University of Virginia Library

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Polydore.
Pol.
Here with the dawn I come: and deem myself
Most fortunate that no one saw me enter.—
Ah cruel palace, after fifteen years,
At length, once more I see thee. Full of fear
I left thee, on the day, that in my arms
I bore the only son of my good king,
The precious remnant of his sacred blood,
To a secure asylum: but, impressed
With a far different terror I return ...
Alas! too certainly this is the girdle
Which once Cresphontes wore! This is the clasp;
Here is the impress graven by Alcides:
This precious pledge my careful hands retained
Full fourteen years. Now twenty moons have waned
Since to his side I fastened it myself.
Ah inconsiderate, and impetuous youth!
Thou would'st not hear me; to my wary counsels
Thy ears were deaf ... Behold the consequence! ...
Oh days of anxious suffering for me! ...
Now for a year I've lost thee; and in vain
I have already for six tedious months
Thy footsteps traced; and now as I approach
Thy natal country, on the river's brink,
In a retired path, I find thy girdle
Drenched in a sea of blood? Ah wretched me! ...
What can I now attempt? ... But first I hope
To meet with Merope. Ah, may kind heaven,
Present me to her, ere I meet the tyrant!
This is my only wish. What have I now
Left for myself to fear? What life to lose,
If of my young Cresphontes I'm bereft? ...
And yet, who knows? ... Perhaps I am deceived ..
Perhaps ... But how can it e'er be? ... His mother
May know of it? ... And if she know it not? ...
Ah! how can I ever impart to her
Such a dire tale? ... Yet, how conceal it from her?
Oh heaven! ... But some one comes; ... Let me fly hence ...
But no; a lady hitherward advances; ...
Alone advances; ... and she seems to me ...
Ah! yes ... 'tis Merope ... Let me accost her.

SCENE THE SECOND.

Merope, Polydore.
Pol.
Oh queen!

Me.
Who in this place can thus address me? ...
Who art thou, good old man? What do I see? ...
Art thou? ... Do I mistake not? ... Polydore?

Pol.
Yes ...

Me.
Speak: my son ... Bringest thou life, or death?

Pol.
At length again I see thy face ... At length
I print a kiss upon thy sacred hand.

Me.
Tell me ... My son ...

Pol.
Oh heaven! ...—Can I speak here?

Me.
Thou may'st speak now; we are unseen by any;
I am accustomed, ere the dawn, to go
Each morning, unattended, to weep there,
Upon the tomb of my adored Cresphontes.

Pol.
Oh tomb, of the most excellent of kings!
Ah! that I there might on it breathe my last!

Me.
Be quick, and tell me ... Thou dost make me tremble ...
Wherefore delay? Wherefore return so sad?
Say, hast thou found him? Hast thou traced his steps?
Speak: 'tis now six months, since thou quitted'st Elis;
Now is the year fulfilled, whose every day
Has seemed a day of death.

Pol.
Unhappy me!
Think what is my distress ... Thou never then
Has heard of him?

Me.
Ah no! ... But thou? ...

Pol.
The half
Of Greece I've traversed; love, hope, strong desire,
Gave a new strength to my exhausted age:
I visited Olympia, Cyllene,
Corinth, and Lacedæmon, Pylus, Argos,
With many other cities, nor gained once
Intelligence of him: his ardent youth,
And his adventurous spirit, who can tell
How far they may have carried him?—Ah, son! ...
The wish in thee was evermore too strong
To travel, and to learn: oh worthy offspring
Of mighty Hercules, my scanty hut
Contained thee not. Though thou wert utterly
Unconscious of thy birth, each look of thine,
Each thought betrayed thee ...

Me.
When I hear thee speak,
What various impulses I prove at once!
Ah! where, where art thou, son? ... Thou flatterest not?
He grew up worthy of his ancestors?

Pol.
Worthy? ... Oh heaven! A temper more sincere,
More noble, modest, and magnanimous,
I never saw: and so well formed in person;
In temperament so vigorous; in mien
So masculine; and so humane in heart:—
What was there not in thee? Sole solace thou
Of my old age; my ancient consort lived
In thee; in thee alone I also lived:
Far more to us, than son ... Ah! among us
Had he been seen by thee! ... As if in heart
He felt his lofty birth, with gentle sway
He ruled us at his will: but evermore
That will was just and generous. Ah, my son;
The involuntary tears gush from my eyes
Whene'er I think of thee.

