 | Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia |  |
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ACT I.
SCENE I.
A Gallery.—Enter Teramenes, Agenor.Teramenes.
Agenor, still Bithynia must retain
The sword unsheath'd, and still remov'd afar,
Shall peace, in vain desir'd, mock every hope
Of dear domestic happiness—the leagues
Of factious princes, whose associate force
Has vex'd this bleeding land, now yield indeed
To Lycomedes' arms, or rather shrink
Before the genius of your noble friend.
Age.
Arsetes, bred in distant realms, and long
A wanderer o'er the face of earth, must hail
The hour that led his steps to tread your soil,
And gave him Teramenes for his friend.
Tera.
Though now the rage of civil strife is past,
Full well thou know'st, to-morrow's sun declin'd,
His next returning beam lights up the day
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Our strongest force to meet a mightier foe,
In Artabasus.
Age.
Five returning suns
Have chang'd your vernal groves, since as the breath
Of Fame declares, your armies met and fought
On Hippias' banks, what time your martial powers
(Forgive me, if report mislead my tongue)
Bow'd to a foreign standard.
Tera.
Lycomedes,
Whose thirst of glory in his vigorous life
Compell'd the neighbouring states to bend beneath
Bithynia's yoke; when creeping time had clogg'd
The vital springs, and kept his age from scenes
Of active valour, by his generals still
Maintain'd the field, and through the nations spread
His martial terrors, till that fatal day,
When Hippias, down his current, dy'd with blood.
The frequent corse and glittering ensign bore:
Then, midst the slaughter, fell a sacrifice
To iron war, our king's lamented son;
A youth, the early darling of his sire,
The soldier's hope, and nursling of the field.
Age.
Oft have I heard Polemon's name, who brave
Unpractis'd arm encounter'd Artabasus,
And from his sword received a glorious death.
Tera.
But though the time's necessity compell'd
Bithynia to the truce, still, still the thought
Of his Polemon rankled in the bosom
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Though distant hope of vengeance, glow'd within,
And fed eternal hatred in his soul.
While now to Pontus' bounds, his army spreads
It's conquering legions, he forgoes the state
Of Nicomedias' palace, to reside
Amidst this city, whose opposing bulwarks
Rise on the kingdom's edge, and dare the foe.
Age.
Fame speaks your rival great, and gives the praise,
Of might and wisdom to the king of Pontus;
And more, 't is said, his son, amidst the files
Of Rome's immortal legions, distant far
From Pontus, learns the rugged trade of war,
And gathers laurels in his blooming age,
That veterans view with envy: his return
Gives earnest of new triumphs.
Tera.
Let him come;
Would yet Arsetes aid Bithynia's cause,
His sword, with brave Orontes join'd, whose hand
Must sway th'scepter of Bithynia's realm,
Might fix th'unsteady wing of victory
To Lycomedes' bands.
Age.
Orontes' valour
Your sovereign deems to merit Cleonice,
Whose piety forsakes the pomp of courts,
The splendid ease of female life, to attend
A father's steps, amidst the clang of war.
But for Arsetes, thou rememberest well,
When first he join'd to thine his social arms,
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To abide your welcome guest, and now the tenth
Wanes in her silver orb.
Tera.
What says Agenor?
My mind, though loth, recalls each circumstance.
But still I hop'd Arsetes might be won
To breathe our friendly air, still mix'd among
Bithynia's warlike sons, now hov'ring o'er
The verge of hostile Pontus, when the time
And place concurr'd, to pour with sudden inroad
The storm of conquest on our hated foe,
To avenge a form, a worth so like his own—
—But see, he comes—
Enter Arsetes.
Belov'd Arsetes, welcome!
Youth, at thy presence, buds with bloom renew'd,
Such as I was, when, on Arabia's sands,
I crush'd the wandering robbers of the desert.
Arse.
My lord, too partial friendship ever finds
New praise for your Arsetes; if I claim
Of merit aught, here Heaven receive my thanks,
That bade me wield the sword for Lycomedes.
Tera.
And yet Arsetes now methinks forgets
To prize our country's honours; while the bond
Of friendship holds no more his changing heart;
That heart, which once I press'd with transport here,
Which seem'd with mutual transport to receive
The love I proffer'd, when my bosom glow'd
With warmth of gratitude to him, whose arm
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As fierce Lysippus aim'd the threatening blade
At my defenceless head, when you rush'd in,
(Till then unknown) and sav'd me from the foe.
Arse.
'T was sure some happy star, that led my steps
At that blest moment—if I sav'd the life
Of Teramenes, I preserv'd indeed
A faithful counsellor for Lycomedes,
An army's chief, but for myself a friend.
Tera.
And wilt thou, my Arsetes, now forsake
The bands, that late pursued the glorious task
Of conquest, taught by thee—now when the great,
Th'important moment comes, on which depends
Our monarch's fame, our vengeance—led by thee
And brave Orontes, we have stemm'd the tide
Of inbred tumult: every rebel head
Now lies subdued, and flush'd with great success,
Our soldiers now demand, with loud acclaim,
To pour their fury o'er yon hostile bounds,
Beneath Arsetes and Orontes.
