University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An Open Place in the City. Orontes alone.
Orontes.
Whence is this seeming weight, shake off, my soul,
This lethargy, and be again Orontes.
The truce is ended—all is safe—Arsetes
Accepts our challenge—and ere this Arsetes
Waits at the forest's edge—How slowly night
Has dragg'd her course! at length the day returns,
To lift his beams upon those eyes, that never
Must view his setting splendor—See! the king!—
Dissimulation, spread thy subtlest snares,
Teach me to amuse the fond credulity
Of easy fools, with shew of what my heart
Disdains to feel—but hold—

Enter Lycomedes, attended.
Lyc.
Yon' orient sun,
That, glancing from the dewy mountain, sheds
The day-spring's early blushes, on this morn
Shines with redoubled lustre; on this morn,
That gives Arsetes to the field of fame,
Our empire's champion—O, my best Orontes!
This hour, methinks the hand of Heaven once more
On destiny's eternal page begins
To enrol Bithynia's honours—Speak, my son!
Thy generous soul, now wrapt with glory, pants
To share Arsetes' danger.

Oro.
Lycomedes,
I own my spirit rouzes at the call
Of martial conflict; yet, forbid it, Heaven!
My heart, impell'd by envy, should repine
To view another's honours—by the hand
Of Mars, the patron of my wars, I swear
There's not a breast would feel Orontes' joy
To hear the fate my ardent hope divines
This morn awaits the glories of Arsetes.

Lyc.
O, truly great!—nor think thy noble sword
Shall useless sleep; no—should the great event
Thy soul forebodes, attend Arsetes' valour,
Thyself with Teramenes join'd, shall pour
Our eager thousands on the troops dismay'd
Of Pontus: Arcas shall arrive to join
Our glorious arms; and universal victory
Clap her glad wings—then every happy wreath,
That hope had form'd, shall deck these hoary temples,
And choral virgins hymn Bithynia's bands
Return'd in triumph home! Our Teramenes,
Already now, in pomp of martial pride,
Leaves these glad walls, and swells with war's deep notes
The soldier's ardor, while the plaited mail
Heaves on each bosom—
Enter Cleonice, attended.
O, my Cleonice!
Age now, with backward gaze, on memory's plain
Revives forgotten honours—Say, my child;
Owns not thy heart a more than woman's feelings
On this eventful moment!

Cleo.
Yes, my soul
Expands to greater hopes—each other thought
Now sleeps neglected—while the mightier claims
Of filial duty and my country's love
Possess me whole—the noble mind that draws
Its boasted lineage from a race of kings;
Of kings, the sacred delegates of Heaven;
Should banish every selfish view that tends not
To wide diffusive good—Oh! should the hand
Of prosperous fortune mark this happy day,
What thousands then will hail with rapture's voice
Arsetes' blest return!—for this event
Old age shall lift his wrinkled palms in praise;
The virgin's tears shall vanish into smiles;
Redoubled warmth shall nerve the soldier's arm;
Till conquest swell the breath of fame to spread
Bithynia's deeds, and lift her name to Heaven!

[Dead march at a distance.
Lyc.
Whence is that sound? the martial symphony
With Teramenes!—these are other strains
Than joy or victory!—

Cleo.
The notes of sorrow!—
And now 't is silence all!— [Music.]
—Again!

Oro.
My heart
Beats high with anxious hope and fear.

[Aside.
Lyc.
Orontes!
What do I see! these aged eyes distinguish
A martial train with low inverted pikes,
And banners trail'd to earth!—and hark! more near
Methinks I hear deep murmurs of distress,
And mingled groans, that peal in fancy's ear
Arsetes' name!—

Cleo.
Arsetes'!—look, my father,
The low-hung trophy and the dusty arms.—

Enter in procession a troop of Soldiers, to a dead march, advancing slowly from the further end of the stage: first a company trailing their lances and trophies in the dust, then the helmet, shield, and lance of Arsetes, borne by two Soldiers; next Teramenes, and last a bier with a dead body, covered with a mantle, the Soldiers bearing branches of cypress and palm: the procession advancing towards the front of the stage, halts, and the music ceases.
Cleo.
[Advancing towards the Trophies.]
Ha! sure I know that crest! That buckler's orb
Blaz'd with Arsetes' honours!—

Lyc.
Teramenes,
Whence is this dreadful pomp of death?

