nothing more remains
But to produce him—
Mandane.
O! too generous friend!
I see thy aim, thou would'st appease my vengeance
With public punishment—I thank thy zeal,
But 'tis too late, already has Mandane
Obtain'd revenge—
Harpagus.
Revenge! on whom
Mandane.
On him who murder'd Cyrus.
Harpagus.
Speak'st thou of Alcæus?
Mandane.
I do.
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What means Mandane? has thy rage
Attempted aught against him?—O! take heed,
Thou tread'st a precipice.
Mandane.
Ha!
Harpagus.
Know'st thou not
Alcæus is thy son?
Mandane.
My son!—O heaven!
Speak this again—
Harpagus.
Doubt not the truth—Alcæus
And Cyrus are but one.—
Mandane.
O! all ye host above, assist me!
[going.
Harpagus.
Whither?
Hear me, Mandane—
Mandane.
Let us fly, I cannot—
Cold, cold, my heart—
Harpagus.
What means the deadly paleness
That steals upon thy cheek? the fatal dews
Of death are on thee, and thy trembling knees
Totter beneath their burden.
[Mandane sinks down.
Mandane.
Harpagus,
Fly to Astarte's fountain—save my son!
Perhaps he yet may live.
Harpagus.
What says Mandane!
Astarte's fountain?
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Linger not a moment,
Even now he dies, and by a father's hand!
Harpagus.
Almighty pow'rs!
[runs off.
Mandane
alone.
O most accurs'd Mandane!
What fiend possess'd thy senses, when Mithranes
Too truly spoke—and is there then no glimpse
Of hope? O! none!—all, all conspires to banish
The least kind doubt—these eyes beheld my son,
I heard his lips pronounce a mother's name,
My heart confess'd th'emotions of a parent;
And yet— [rising]
methinks even now I see him, now
His voice is in my ears!—with what reluctance
He parted from me—O! my child! as if
His heart presag'd his fate—and I—distraction!—
O horror! horror! hark, my husband calls!—
He kneels! that angel form!—those pleading looks!
Strike not—it is—it is—O! mercy, heaven!
[Exit.
End of the Fourth Act.
| Cyrus | |