University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

An Apartment on the summit of a Tower, commanding a Prospect of the Fields without the Walls. Two Urns on two Pedestals. Enter Cleonice.
Cleonice.
O, Night! that soon wilt stretch oblivion's wing
O'er many a wretch, drive on the lagging shades
And close the day's dire horrors!—though to me
Sleep brings no refuge, yet congenial gloom
Befits my anguish—five revolving years
Thy senseless ashes in their peaceful dwelling
Have every day, Polemon, wak'd remembrance,
And oft receiv'd the tributary tears.
But here's a stroke surpassing all—Arsetes
Shrunk to this narrow space!—at early dawn
He tower'd in arms—a little hour he lay
A breathless corpse, and here his sad remains,
Warm from the funeral flame, are clos'd for ever!
Enter Arsinoe.
If thou bring'st comfort, speak!

Arsi.
Alas! my friend,
I know it not—since from the walls my father
Led forth his followers, to support the attack
Of brave Orontes on the foe, suspense
Has dwelt on all—the citizens affrighted
Hearken to every sound that whispers aught
Of fight or victory—
[Distant alarms.
Heaven, guard my father.

Cleo.
Sure 't is the distant murmur of the fight
That swells upon the wind, and see, Arsinoe,
Ere yet the shade of evening faintly spreads
O'er the dun fields, see through the dusty whirl
The flash of arms—

Arsi.
But hark! some hasty foot
Sounds on the steps that lead to this recess:
O! let me fly, and ease my beating heart
For Teramenes' safety!

[Exit.
Cleo.
Nearer still
I hear the deepening roar—another shout!
There, there perhaps, Pharnaces, hated name!
Sheds wide destruction!—can it be, ye powers!
Can he who stoop'd to murder, rise in aught
That's great or noble? sure, Arsetes' shade
Should hover round, and in the day of battle
Wither his strength!—Some fatal news at hand!
'T is Teramenes—Heavens!—

Enter Teramenes, and Officers.
Tera.
Where, where's the king?
—O, Cleonice—

Cleo.
Speak—

Tera.
Bithynia's lost!—
Our latest hour is come.—

Enter Lycomedes.
Lyc.
What means this tumult?
What from the camp—but now a peal of shouts
Broke on my slumbering sense—how stand our hopes?

Tera.
The foe is in the walls!—our bands repuls'd
By Artabasus and his son, retreated
To gain the gates—with them the conquering troops
Of Pontus enter'd.—

Lyc.
'T is enough—these eyes
Have seen enough of woe!—Where is Orontes?

Tera.
I saw him last, with dauntless courage, brave
The hostile troops, when headed by Pharnaces
They thunder'd through the gates, at which dire moment
He vanish'd from my sight, and O! I fear
He falls a victim to this dreadful day!—
But time forbids our vain laments—this instant
The victor may be here—one way remains
That yet may save my king—the western tower
Is still our own, and may perhaps sustain
The foe's attack, till Arcas shall arrive—
But now, Arsinoe thither with a guard
I sent—retire, my liege, with Cleonice,
In safety there.

Lyc.
No—though this trembling arm
Shrinks from the buckler's weight, I can provoke
The death I wish for from the pitying foe!
Come forth; this sword, that long has idly slept,
Shall once again—

Cleo.
What means my father?—yet
Retract your purpose—think on Cleonice!
Forsaken here—I see, I see the hand
Of ruffian force drag by the silver locks
Thy venerable age—I see those features,
That oft have fondly smil'd on Cleonice,
In agony distorted.—What remains
For me at that curst moment?—wild with horror
To rend my scatter'd hair—against the pavement
Dash these poor limbs—then bare my breast to meet
The steel, yet reeking with a parent's life,
And mingle blood with his that gave me being!—

Lyc.
Distracting image!—O, my child! my child!
And shall I then—this moment I could yield
The last cold drops that linger in these veins—
And bless the hand that struck me—yet when death
Draws his dark veil—to catch a glimpse of life,
But to behold thee die—Haste, let me hence
To lose the dreadful thought—a minute longer
May place us safe beyond the future reach
Of fate, of misery, and Artabasus!

Cleo.
O, hear me still—yet let these filial tears
Prevail.—Death is the last, the sure resource,
And when fate closes every path that leads
To future hope—this arm can then, my father,
Fix one great period to a life of woes.

Tera.
My sovereign, Artabasus and Barzanes
Are near at hand, from hence we may discern
Their bucklers blaze [looking out]
; away, my liege!

Lyc.
O! never!—
They shall be met—these wither'd limbs—look there,
See those sad monuments—
[Points to the Urns.
And shall the hands,
The murderous hands by which they fell, here grasp
The sword in triumph?—No, these trembling feet
Shall meet their fury.