Tera.
I cannot—
I cannot speak!—O, royal sir, behold
Bithynia's champion! broken is the lance
Of war, the genius of the battle faints!
Arsetes is no more!—lo! there he lies
Pale from the hand of fate, no more to wake
To fame, to virtue, or Bithynia's cause.

[Cleonice faints.
Lyc.
My daughter!—Heaven! why am I thus unmov'd!
When age, unfeeling, sinks not with the stroke,
That now perhaps—But she revives—remove her
From this heart-breaking scene.—

Cleo.
[Recovering.]
Yet hold—forbear—
Ye shall not tear me hence—despair and grief
Now freeze my seat of life; the dreadful tidings
Shall load each passing gale, and every virgin,
Whose breast has known the agonies of love,
Lament with me, and mark this day with horror!

Lyc.
What means my daughter!

Cleo.
Pardon, Lycomedes;
Orontes, pardon—to dissemble further
Were insult to his corse—I lov'd Arsetes,
And I avow my flame—

Oro.
In all my rival

[Aside.
Lyc.
Unhappy girl!—yet think not I will chide;
I feel thy anguish here!—

Tera.
Where now is faith!
Where royal trust in princes!—while Arsetes
Thus falls a sacrifice to murderous treason,
And ends his life by an assassin's sword!

Lyco.
Ha! murder'd, Teramenes!—

Oro.
Speak; relate
Each horrid circumstance!—

Tera.
Thou know'st, Arsetes
Directed, that Zopyrus might attend
Two hours from dawning day at Mars's altar:
But ere th'appointed time, a band of ruffians
Attack'd the hapless youth; in vain his valour
Oppos'd their fury; cover'd o'er with wounds,
Senseless he fell; but when Zopyrus came
And ask'd, with tears, the assassin's name, his eyes
Then nearly clos'd, he rais'd, and murmur'd forth
Pharnaces' name, and died!

Oro.
[Aside.]
Be firm, my soul,
And hide thy secret triumph!

Lyc.
'T is enough!
Pharnaces!—Artabasus!—Gods, I thank you!

Cleo.
I weep not now—my heart would fain assume
The cruel firmness of unfeeling woe!
Arsetes murder'd! murder'd by Pharnaces!
Where, where was justice, where the guardian powers
That watch o'er virtue!—Yet, it will not be—
My resolution melts, and Nature pays
This streaming anguish to Arsetes' memory!

Lyc.
My child, my Cleonice, in thy sorrows
A king and father share—for prayers and tears
Are all an old man's weapons: hoary age,
That breaks the vigour of Alcides, leaves
These idle sinews useless as the arms
Of female weakness!

Cleo.
Why, eternal powers!
Why is not courage given to woman? shall not
Resentment brace our sex's feeble arm!
I feel, I feel it now—my bosom swells
With fury, with distraction—See Polemon,
A bleeding sacrifice!—lo! next my mother
In death's convulsive pangs, and last Arsetes,
The murder'd victim of the worst of foes!

Lyco.
Hear, mighty Jove! and send thy dread vicegerent
To weigh in equal scales the deeds of men!
See, Cleonice—see where Artabasus
Shrinks in the awful trial?—soon, my daughter,
Vengeance shall rear her bloody crest—Pharnaces
Shall pay the forfeit of his deed.

Cleo.
'Tis there
My hopes alone can triumph—
[Here the bier is brought forward.
Lycomedes,
Thou know'st my weakness—then permit me here
To pay one mournful tribute—one last look,
To poor Arsetes!

[Advancing towards the bier.
Lyco.
Hold! my Cleonice,
It is too much—forbear!—the nearer view
May start thee into frenzy.