Me.
With joy and grief
And thou too makest me to weep at once.
Oh heaven! ... and when shall I see thee again?
Oh when? ... Ah, son, am I then doomed to know
Thy many precious qualities, while now
I cannot know whither thou wanderest!

Pol.
What was my suffering never to be able
To give thee further tidings of his fate
Than that he lived! But confidence was here
Most perilous: scarcely dared I dispatch
The covenanted token to inform thee
That he had left me, and that afterwards
I sought to trace his footsteps.

Me.
Fatal token!
Ah! hadst thou never reached me! ... From that day
I have had peace no more ... What do I say? ...
Peace? ... Ah! thou knowest not ... Tremendous fears,
Doubts, apprehensions, and false dreams, or true,
By thousands and by thousands shake my soul.
No more in quiet sleep I close my eyes:
But if, o'ercome by weariness, perforce
The lapsed powers of nature briefly drowse,
E'en more than joyless vigils, frightful dreams
Exhaust what little of my strength remains.
Now I behold him as a mendicant
Wandering alone, unused to cope with toils,
The victim of an unpropitious fate;
Clad in a squalid garb, the laughing-stock
Of arrogant prosperity, debased
By infamous repulses ... wretched me! ...
Now I behold him on the brink of death,
'Mid bellowing billows of the vexed sea:
Now hand and feet with servile fetters laden;
And now assaulted, mangled, massacred,
By fierce assassins ... My torn heart, oh heavens!
At every instant throbs; and when by chance
I hear of men unknown, who have endured
The outrages of fortune, I reflect,
That each of these may be my son, and tremble.
Suspicion working in my sickened heart
Swells into credence, and I freeze with terror:
And from the thraldom of one agony
I cannot rouse my apprehensive spirit,
Until a more tremendous one assails me.—
Could'st thou believe it? Yesterday a youth
That in a private quarrel lifeless fell
Upon the river's bank, and afterwards
Was, from the fear of him that wrought the deed,
Into the river cast, my spirits troubled;
And still does trouble them. He was stranger ...

Pol.
Slain? ... Yesterday? ... A stranger? ... By the stream? ...
Oh heavens!

Me.
But what! thou tremblest? Speak to me.
My fears perchance were true? ... Alas! ... thou weepest? ...
Thou waxest pale? ... And scarcely canst thou stand? ...

Pol.
—Alas! What should I do? what say to her?

Me.
Thou mutterest? Speak to me.—What are thy thoughts?
What know'st thou? What dost fear? I would hear all:
Ah! rescue me from doubt; ...

Pol.
I cannot speak;
Both power and utterance fail me ...

Me.
I'm o'erwhelmed ...
All courage now to question thee is fled ...
But yet I will; I will know e'en the worst.
Why should I longer languish on in life,
If I have ceased to be a mother? Speak;
Thou know'st it all; the victim ...

Pol.
I know nothing ...

Me.
Speak; I command thee.

Pol.
Dost thou know this girdle? ...

Me.
Oh sight! With fresh blood it is reeking yet? ...
Oh heaven! It is the girdle of Cresphontes ...
I understand ... I ... faint ...

Pol.
At dawn of day,
Erewhile I found it on the river's bank,
Swimming in blood: some one was slain there; ah!
There is no doubt; it was thy son.

Me.
What death? ...
Oh cruel destiny! ... And I yet live? ...
But thou, thus didst thou keep a pledge so sacred?
Infatuate that I was! in whom have I
Reposed my hopes, my life? Shouldest thou not
Have stood inseparably at his side?
What weapon should have murdered him, that first
Had not cut short thy long and useless life?
Say hast thou served me thus? And thus loved him?
But, ah! thou weepest? And repliest not?
Yes, 'tis the blow of destiny alone:
Ah! pardon me, I am a mother ... No,
A mother now no more! ... To die ...

Pol.
Ah me!
I merit all thy anger ... Yet heaven knows
That faultless ...

