University of Virginia Library

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.