Cleo.
No, my father,
I can—I will support it— [approaching the body]
—Is this Arsetes!
Is this Bithynia's triumph!—See the mantle
That wraps his clay-cold limbs, the fatal present
Of Cleonice's hand!—O, my Arsetes!
Pale, pale and lifeless!—murderous slaves!—O, where,
Where are those eyes that shed their beams of love
On Cleonice! where those lips that wak'd
The heart-felt tenderness!—Distraction!—Hear me,
O, Heaven!—Arsetes, hear!—while thus I clasp
Thy senseless corse, while yet thy spirit hovers
O'er thy cold clay, in pity to our sorrows!
O, never shall these eye-lids know repose,
This breast be still'd to comfort—never—never
Till this accurs'd Pharnaces—Ha!—look there!—
Th'exulting murderer triumphs!—Stay, Pharnaces—
Fly not—behold, he bleeds!—see there the dread
Tribunal met, when Minos lifts the urn—
His justice shall avenge my dear Arsetes!

[Exit.
Lyc.
Her griefs are wild—attend and sooth her sorrows.

[To Attendants, as they go out.
Oro.
Tears are but woman's tribute—to the soldier
A soldier pays far other dues—Arsetes
Demands Bithynia's gratitude—Here rest
Your honour'd load, while on the cold remains
Of this lamented chief, Orontes vows
An offering to his shade—O! sir, permit me
To second, with my own, the soldier's zeal.

Lyc.
Thou art my age's hope, the stay on which
My kingdom leans—take all thy courage claims,
Go—lead the troops to arms.

Oron.
This sword, that oft
Has fought my sovereign's cause, again unsheath'd,
Thirsts for the blood of Pontus—Yes, I see,
I see the genius of Arsetes lead
The embattled squadrons, while his spirit still
Breathes in each breast, and marks the foe for vengeance.

[Exit.
Lyc.
Be it our care to pay the last sad rights
To lost Arsetes—to the clouds ascend
His funeral flame, and call the gods to witness
Our grateful tribute to the chief we mourn;
Then in a sacred vase select with care
His dear remains, to place them near the urn
Where the lov'd relics of Polemon, borne
A mournful trophy, ever in our sight,
Feeds still our grief, and ministers the gale
That blows the smother'd flame of deep revenge!

[Exeunt, the procession going off in order.

SCENE II.

A private Apartment. Enter Orontes and Zopyrus.
Oron.
Destruction to my hopes! what gods averse
Could blast my fortune further!—Can it be!
Zopyrus—all our schemes abortive thus!
What he, whom lifeless now the city mourns,
Is not Arsetes—Arsetes and Pharnaces
The same—

Zop.
There is no room for doubt—the tablets
Found on the vestments of the slain unknown,
Confirm the important truth.

Oron.
Unthinking wretch!
A thousand proofs recur, that speak too plain—
His birth conceal'd—surprise when Lycomedes
Propos'd the combat with the prince—distraction!
A turn like this may frustrate all!—it teems
With tenfold ruin!—Cleonice's love
To this Arsetes starts another train
Of galling doubts—What's to be done?

Zop.
Already
The soldier pants impatient on the edge
Of battle—Who can tell the event? Pharnaces
May fall, and crown your wish.

Oron.
But still the chance
Of war is ever doubtful—Could we draw
Pharnaces from the tumult of the fight,
The tufted grove, that shades the fane of Mars,
Might hide an ambush'd force, to whelm at once
Our foe in swift destruction.

Zop.
'Tis a thought
The cause itself inspires.

Oron.
Zopyrus, go;
Inflame the soldiers with Arsetes' name,
That name shall second our design—I haste
To lead them to the field—away—

[Exit Zopyrus.
Oron.
[Alone.]
Ascend,
Black mischief, child of hell, from the dire gloom
Of burning Acheron, whence perfidy,
Assassination, treason (names that shake
The coward soul), breathe forth inspiring aid
To vast ambition, at whose dazzling shrine
Orontes ever bends—I fell, I feel
The sacred influence here—If fortune yet
Assist my arms, in fight Pharnaces falls
An open victim; but if still averse
She thwart my glorious aims, what force denies,
Deep covert guile shall give; and all my fears
Be hush'd for ever in Pharnaces' blood.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Camp of Artabasus and Pharnaces.
Art.
Yes, my Pharnaces, my full bosom heaves
With all a father's feelings—every god
That knows the transport here, receive my vows
Of gratitude and praise: thy blest return
Each year shall chronicle; on that glad day
The hallowed fanes shall grateful incense breathe
To those high powers, whose providential care
Reliev'd my anxious fears—Pharnaces lives!
In safety lives, clasp'd in these arms of fondness;
Yet I could chide—for O! reflect, my son,
How I have suffer'd in thy painful absence,
Could'st thou so far forget—

Phar.
O, royal sir!
Believe me, while I swear, that oft the son
Reproach'd the lover; oft I sympathiz'd
With Artabasus.

