 | Cyrus |  |
1
ACT I.
SCENE, A wood, a stately pavilion erected for Astyages; view of a temple at a distance.Mandane, Aspasia.
Mandane.
Behold the limits of the Median land,
And see the temple where Astyages
Returns each year to shed the victim's blood,
On great Astarte's altar—O! Aspasia!
This is the place, the day, nam'd by my father,
To bless me with the tenderest interview;
Here shall I meet again my long lost Cyrus:
Is he not found, was he not snatch'd from death,
Sav'd by some God to fill these eager arms!
And is not this the happy destin'd grove,
Where once again I shall embrace my child?
2
'Tis true—but what can all this passion mean?
Mandane.
What can it mean!—where is my Cyrus hid?
What does he?—wherefore comes he not?
Aspasia.
Alas!
Time, wing'd with swiftest pinions, lags behind
The ardent wishes of a mother's love.
Thou know'st the hour of sacrifice is fix'd
For his reception; that we must not pay
Our vows to night's pale queen, till yonder sun
Declines to ev'ning skies, and now his beams
But just begin to dawn o'er eastern hills.
Mandane.
Alas! Aspasia,—still I fear—
Aspasia.
And wherefore?
When now Astyages no longer seeks
His death, but wishes to behold his Cyrus,
To give him back a parent's kind protection,
And shew, in him, our Media's future king?
Mandane.
Yet if the visions of the night may claim
Belief—a dreadful dream—
Aspasia.
And shall Mandane
Be mov'd with shadows! sure you should detest
Such visionary fears; from these you first
3
On the vain credit of a dream, condemn'd
Your Cyrus to be slain; nor this suffic'd;
But that the nuptial bed no more might prove
Fruitful to thee in children, and to him
Give endless cause of terror, far from hence
To banishment he sent your lord, your husband,
Your dear Cambyses, where, in Persia's realm
He lives, an alien to his consort's arms.
Mandane.
And yet 'tis not a dream that twice ten years
Have seen the chearful harvest crown our fields,
Since at his birth my child was ravish'd from me.
On this blest day I hope once more to see him,
And thinks Aspasia now to find me calm?
Aspasia.
You lost your Cyrus when your age had scarce
Beheld the round of thirteen annual suns;
And can you still so deeply feel the grief
Imprest in life's first bloom?
Mandane.
Alas! Aspasia,
Thou know'st not what it is to be a mother.
Aspasia.
Yet your Aspasia too has known her sorrows:
If you lament a husband and a son,
I mourn a brother's loss, who fell beneath
The vengeful anger of Astyages.
4
There, there, my bosom shar'd thy father's sufferings,
And oft I've wept in secret his misfortunes.
Unhappy man! a fatal recompense
My father gave thee for his grandson sav'd!
What hast thou suffer'd for thy love to Cyrus,
Thy loyal truth!—but see, the good man comes,
He comes, perchance, with tidings of my son—
O haste, my Harpagus, where is he?
Enter Harpagus.
Harpagus.
Princess,
Your son is now arriv'd.
Mandane.
Arriv'd!—ah!—where?
Harpagus.
He must not, till Astyages appears,
Presume to pass the borders of the kingdom:
'Tis so decreed.
Mandane.
Then let us seek him out
Where now impatient, with long exil'd feet,
He comes to tread his native wish'd-for soil,
And ease a mother's pains.
[Going.
Harpagus.
It must not be.
Mandane, stay—your father will be present,
A witness to your meeting.
5
Wherefore then
This long delay?—O did Astyages
Feel half Mandane feels, these arms had now
Embrac'd my dearest Cyrus! what detains
My father thus?
Harpagus.
'Ere now he's on his way;
But the long pomp that waits on Media's kings,
Forbids his swift approach.
Mandane.
And must Mandane
Attend the dull and tedious forms of state?
Aspasia, if thou lov'st me, instant go,
And seek the blooming youth—Yet stay, and hear me—
Observe his air, his voice, his ev'ry look;
Mark if his features bear his mother's likeness,
Or his lov'd father's—But, alas! I rave;
Thou never knew'st his hapless banish'd father!
Relate my sufferings, and enquire of his:
Ask what kind hand supply'd a mother's care;
How when, Mandane, torn with heart-felt anguish,
Deem'd him a prey to savage rage, the woods
Preserv'd him in their hospitable shades.
Tell him—O heaven! I know not what—but tell him
More than a mother's fondness can express,
Not what I speak, but all I wish to utter.
O fly! and with the rapid speed of thought,
Return to my impatience.
[Exit Aspasia.
6
Should this day,
That gives once more your son to your embrace,
Restore Cambyses to you—
Mandane.
Would to heaven
I might indulge that hope—All gracious powers!
What torture in his exile must he feel,
To hear his son yet lives; to know this day
Restores my Cyrus to his native land;
Yet be deny'd to gaze with transport on him,
Or clasp him in a father's sheltering arms!
Harpagus.
Hear, and be silent;—happier fortune now
Prepares to crown each wish your soul can form;
Cambyses is at hand.
Mandane.
Cambyses! where?
O! tell me, Harpagus.
Harpagus.
I dare not further
Explain it now—let this suffice.
Mandane.
Alas!
I fear thou dost deceive me.
Harpagus.
No, Mandane,
Trust to my faith.—This day you shall behold him.
7
Ye powers! what deluge of unhop'd-for bliss
Now bursts upon me! O my son! my husband!
Happy Mandane—Harpagus, my friend,
Teach me to bear this wild excess of joy.
Harpagus.
Be calm, compose your looks; let not the king
Perceive this conflict of tumultuous passions.
Mandane.
Yes, I will go, and meet Astyages;
Will strive to hide the strugglings of my soul,
Check these emotions, though my swelling bosom
Can scarce find room to hold the mighty transport;
Transport, which only such as I can feel,
And only those, who love like me, conceive.
[Exit.
Harpagus
alone.
Thus far 'tis well.—This day I mean to shew
The hidden Cyrus to the expecting world.
The realm is ripe for a revolt; the nobles
Resolve to invest him with the regal sway—
But my resentment still demands its victim:
Yes, dearest shade of my lamented son,
For ever present to thy father's sight,
Thou yet shalt be appeas'd; for this so long
I've worn the mask of loyalty—but now
Vengeance is on the wing she tow'rs aloft,
And, like an eagle, kens her destin'd prey.
[Exit.
8
Enter Cyrus and Mithranes.
Cyrus.
Can it be possible? O say, my father,
For such thou still hast been, am I indeed
The Median Cyrus? Sure I dream! am I
The offspring of Cambyses and Mandane?
That wretched offspring, whom Astyages
Sentenc'd to die, when scarce the vital spirit
Breath'd from his infant lips.
Mithranes.
Believe me, prince,
Thou art that offspring.
Cyrus.
Tell me then, Mithranes,
How many bear the name? Thou know'st already
One Cyrus, on the borders of the land
Is now arriv'd; and comes not here the king
To welcome his approach?
Mithranes.
The king's deceiv'd;
That Cyrus is but feign'd—thou art the true.
Cyrus.
Whence is this mystery?
Mithranes.
Astyages,
When thou wert yet unborn, beheld a vision
That fill'd his soul with dread.
9
Of this, Mithranes,
Thou need'st not speak; oft have I heard it told,
How, from his dream, the magic had denounc'd,
That of Mandane should a child be born,
That must one day deprive him of his throne:
And well I know at Cyrus' luckless birth,
The rigid charge was given to Harpagus,
To end his life, and ease a monarch's fears.
Mithranes.
From thence begins a tale thou ne'er hast heard:
The cruel sentence Harpagus receiv'd,
His heart refus'd to obey; to me he brought thee,
Wrapp'd in a regal mantle.
Cyrus.
Then 'twas thou
That in the woods expos'd—
Mithranes.
Not so—be patient—
My consort then (mark well the providence
That watch'd thy preservation) had brought forth
A lifeless child; thy harmless innocence
Excited pity; on thy tender cheek
Stood the big tear, as if thy heart already
Were conscious of misfortune, while thy hands
Were stretch'd, as if to implore protection from us.
My Barce wept, and with a mother's fondness,
Clasp'd in her arms, she strain'd thee to her bosom,
Lull'd thee to rest, and hush'd thy little sorrows.
Cryus.
Forgive me, sir, if gratitude awhile
Breaks in upon your tale, and fills my eyes
In dear remembrance of your Barce's virtues;
She whose indulgence watch'd my helpless years.
10
Thou wert, indeed, the darling of her age.
As my own son I bred thee in these shades,
And call'd thy name Alcæus; in thy stead,
Exposing in the wood the lifeless infant.
Cyrus.
What of Astyages?
Mithranes.
When he believ'd
His dire command compleated, nature's voice
At length awaken'd in his breast remorse.
Full fifteen years did Harpagus remain
Without disclosing aught; then seem'd the tale
Ripe for discovery: yet he first would prove
The current's depth before he left the shore.
Five years have now elaps'd, since thro' the realm
The tidings spread, that Cyrus being found
An infant in the forest, was preserv'd
And liv'd among the Scythians: such report
Perhaps the impostor rais'd, or from the rumour
Perhaps he sprung: but be it as it may,
Some bold adventurer, lur'd with hopes of greatness,
Usurps thy name.
Cyrus.
Is this the Cyrus then
Who comes—
Mithranes.
The same—but mark me—Harpagus
Procur'd the fiction credit with the king;
For thus he reason'd—should Astyages
With joy receive the news, I safely may
Reveal the kingdom's heir; or should his fears
Once more return, and prompt some new design
Against the prince, the baffled aim will light
Upon the impostor's head.
11
But since the king
Confesses now such tenderness for Cyrus;
At length recalls him from a life of exile,
To clasp him to his bosom, wakens all
The soft endearments in a mother's soul,
And every tender passion in a son;
Wherefore should unavailing caution still
Withhold the secret from him?
Mithranes.
Harpagus
Relies not firmly on the royal goodness:
For when he own'd, that with compassion mov'd,
He had not slain the infant, but expos'd him
Amidst the woods, Astyages to punish
His disobedience, doom'd to cruel death
His only son; and though the king now seems
To mourn his grandson's fate, and wears the semblance
Of deep remorse, yet sure but ill agrees
Such love for thee, with such resentment shewn
Against thy kind preserver.
Cyrus.
Tell me then,
Why at this solemn pomp of sacrifice,
Are all our country's nobles here conven'd,
But to receive the lawful successor?
And shall not Cyrus, conscious of his birth,
Strip from a bold impostor his false titles,
And stand reveal'd to all? Oh! sir, by you,
Ev'n 'midst these rude uncultivated wilds,
My soul has long been train'd to virtuous daring;
And shall I now ignobly lurk conceal'd?
What can the subject hope from such a prince?
That king will never guard his people's rights,
Who wants the courage to assert his own.
12
O greatly urg'd—yet think not, my lov'd prince,
Mithranes less regards thy fame, than safety.
Suppress a few short hours this generous ardour;
Soon as yon sun shall reach the western waves,
Thou shalt be shewn to all; thou shalt embrace
Thy parents yet unknown; th'assembled nobles
Shall own thy cause, and ev'n Astyages
Receive in thee the kingdom's better hope.
Cyrus.
What say'st thou? shall I then with filial transport
Embrace his honour'd knees, whom fate deny'd
To guard my youth with his paternal care?
Hang on a mother's circling arms, that never
Till this blest moment clasp'd a banish'd son,
And never rear'd his infant years with fondness?
Mithranes.
Thou shalt, my prince; Cambyses will ere long
Arrive; already is Mandane here.
Cyrus.
Mandane!—let me fly to ease her breast
Of every racking doubt, and dry the tears
Of an afflicted parent.
[Going.
Mithranes.
Hear me still—
Cambyses and Mandane both suppose
The impostor is their son; and much it now
Imports they should be still deceiv'd, till time
Matures our enterprize; for should Mandane
Learn that in thee he lives—
Cyrus.
Fear not, Mithranes;
This day the mighty secret shall remain
Lock'd in my breast; I never will reveal it
13
Farewell—Dost thou still doubt my faith—I call
On every God to witness to my vows.
[Going.
Mithranes.
Oh,—no, forbear—when wilt thou learn to curb
These eager sallies of unbridled passion?
This is the awful day that teems with thine
And Media's fate! Thou know'st that ev'ry deed
Must first begin with Heav'n—Go, seek the temple,
Devoutly there implore the gracious Gods
To smile propitious on our hopes, and learn
Henceforth to moderate—What have I said?
Cyrus forgive this licence of my tongue,
So long accustom'd to a father's language;
I now must change my speech—I am no more
The rigid parent that reproves his son;
I am a subject, that with faithful counsels
Wou'd aid his sov'reign.
Cyrus.
Thou art still my father,
My dearest father—I confess my warm
Ungovern'd temper; but I will suppress
These starts of youth, and learn to tread the path
Thy wisdom points: too dearly should I buy
The throne, if I no more must call thee father.
Mithranes.
Yes, royal youth, thou shalt be still my son,
Son of my fondest hopes;—for thee I've watch'd
The tedious round of twenty circling years
Each turn of fate, in this sequester'd dwelling,
Far distant from the busy haunts of men,
14
Of sacrifice, the print of human feet
Scarce marks the unworn turf.
Cyrus.
Once more farewell.
Yes, I will seek yon hallow'd roof to raise
Devotion's voice, and supplicate the Gods
To breathe a hero's spirit in this breast;
That when the ripening hours shall bring to light
The wish'd events of this auspicious day,
My soul, enlarg'd to thoughts of conscious greatness,
May hail with virtuous pride its birth to glory.
[Exit.
Mithranes.
All gracious heav'n, with thy protecting arm
Defend my prince! Let me in one glad moment
Reap the full harvest of my pious toils,
And old Mithranes then has liv'd enough—
But see where Harpagus appears.
Enter Harpagus.
My friend,
Where is Astyages?
Harpagus.
But now arriv'd:
I left him in his tent in gloomy silence,
As if revolving in his mind the end
Of this day's sacrifice. He sends me hither
To learn if Cyrus yet approach the borders,
And what the train he brings.
Mithranes.
Believ'st thou then
He means, indeed, to answer Media's hopes,
And give the realm a successor in Cyrus?
15
Trust me, Mithranes, never.—If sometimes
He feigns a momentary joy, or speaks
With seeming fondness of the approach of Cyrus,
Methinks thro' all the dark disguise appears
Some cruel purpose brooding in his soul.
Mithranes.
Thanks to the pow'r that thus provides a victim
To frustrate ev'ry ill that thence might threaten
The safety of the prince: this bold impostor,
Who wears his name, shall with his name inherit
Each evil that's design'd him.
Harpagus.
Nor does Media
Owe less her thanks to heav'n, that gave Mithranes
To rear her prince to every future greatness,
In virtue's safest school, an humble station,
Far from the splendid vices of a court,
Where golden luxury, and silken sloth,
Enervate our unhappy sons.—But say,
Hast thou to Cyrus yet reveal'd his birth?
Mithranes.
I have.
Harpagus.
And how did he receive the tidings?
Mithranes.
Amaz'd at first he heard the important truth;
But when convinc'd—O had you then beheld
His generous ardour;—scarce cou'd I prevent
His filial love from seeking out Mandane,
And throwing at her feet a darling son.
16
Of that we must beware.—The weighty secret
Of his concealment must not be entrusted
To a fond mother's transports: not Cambyses
Knows yet this mystery of fate.
Mithranes.
'Tis strange
Cambyses comes not yet.
Harpagus.
Doubt not, Mithranes,
Cambyses will be present 'ere the hour
Fix'd for the sacrifice; perhaps ev'n now
He lurks disguis'd upon the neighbouring confines.
He must be wary; well thou know'st what danger
Awaits him, shou'd Astyages discover
His mandate disobey'd—but let us part,
We must not thus be found; the king may soon
Be here; where'er he goes, pale visag'd fear,
And black suspicion, on his steps attend.
Exeunt severally.
End of the First Act.
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