[Going.
Cleo.
Yet—O, yet, my father!
One moment hear—

Tera.
Forgive me, royal sir!
If thus compell'd—Learchus, help—

Lyc.
[Struggling.]
Unhand me—
'T is more than treason—hence!—

[Drops his sword in the struggle.
Cleo.
Lo! there, my father,
Some god descends, and from your nerveless arm
Strikes your resisting weapon.

Lyc.
O, shame! shame!
'T is sure the work of heaven!—then all is past!
I yield—Lead, lead me where thou wilt!

[Shout.
Tera.
Again!
Conduct them safely through the secret gate,
Meantime myself, with some few friends will seek
Orontes, and secure my king's retreat.

[Exit.
Cleo.
O! hear me, Heaven! for Lycomedes hear!
Still save him, sinking in this gulph of ruin!
Or let one moment whelm us both in death,
And end a father's and a daughter's woes!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An open Place in the City. Enter Artabasus, Barzanes, and Soldiers.
Arta.
Thus far, Barzanes, has the victor wreath
Crown'd virtue with success—our arms, by heaven
Impell'd to guard the sacred rights of men,
Have to their deep recess pursu'd the foe.
The city now is ours—the hostile bands
Submissive, or dispers'd, contend no longer;
Then sheath the sword of death, and bid resentment
To mercy yield her reign—the noble mind,
Though justice draw the sword, regrets that triumph
Humanity must mourn: for Lycomedes,
Give heedful orders, that whate'er shall chance,
To make him prisoner, to our better fortune,
They treat him with such honours as befit
His name and rank, a captive of the war.

Enter Officer.
Offi.
My liege, this instant Lycomedes, taken,
With Cleonice, as they sought to gain
The western tower, conducted by the guard,
Attend your sovereign will.

[Exit.
Enter Lycomedes, Cleonice in chains, Guards.
Lyc.
[Entering.]
Lead me to him,
Whom Lycomedes' evil star has rais'd
On fallen Bithynia's ruin—Cleonice
Associate in thy father's woes—Are these
The hands that once I fondly press'd in mine,
When on my knee thy pratling infancy
Held me in all a parent's dear suspence?
Are these lov'd hands now clasp'd in rugged steel
And slavish manacles?

Cleo.
These hands, my father,
Exulten chains that give to Cleonice,
A glorious share in Lycomedes' sufferings.
Nor are they bonds, since still these filial arms
Embrace my father—O! believe me, sir,
To suffer thus with you is height of bliss,
Compar'd to freedom banish'd from your presence.

Arta.
If thou art he—O, Lycomedes!—hear
No more thy foe, but brother—would to heaven
Thy age would now repose in peace! those hairs
Demand respect and honour—let me then
Exchange these slavish ties, for other ties
Of amity and love.
[Makes a sign to the Guard who takes off his chains.
For thee, fair princess,
What shall I say?—these arms prophan'd, demand
More than a king's atonement.
[Takes off her chains.
Is there ought
Beside the gift of freedom?

Cleo.
Artabasus,
There needs no more—from him that slew my brother
All gifts are equal—though to the woman's weakness
I yield these tears, my firmer soul disdains
The tribute nature pays;—then once again
Restore those shackles—give me, to the depth
Of dungeon gloom—there's nor a hostile pang
That enmity inflicts, but Cleonice
Shall meet it all!—My father too—O, Heaven!
Hence female softness—yes, behold that weak
Depress'd old age, behold this bloom of youth
Nurs'd in the pomp of courts—yet, Artabasus,
This pair, unshaken, dares your worst of pains.

Lyc.
Hear every god my vows renew'd—hear too
Polemon's shade! whene'er this hand shall join
In friendly league with Pontus, haunt each hour
Of ebbing life with horror's direst forms!

Arta.
Yet hear me, Lycomedes, still reflect,
Thyself a warrior once, in fight he fell,
Fell as a hero ought.—In arms of old
When demi-gods have fought, the fields have oft
Borne slaughter'd chiefs, whose parents from the sky
View'd their pale sons, and yielded to their fate.

Lyc.
Hear, hear, ye fathers; hear how cool the victor
Can palliate death, and sooth a parent's loss.
Polemon fell in fight—yes, Artabasus,
Nobly indeed he fell—too daring youth!
Whose unfledg'd open valour met the arm
Of veteran cruelty—but hear, proud man,
Do all thy enemies so fairly perish?—
How died Arsetes! hapless youth—the last,
The glorious work of Artabasus' race!
Midst all my sufferings, still I joy to know
Polemon died a hero—Had the hand
Of time drawn out his early age to years
Of ripe experience, he, like poor Arsetes,
Had fall'n the murderer's victim.

Arta.
Little, sure,
Thou know'st the work of fate,—the youth who fell
Was by Pharnaces—

Cleo.
By Pharnaces!—yes,
I know it well—Is this the glorious hero,
The boasted pupil in the school of Mars?
Did he for this in Rome's immortal ranks
Learn the brave trade of arms, to edge the sword
Of base assassination, that the wiles
Of black conspiracy might catch that life,
Which ne'er had sunk in equal field of combat!
Yes—my Arsetes—to Pharnaces' cruelty
Thou fall'st a victim—fall'st by him, whose arm
Had else perhaps confess'd thy valour's force.
Then had those limbs, my father, never felt
The weight of chains—yet should Orontes live,
His valorous arm—perhaps Pharnaces' life
Atones for poor Arsetes—

Arta.
Every power
Forbid the implication! Lycomedes,
Could I as well appease each vengeful thought
For lost Polemon, as I now can clear
The virtue of my son, by lying fame
Traduc'd—

Cleo.
Did not his lips all pale in death
Proclaim Pharnaces guilty?

Arta.
There indeed,
Mysterious darkness lurks—but, Lycomedes,
Speak—should the hero whose triumphant arm
Espous'd Bithynia's cause—should he yet live—

Cleo.
Yet live! what means this cruel sport with woe?

Arta.
Hear then, and wondering hear—Arsetes lives,
Arsetes and Pharnaces are the same.

Lyc.
The same!—speak, Artabasus—

Enter Officer.
Off.
Haste, my sovereign!
Haste to the grove of palms,—the prince assail'd
By numbers, with Orontes at their head,
A hundred lances glitter at his breast,
And all their cry is vengeance and Arsetes.

Arta.
What do I hear! now, cruel Lycomedes,
Now, Cleonice, glut your rage,—yet know
Arsetes lives, and lives in my Pharnaces,
Or this dread moment seals perhaps his doom,
And ends a wretched parent!—

[Ex. Art. and Bar.
Cleo.
Does he live,
Live in Pharnaces! O, mysterious Heaven!
Should it be thus, how has my ruthless hatred
Pursued the man whom most I lov'd—the man
(Madness is in the thought) who now may breathe
His last.—

Lyc.
Forbid it, virtue!—Gods! I feel
A secret impulse here—it must not be—
For me he oft has triumph'd—spite of age
And impotence of strength, yet will I face
This last, this fatal scene—my Cleonice,
Thy courage will pursue thy father's steps;
Come, let us prove the worst of fortune's malice,
Then close our eyes in peace, and rest for ever!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A Grove of palm trees, with the Temple of Mars discovered at a distance. [Clashing of swords.]
Enter Orontes retreating before Pharnaces; a Party of Orontes driven off by the Soldiers of Pharnaces.
Phar.
Enough, my friends, enough—this life demands
My sword alone—for thee, whose murderous guile
With seeming manhood, drew me from the fight
To fall by numbers, from this arm receive
Thy treason's due reward.

Oro.
Fortune at length
Deceives my aim;—but be it so—I scorn
To depecate thy vengeance—well thou know'st
Orontes now—Zopyrus has confess'd,
Pale, trembling dastard! sinking by thy arm,
Our first device against the feign'd Arsetes—
This last is mine—though interest and ambition
Forbid me now to risk an equal combat,
Yet since thy hated genius still prevails,—
Hence every vain disguise—as man to man,
I dare thy worst.

Phar.
Behold, thou double traitor!
The grove and temple where Araxes fell:
Where now thy followers lurk'd in fatal ambush
To ensnare Pharnaces—tremble now, while justice
Here lifts the sword on this devoted spot,
Here claims a sacrifice to every virtue,
Faith, friendship, loyalty, and poor Araxes!

[Fight.
Arta.
[Within.]
Defend, defend my son!

Oron. falls.
Phar.
There sink for ever,
Nor leave thy equal here to curse mankind!

Enter Artabasus and Agenor.
Arta.
Art thou then safe?—my son! my son!

Phar.
My father!

Enter Lycomedes, Cleonice, and Teramenes.
Cleo.
[Entering.]
Death has been busy—sure the battle's tumult
Rag'd here but now—

Phar.
[Turning.]
'T is Cleonice's voice!

Lyc.
He lives indeed! 't is he!—the guardian genius
That watch'd Bithynia's safety—

Cleo.
Heavenly Powers!
And yet it cannot—speak,—O speak, my father,
Ere this lov'd phantom—

Phar.
Still Arsetes lives;
Behold him here;— [Kneels]
—No more unknown, who now
Assert the lineal honours that await
A kingdom's heir and Artabasus' son.

Cleo.
Pharnaces rise,—sure 't is allusion all!
What then was he, whose pale and lifeless corse—

Arta.
The youth, whom late you mourn'd for slain Arsetes,
Was in his stead deputed for the fight.

Phar.
Orontes and Zopyrus have confess'd
The snare in which this hapless victim fell;
Orontes drew me now, by fraudful ambush,
To perish here—behold where lies the traitor;
His guilty life fast ebbing with his blood.

Lyc.
Orontes!—where! then where is virtue, gods!
Now only living with Bithynia's foes!
Why, Artabasus, did Polemon fall!
Or fall by thee!—

Oro.
[Raising himself.]
Hear, most unhappy father;
Thou seek'st t'avenge Polemon's death,—behold
Him now reveng'd—lo! here his murderer lies!

Arta.
The youth that fell by me!

Oro.
By thee he fell,
But fell unwounded—to his tent convey'd
Senseless awhile, he lay—myself alone
Watch'd his returning life—at that fell moment,
Ambition, powerful fiend! held forth to view
Bithynia's crown—my sacrilegious hand
Uplifted then, with murderous weapon struck
My prince's life.

Lyc.
What do I hear!—my blood
Is chill'd!—pernicious villain!—take the vengeance
A father's fury—

[Draws, is held by Arta. and Tera.
Cleo.
Gracious Heaven!—my brother!—

Tera.
Yet hold—though great your woes—the guilty wretch
Already gasps in death, and shivering stands
On that dread brink, where vast eternity
Unfolds her infinite abyss.—

Lyc.
Polemon!
My murder'd boy!

Oro.
O thou bright sun! whose beams
Now set in blood, dost thou not haste to veil
Thy head in night, while Nature, through her works
Shrinks from a wretch like me!—Come, deepest darkness,
Hide, hide me from myself!—hence, bleeding phantom,
Why dost thou haunt me still!—another!—hence!
They drive me to the precipice—I sink—
—O, Lycomedes!—

[Dies.
Lyc.
Lo! where lies the serpent
That late I nourish'd in my breast, to sting
My unsuspecting heart—

Arta.
A father's nature
Feels for thy dreadful trial—Lycomedes,
Receive this pledge of friendship—still be thine
Bithynia's crown, nor claim I aught from conquest
But mutual peace—some other time shall tell
This work of fate—But who shall search the ways
Of Heaven inscrutable, or dare to question
Why the same power beheld Polemon fall,
And sav'd Pharnaces for a father's love?
'T is ours with humble praise to take from Jove
The cordial draught of joy, not murmur when
He deals the cup of woe.

Lyc.
O, Artabasus!
No longer now my foe—this honour'd hand,
This hand now free from my Polemon's death,
Confirm the brother's union—balmy peace
Rest with his manes, and remembrance ever
With odorous praise surround his laurell'd tomb!
But yet I have a son—in thee he lives,
Lives in Pharnaces— [Embrace.]
—Yes, my more than brother,
Our friendship knit shall plant the welcome olives
Through both our lands, and bless their sons with peace!

Phar.
It must, it must—some genius whispers now
Oblivion to my cares, and bright-wing'd Hope,
Like Cleonice, points my soul to bliss!

Lyc.
If bliss be Cleonice, she is your's
Once more, my son—

Arta.
My daughter—every God
Propitious smile to crown your virtuous love!

Phar.
Speak, Cleonice! does thy heart refuse
To own the mighty rapture?

Cleo.
O, Pharnaces!
Think how my bosom throbs with various tumult
Of mingled joy and grief—My brother's fate
Still labours here, 'spite of the bliss that fills
My conscious heart; for bliss it is to avow
My boundless passion—wife of my Pharnaces,
Or rather that dear name which first subdu'd
My virgin heart—my ever lov'd Arsetes!

Lyc.
To thee, my son Pharnaces, I resign
Bithynia's crown, while I, retir'd in ease,
Steal gently down the peaceful vale of life.

Arta.
Behold the latent treason brought to light!
Though hid from mortal eye, the Eternal Mind
Pervades the deepest gloom—Confess, my brother,
The dazzling meteor that misled thy youth,
And even seduc'd thy age: the monarch fir'd
With false ambition for a conqueror's name,
Is but the lash of Jove to scourge mankind.
For thee, my son, by Lycomedes rais'd
To guide, with early hand, the reins of empire,
Remember what the duty of a king
Exacts, while each domestic bliss shall crown
Thy private hours, to watch thy people's weal,
And share, like Heaven, thy happiness with all.

[Exeunt Omnes.