Arta.
Though to partial nature
The warmer sallies of ungovern'd youth,
Ere long experience turns the page of life,
Are venial errors, yet thy rashness here
Startles belief—What perils hast thou 'scap'd!
What deathful snares! perhaps, a fate like his,
Whom all Bithynia for Arsetes mourns.
Thou saidst it was Araxes—

Phar.
'T was Araxes,
Whose mien and near resemblance to your son
Assisted my design—When at my suit
You gave consent to accept Arsetes' challenge,
I trusted to Araxes' breast my secret,
Disguis'd him in the vest and arms I wore,
When 'midst Bithynia's squadrons, with design
Himself should for Arsetes' wage the combat,
Instructed first to yield himself my prisoner:
From hence I hop'd to plan some happy means
Of peace, by conference open'd with the foe.
But this distressful fate, mysterious heaven
Has cast on poor Araxes, baffles all;
And leaves me lost, uncertain whither points
This deed, or what inhuman breast design'd it.

Arta.
Swear, my Pharnaces, never more to tempt
Our hostile gods in Lycomedes' court,
Nor give that life to hazard, which thy father
Would ransom with his own.

Phar.
[kneels.]
By this rever'd,
This awful hand, Pharnaces vows to sacrifice
His all to filial duty, every act
Of his succeeding life shall speak the son:
And, O! if fate requires! even love itself
Shall bleed a victim at the shrine.

Arta.
Think not
That Artabasus will condemn the love
That honour sanctifies—for Cleonice,
If ever rumour's tongue can claim belief,
She merits all you feel—Nay, more, my soul
Could witness Lycomedes' regal virtues,
Did not ambition, that excess of kings,
That thirst of widen'd empire, that too far
Inspir'd his early reign, now, even in age
Impel him to unsheath invasion's sword.
The king, who, urg'd by partial glory, breaks
The sacred ties that link a social world,
Should boast no more the image of those gods,
Whose wide benevolence extends o'er all!

Phar.
Still, still my hopes, with fond presumption, form'd
Ideal scenes of happiness—Could peace,
With outstretch'd arms, embrace the warring nations,
Could Lycomedes learn one self-same spirit,
Inform'd his foe Pharnaces, and his once
Belov'd Arsetes—Yet I dare, my father,
Boast a soft advocate in Cleonice.

Arta.
O, my Pharnaces, what can filial duty
With him that loves, and loves like Artabasus!
Ere day can yield to night, a trusty herald
Shall to Bithynia's king, try every art
Of eloquence, to bend his soul to terms
That fit the king and father—Grant it, Heaven!
The day that sees my lov'd Pharnaces happy,
Gives Artabasus all—Then close, ye powers,
Life's anxious scenes, and let me sleep in peace—
Whence is that noise?

[Alarm and shout.
Enter Agenor, his Sword drawn.
Age.
To arms, my liege, the foe,
Led by Orontes, issuing from the town,
Advances on our camp—

Phar.
Orontes!—Heaven
Has heard Pharnaces' prayer—My lord, my father,
My soul's on fire, and pants to meet in field
My hated rival!

Arta.
Go, Agenor; bear
Our instant orders to the troops, to range
Their serried files—Pharnaces leads them on
To fight—to victory—

Phar.
Hear, God of arms!
Whose smiles have grac'd my earliest youth—O hear
This last request—Still in Pharnaces breathe
The spirit of the war!

Arta.
Thy ardor wakes
My youth again—Hear now, a father's voice;
With thy strong genius, lead him through the maze
Of dangerous battle, that these eyes may trace
His fearless steps, behold his brandish'd sword
Shine forth the guardian of a nation's honour;
And, while his arm asserts his county's cause,
Assert the common rights of all mankind.

[Exeunt.