Me.
Ah! my heart forewarned me of it ...
In that disastrous night when in thy arms
I placed him ... Thou wilt never see him more ...
With his infantine hands, so eagerly
He clasped my neck; oh heaven, it seemed that then
He knew our separation was eternal.—
Where are ye fled, ye fifteen years dragged on
In tears, in fruitless hope, and racking fear?
So many, and so many woes endured,
The odious sight of Polyphontes borne,
That I at last should lose my all at once?
And in what manner! ... And before my eyes! ...
By ruffian hands ... deprived of sepulture ...
Oh son, dear son, at least thy bloodless corse
Should have been given to me! I might at least,
Embalming it with tears, and clasping it,
Have died upon it.

Pol.
And I, ... of fifteen years paternal care,
Thus to behold myself despoiled? Alas!
I come to pierce thy heart ... And yet, ... could I
Hide it from thee?

Me.
To die; nought else remains ...

SCENE THE THIRD.

Polyphontes, Merope, Polydore.
Polyp.
Brought hither by the unaccustomed sound
Of more than common sorrow, I approach:
What may this mean?—Say who art thou, old man?
What tidings hast thou brought?

Me.
Now, quickly come,
Oh tyrant, at the sound of woe, of woe,
Such as thou heardest in this very palace,
The day, that death pursued thy steps. Oh thou,
Who with the woes of others feed'st thy heart,
Exult now: thou at length beholdest me
Utterly desolate.

Polyp.
Ah!—Then he lived,
That son, whom thou affirmedst to be slain?

Me.
Oh thou unwary tyrant! could'st thou deem,
Since I endured to live, my son was dead?
What life I led thou knowest; evermore
Constrained to see thee ... Yes; he was alive;
I hid it from thee; and the only hope
I cherished in my breast, was, that one day
I here should see him the insuppressive dread
Of impious men, the thunderbolt of heaven,
The avenger of his father, and his brethren,
Of me, and his hereditary throne.—
Had this not been, I never had endured
To hear thy words one instant, more offensive
When they presumed to offer terms of peace,
And overtures of execrable love,
Than when they threatened me with bonds and death.

Polyp.
To him who wished thee partner of his throne,
Givest thou such recompense? Oh lady, I,
Who hear myself by thee proclaimed a tyrant,
Am far less fierce than thou. Yes, I knew well,
I knew thy son was living; nor didst thou
Deceive me ... But, meanwhile thy just distress
I pardon: perhaps soon the day will come—
But art thou certain of this now? Where was
This son of thine? And whence does he come here,
This messenger? ... Methinks his face is not
Quite new to me; methinks ...

Pol.
Thou knowest me:
Attentively survey me; oft hast thou
Beheld me in attendance on thy King
Cresphontes. I am Polydore. When others
To an usurper bent their servile brows,
Messene I abandoned. Look at me:
These locks, 'tis true, are whiter than they were,
This form more bent from length of years, this face
By hardships, and by sufferings now impressed
With hues of death: but still I am the same;
Still thy most mortal foe. I saved from thee
My monarch's only son: I nourished him,
I educated him; for him resigned
My natal soil; and honours forfeited,
And wealth, and my loved country lost for him.
All these privations were more dear to me
Than loftiest rank, with homage to a tyrant.—
Alas! why did I not with him expire! ...
If thou dost thirst for vengeance on the past,
Wreak it on me: leave Merope to weep
In liberty; and from my wretched life,
Which now is almost spent, deliver me.
Nought now afflicts me but that I no more
Can give to-day the vigorous years of youth
To the pure blood of my legitimate kings.
But this the tremulous remnant of my life,
Such as it is I offer it, do thou
Confirm the sacrifice.

Polyp.
Thou dost excite
My pity, not my wrath: thou hast well done
In going thus to voluntary exile.
To a rebellious subject I award
No other punishment. Thou art criminal,
Not for the rescued child, which was indeed
A generous enterprize, but inasmuch
As thou preventedst not his luckless end.
When I discomfited thy lord in fight,
It was thy duty, in the camp, that day
To take my life, or then to die for him.—
Yet now I unreservedly forget
Whate'er is past ... But feigned intelligence
Dost thou not bring insidiously? Now tell,
When, where, and how, he died.

Me.
Art thou not then
Content to know him dead? Would'st thou perchance
Also behold him? Would'st thou reassure
Thy apprehensive and ignoble heart
With the atrocious sight? And view a mother
Shed tears of blood upon her lifeless son?
Go then, and fetch him from the river's bed,
Where not an honoured but a quiet tomb,
He has obtained, and drag him through Messene.
Insults, which thou could'st not when living give him,
Inflict on him now dead; go. He, who was
Erewhile assassinated, is my son.

