University of Virginia Library

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.