University of Virginia Library

SCENE. The Grove before the Dwelling of Mithranes.
Cyrus
alone.
Yet, yet a little, and thy fortune, Cyrus,
Shall break upon the light; perhaps this instant
Verges on the discovery—teach me, heaven!
To bear this burst of dignity—but now
A simple inmate of these woods; and now
The heir of Media's empire! humble merit
Suffic'd Alcæus—narrow bounds prescrib'd
His social duties, but the soul of Cyrus
Expands to nobler views; a prince's virtues
Are not confin'd to private life, but grasp
The happiness of millions.

Enter Aspasia.
Aspasia.
Haste, Alcæus,
Haste, and partake the general transport! Cyrus
Yet lives, again he's found, the wretch who fell
By thee, usurp'd his title.

Cyrus.
Fair Aspasia,
How know'st thou this?

Aspasia.
There is no room for doubt:
These plains re-echo nothing now but Cyrus.
[shout.
Hark! how applauding shouts proclaim their rapture!
Some scatter flowers, or round their temples bind
The festive wreaths, with tears of gratitude
Some pay their thanks to heaven: from rural toil
This drags his fellow; in the unfinish'd furrow
Here rests the share; there roves, without their shepherd,
The flock forsaken: mothers wild with joy,
Teach their young sons to lisp the name of Cyrus;
Even age forgets its feeble state; and children,
Taught by example, tho' they know not why,
With infant prattle join the common voice.

Enter Mithranes and Guards.
Mithranes.
Let us to the temple,
My prince, these guards by Harpagus are sent
For your defence—come then, and with your presence,
Ease your impatient friends.

Cyrus.
Is then my fate
Already publish'd?

Mithranes.
All is now proclaim'd,
And Harpagus has, by undoubted proofs,
Reveal'd your birth.

Cyrus.
Didst thou not wish, Aspasia,
To gaze on Cyrus? now thou may'st behold him,
I am that Cyrus.

Aspasia.
Ha!

Cyrus.
Why droops Aspasia?
Dost thou not joy in my success, or does
The heart that trembled for Alcæus' danger,
Repine at Cyrus' fortune?

Aspasia.
Pardon, sir,
A simple maid, nor wonder that the blush
Overspreads my cheek, when I reflect, for me
My sovereign's life expos'd.—

Cyrus.
Rise, fair Aspasia,
And know the daughter of my Harpagus,
In her defence may justly claim that life
Her father's truth preserv'd.

Enter Messenger.
Mithranes.
Dispatch, my son—
But who comes here? whence art thou?

Messenger.
From the temple,
Where all is tumult and dismay; the king,
Encompass'd by a rebel band, is threaten'd
With speedy death—

Cyrus.
Swift let us fly to save him:
Whate'er the errors of Astyages,
His kindred blood flows thro' the veins of Cyrus,
And nature shudders at a parent's danger—
Away, my friends! farewell, farewell, Aspasia!

Aspasia
alone.
Alcæus—Cyrus!—O! that fatal thought,
My father too—did I not hear ev'n now,
Of tumult and revolt—amidst the waste
Of rebels rage, where death wings ev'ry shaft,
Who knows what perils may surround his life?
Then let me fly, and intercept with mine,
The point that threats the breast of Harpagus!
Or shall he fall? which all ye pow'rs avert,
At least partake his fate, and die beside him!

[Exeunt Cyrus, Mithranes, and guards.