Ars.
Heaven
Be witness here, compulsive honour long
Has challeng'd my departure—yet, till now,
I wav'd obedience to the frequent calls
Of duty; but the flame of civil broils
At length subsiding through your troubled state,
I must (forgive me, chief, forgive me, friend)
Yield to the powerful voice, and quit Bithynia.
By every toil my sword has known in battle,
But most the toils I shar'd with Teramenes,
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And quit a country dearer than my own.
Tera.
Farewell, Arsetes; think that Teramenes,
Feels from his inmost soul the fix'd resolve
Of him, whom once he fondly deem'd by fortune,
From all mankind selected for his friend.
I'll seek the king, no less will he regret
Arsetes' loss, whose presence might insure
His wish'd revenge, and fix his kingdom's glory.
[Exit.
Age.
Why droops Arsetes? O! discover all
Thy secret grief, and let Agenor share it.
Arse.
Indeed thou dost—my every thought is thine
My other self, my bosom's counsellor!
What needs there more to rend my heart, to fill
My tortur'd soul, while loitering here I wrong
My native soil, the voice of filial duty
Chides my delay, yet love, the powerful god
Reigns in my breast, and mocks each settled purpose:
Come, my Agenor, with thy friendly aid
Confirm my thoughts, and teach me yet to tread,
Yet to resume the path my feet have left;
To quit the land where all my joys are center'd,
To tear myself from love and Cleonice—
—O! never!—never—
Age.
Yet again reflect,
Think what you are, to what has Heaven reserv'd
Your virtues—Shall a kingdom's heir—
Arse.
Go on—
'T is honest chiding—Shall a kingdom's heir,
(Thus would'st thou say) on whom th'expecting eyes
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A father fixes every dearest hope
To see himself renew'd to distant times,
Shall he, forgetting all the claims of glory,
Forgetting all the ties of filial duty,
Defrauds his longing people of their prince,
And from his sire with-hold a darling son?
Say—shall Bithynia's hostile lands detain,
From Artabasus' sight his lov'd Pharnaces?
O! no—Agenor—thou has fir'd my soul!
My father!—yes, I will embrace the knees
Of him, whose love reproaches my delay.
Yet never, Cleonice, shall this breast
Forget its wonted flame:—Is it a crime
To adore the sum of all her sex's graces,
Though wayward chance has plac'd the hopeless bar
Of lineal enmity between our loves?
Age.
And yet, my prince; the indulgent hand of fate,
Perchance may weave your future web of life
With threads of brighter dye; even love itself
May find a way to clear the gloomy prospect:
Discord perhaps may once again extinguish
Her hated torch that fires the rival nations,
And Cleonice be the bond of peace:
Too long, already, strangers have we lived,
Alien from friends and home: though Artabasus
Sent you beneath my father's guardian care,
To learn hard lessons in the school of glory,
Yet sure the parent suffer'd in that absence,
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Your fame, and fit you for a people's weal.
Arse.
Yes, my Agenor, oft his tenderest greetings
Have warn'd me to return, when circling time
Had brought the period fix'd for my departure;
Or when the pause of arms, or honour's duty
Permitted me to quit the host of Rome.
Age.
And yet—my prince—
Arse.
And yet—too true, Agenor,
I feel each just reproach—the land indeed
I left, and journey'd o'er a length of soil,
When fate (for sure 'twas more than common fortune)
Prompted my steps to tread Bithynia's realm,
Where Lycomedes wag'd intestine war
With rebel arms.
Age.
Thy generous valour then,
Warm'd by the common cause of kings, to assert
A prince's rights, forgot thy country's foe.
Arse.
Full well thou know'st I vow'd to every God,
By all the solemn ties that bind mankind,
Ne'er to reveal, while in this hostile land
My country, or my birth; this urg'd by thee,
I swore, when first I told thee my design,
To gaze on Cleonice's wondrous charms.
Age.
Nor vain the caution—think, O think, how far
It yet imports to keep the mighty secret:
Alas! my friend I tremble, had your father
Been conscious whether fortune led the steps
Of his Pharnaces; could he know the land
Of Lycomedes now detains his son—
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Some dreadful chance betray you to the foe;
I shudder at the thought—then let us hence,
And to the longing troops of Pontus give
A blooming hero, promis'd oft in vain:
Then let us hasten—by my father's shade
I now adjure you—for Pharnaces once
Rever'd his Tiridates—
Arse.
Witness, Heaven,
How dear I held him!—Artabasus only
Could claim a nearer duty o'er my heart,
The guide, the great example of my youth!
Methinks I now recall the fatal day
That snatch'd him from us—O, my lov'd Agenor!
The scene is present to my eyes—I see
The battle rang'd, when to my ardent gaze
His hand experienc'd pointed out the files
Of rigid war, and taught me where to drive
The thunder of the field; when Heaven so will'd,
A distant arrow sent with deadly aim,
Pierc'd his brave breast—
Age.
