University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A Gallery. Enter Lycomedes and Teramenes.
Lyco.
How stand the soldiers' hopes, my Teramenes?
What spirit breathes among their ranks, to give
A presage of the war!

Tera.
The troops on fire,
Demand alone Orontes and Arsetes;
With loud reproach they execrate the foe,
And hail with joy the near expiring truce.

Lyc.
Yes, Teramenes—civil discord now,
That sheathes her sword, has left revenge to rear
Her dreadful banner—Nemesis has heard
Our solemn vows against exulting Pontus.
No more Polemon's ghost shall haunt my dreams,
Arsetes and Orontes shall extend
My name to latest times; the glorious love
Of empire and of arms, that fir'd my youth,
Shall warm my frozen age—too long compell'd
I smother'd in my breast the flame of hatred;
But when my soul forgets thy loss, Polemon,
Disgrace and ruin o'er these silver locks
Shed their black influence!—Orontes, welcome;
What hear'st thou of the foe?

Enter Orontes.
Oro.
Not unprepar'd
The king of Pontus, from Heraclea's walls,
Has drawn the choicest sons of valour forth,
That lie encamp'd beside Parthenius' stream.

Tera.
'T is said they wait the arrival of Pharnaces,
(The kingdom's hope) whom Artabasus sent,
What time Bithynia sign'd the truce with Pontus,
To distant Rome to train his youth in arms,
And Fame, with loudest tongue, proclaims his praise.

Lyc.
A stripling when he left his father's court?

Tera.
He was; and now scarce twenty suns have ripened
Our fruitful years, since Artabasus gain'd
By him a parent's name.—

Lyc.
Such as he is—
O, scorpion memory! such perhaps had been
Bithynia's heir and Lycomedes' son!
O, Teramenes! O, Orontes! pity
To solitude and sadness, shuns the gaze
Of admiration, let Arsetes yet
Intrude on Cleonice's lonely hours,
Ere cruel fate compels—

Cleo.
My lord, forbear—
This needed not—a hero's towering soul
Soars high above the weakness of the lover:
Since thou wilt part, it is not Cleonice
Can here detain Arsetes—other charms—
But I forget myself—excuse me, sir—
Whate'er your aims—let not my presence damp
The glorious fortune love and fate prepare—
And think not e'er, awaken'd from her dream
Of fond credulity, that Cleonice
Will cloud your joys, or stop your path to greatness.

[Exit.
Arse.
[Alone.]
Where am I? sure I dream—my every sense
Is lost in wild amazement—

Enter Agenor.
Age.
All is ready,
And nothing now remains but that we quit
Bithynia's court for Artabasus' camp—
What mean those looks of sorrow, wherefore heaves
Your swelling breast, while clouded with despair
Your eyes, in silent pause, reproach the gods!

Arse.
Alas! what shall I say—could'st thou believe it,
Agenor? she for whom my soul had near
Forgot a kingdom's fame, a father's love,
Each nice respect of honour, made my name
To future times the scorn of every tongue,
That fathers to their sons might point the example,
And bid them fear to fall as fell Pharnaces!
Even she, my friend, has now with cruel scorn,
Repaid my love—

Age.
O, sir, forgive Agenor;
But sure in pity fate concurs even here
To hasten your resolves—whate'er the cause
Of Cleonice's anger, every moment
Is wing'd with peril—think what foes conspire
Against your father's peace, his life and fame.

Arse.
No more, no more, Agenor—best of friends,
In thee thy father Tiridates speaks.
Pharnaces still thou shalt retrieve thy glory,
Burst from the veil of dark obscurity
And blaze in virtues beam—But yet, Agenor!
O, yet induge a heart that sinks beneath
Accumulated anguish—can I leave
My Cleonice thus—alas! who knows
How soon, by rash resentment urg'd, her hand
May to Orontes yield her plighted faith!
While absent hence Pharnaces.—

Age.
Wilt thou then linger here, unmindful still
Of fame and Artabasus?

Arse.
No—this night,
Be witness every power! we leave the court—
This only day indulge a lover's fondness!
The care be thine that Artabasus soon
Receive this signet, with the welcome news
A father's feelings—Thou, Orontes, saw'st
My hapless boy—thy pious arms embrac'd
My lost Polemon, as life's gushing stream
Sprinkled his budding laurels—where was then
A father's vengeful sword, while to his tent
You bore him pale and senseless, distant far,
Detain'd by coward age, these ears receiv'd
The dreadful tidings, when his frantic mother
Ended her wretched being—Powerful Jove!
Shed from thy bitter urn the dregs of anguish
On my poor span of life, withhold each comfort
Which creeping years, o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, claim,
If I forgive the cruel hand that cropt
This blooming plant, which else had flourish'd now
And shelter'd with his shade my wasting age!

Oro.
Soon shall we lead th'embattled squadrons forth
On Artabasus—should this boasted son
Return, though conquest-plum'd, he comes perhaps
A fated victim—

Lyc.
O! that thought, Orontes,
Gives vigour to my nerves!—Ye powers of vengeance!
Hear, hear a father's voice, and through his son,
Reach Artabasus's heart, that after years
Of tedious expectation, now at length
Return'd and scarcely welcom'd, he may fall
A dreadful sacrifice—then through the sense,
The thrilling sense of fond parental love,
By his Pharnaces let him know the pangs
Of Lycomedes, when Polemon fell!

[Exeunt.