Polyp.
And shall I trust this tale? Wert thou with him?
Say. How? ...

Pol.
Alas, indeed, I came too late!
Ah! this assassin should have slain me with him.
I never saw him ...

Polyp.
How then dost thou know it?

Pol.
Behold; this is his girdle, formerly
The cincture of Cresphontes; with his blood
Still is it reeking: in a sea of blood
I found it by the river; dost thou know it?
Feast on it thy fierce eyes.—A youth, unknown,
A stranger, and from Elis ... Oh! could it be
That he were not the same!

Me.
Soon will my death
Convince thee that 'tis he. But thou, perchance,
That here feign'st ignorance, in that very place
His murder didst contrive ... Why say perchance?
There is no doubt of it. A short time since
Thou tranquilly conversedst with the assassin:
Whence sprung that pity which he raised in thee,
If not begotten by thy cruel joy?
Ah! yes; he was thy messenger ...

Polyp.
Canst thou
Be so deluded, Merope? I swear,
I never saw him. If thy son came here
Conceal'd, alone, a fugitive, disguised,
How could I ever know it? He who slew him,
How could he recognize him, if to him,
Not less than to myself, he was unknown?
Would'st thou have further proofs? Didst thou thyself
Not feel compassion for the murderer?
Did I not leave him with thee? At thy will
Didst thou not question him? The arbitress,
Did I not make thee, of his destiny?

Me.
If thou art not then guilty of the crime,
The infamous culprit now is in thy power
Within these palace walls. Vengeance alone
Can now protract my life a few brief moments.
Grant now that I may quickly see him fall
Upon the tomb of the unappeased Cresphontes;
There, midst a thousand and a thousand torments,
Let me behold him, his perfidious soul
Breathe forth in death: and then ...

Polyp.
With equity
I might award a recompence to one
That slew a vile assassin who approach'd
With circumventive arts to murder me.
But yet I will myself avenge the death
Of my inveterate foe; (thus learn that thou
Aspersest me unjustly:) for that death
I promise thee a plenary atonement ...

Me.
Rigorous and unexampled, swift and dreadful,
I will that it should be: never till now
I ask'd of thee a boon: be this from thee,
As 'tis the first to me, the latest favour ...
But speak'st thou truly? ... I can scarcely trust thee ...
With all the blood of that ferocious man
To satiate my eyes ... What do I say?
My eyes? I will myself inflict the blow;
I will within that heart a thousand times
Immerge the dagger ... Ah atrocious heart!
That heard my son, with his expiring voice,
In lamentable tones invoke his mother ...
He heard him, yet he toss'd him in the stream,
Perhaps yet half living; perhaps in such a state
That even then he might have been deliver'd
From death's tremendous jaws ... And he erewhile
Recounted this to me; I listen'd to him,
And almost thought him innocent; thus more
The murderer than the murder'd woke my pity.
Pity! Yes, now I will atone for it:
Such an example will I make of him
As never yet was heard of; I myself,—
But thou, tell me, did'st thou not promise it?
And wilt thou keep thy word?

Polyp.
Thou shalt thyself
Here speedily wreak on him what revenge
Pleases thee best. Ah! might his blood abate
Within thy heart the hate it bears towards me!
Ah may thy indignation utterly
Exhaust itself in him! I fly from hence
To execute thy wish: no longer now
Will I intrude upon thy just distress;
But quickly I return, at least in part,
To solace it.—Meanwhile do thou not quit her.
Pity in thee I do not reprehend:
But for the mother feel it, if thou hast
Felt it so much already for the son.

SCENE THE FOURTH.

Polydore, Merope.
Pol.
Retire awhile to thy apartments, lady.
Permit me, Merope, to avail myself
Of the importunate and tardy pity
Of the fierce tyrant; at thy feet permit me,
Weeping with thee, and speaking of thy son,
To breathe my last ... May I see him avenged,
And afterwards expire!—Come, lady, come;
With grief and indignation thou'rt exhausted,
And thy knees fail beneath thy weight. If thou
Refusest all repose to thy worn frame,
Thou wilt not live to witness that revenge
Thy soul so much desires.

Me.
Ah! may I see it!