Then midst the distant fight,
It was not given Agenor's hand to close,
A dying parent's eyes—
Arse.
These arms receiv'd
The venerable chief—‘Take, take,’ (he cry'd)
‘This last embrace—still let the dear remembrance
‘Of Tiridates' counsels move his prince,
‘And, for my sake, be kind to my Agenor.’—
He could no more, but left in thee his pledge
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Has held thee ever partner of her fame,
Her better half, her other Tiridates!
[Embrace.
Age.
I am indeed thy Tiridates—yes,
My father, from thy seats of bliss and peace,
See, how thy prince rewards thy loyal faith,
And, in his love, supplies a parent's loss—
And yet, forgive me, prince, thy words awake
Remembrance of that day for ever mourn'd!—
—My father—
Arse.
Go, Agenor, since my last
Resolves are fix'd—provide whate'er requires
To quit this court—to quit my Cleonice,
Though death is in the thought!—thy piety
Reproaches mine—ere yet the mounting sun
Whose early ray now gilds the face of morn,
Attain his mid-day seat, the camp of Pontus
Shall see Pharnaces and Agenor.
[Exit Agenor.
Arse.
[Alone.]
Yet
Be still, my beating heart—O, Cleonice!
I feel her now—Instruct me every God
In soothing speech!—O, teach my lips to breathe
In gentle sounds, the fatal word—farewell!
—Orontes here!—and is not this the blest,
The destin'd husband of my Cleonice—
I shall relapse—for if I think—distraction
Ensues, and fame and peace are lost for ever!
[Exit.
Enter Orontes.
Oro.
Sure 'twas Arsetes! that malignant planet,
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Would, eagle-wing'd, stretch her aspiring flight,
He soars above me still—Have I not worn
The mask of loyal faith, smooth'd o'er the dark
The sullen brow of deep design, with smiles
My heart confess'd not?—What have I not done,
For thee Ambition!—Let not pale Remembrance
Review the past, or paint a scene to stagger
The sickly resolution—deeds long done,
That sleep secure from every mortal ken,
Are but as shadows in the coward eye
Of conscience—Hence!—Orontes' soul disdains
The phantoms of remorse.—
Enter Zopyrus.
Now, my Zopyrus—
Speak; hast thou aught that claims my ear?
Zop.
I learn
That the young stranger who so deeply witch'd
The madding multitude, prepares this day
To leave Bithynia's court.
Oro.
It cannot be—
Arsetes!—speak—what at this fated time,
When war again unfolds his brazen portals,
And Pontus brings to view its crested thousands;
A tempting prospect yet untry'd, to prove
His sword—It cannot be!
Zop.
This hour Agenor
Declar'd Arsetes's purpose.
Oro.
Speed it, gods!
Come near, Zopyrus, to thy faithful ear
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Where Love, but most Ambition holds his sway.
This stranger is my bane—I shrink beneath
His better genius—even the field that once
Crown'd this good sword with honours, yields me now
But wither'd laurels, which his brow disdains;
While the blind herd on him, with full-mouth'd clamour,
Lavish their shouts.
Zop.
Yet fortune has secur'd
Your brightest hopes—has not our king declar'd
Orontes, next by birth, ascends the throne?
Have not the assembled states confirm'd the right
Of just succession? hastening on the steep
Of downward life, our king, though high in spirit,
Blazing with wasting light, that soon must fail,
Shall sudden sink to night, and leave to thee
A glorious rising to imperial greatness!
Fair Cleonice too shall bless your bed,
And with her beauty smooth the toils of empire.
Oro.
'T is true, the charms of Cleonice well
Might claim the tongue of rapture—yet Zopyrus,
While great Ambition's sun lights up my flame,
The star of Love looks sickly at his beams.
Zop.
What more can crown your wish, when Happiness,
In all your soul aspires to, soon shall open
Her welcome arms—Mean-time the king, my lord,
Esteems, and holds you high above the rank
Of Nicomedia's nobles.
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True, Zopyrus;
Spite of the tardy warmth of cautious age
I've work'd me deep in Lycomedes soul,
By more than common zeal to avenge his son.
But home-bred faction, spreading through the land,
Compell'd us to the hated truce with Pontus:
Till now, nine moons elaps'd, this upstart chief
Stept in, to bear away the prize of arms
Due to my elder sword, while Teramenes
With partial eye beheld his every deed,
And idoliz'd the work himself had rais'd.
Zop.
Yet common rumour speaks that friendship holds
In strongest bands Orontes and Arsetes.
Oro.
Even so, my friend—and policy demands
That he who runs the mingled race of life,
Should learn to veil himself, and oft appear
The thing he is not—
Zop.
Should propitious fortune
Remove your rival hence—
Oro.
If this report
Be true, the dark eclipse that late has frown'd,
No more, my friend, shall intercept my fame;
The war's great field, at this auspicious time
Begun, shall not enrich a stranger's hand,
But fall the harvest of Orontes' sword.
[Exeunt.
| Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia | |