University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Merope.
Me.
Oh Merope, for what dost thou still live?
Perhaps thou'rt no more a mother.—To what purpose
Have I for fifteen years within these walls
Dragged on a life of sorrow? To what purpose
Been, where I formerly reigned over him,
The subject of the impious Polyphontes?
The subject of the monster who destroyed,
Before my eyes, my consort, and two sons ...
One still remains to me, the latest pledge
Of inauspicious nuptials; for the throne,
And for just vengeance, by my care preserved;
My only hope; the sole remaining object
For which I wish to live ... Oh son, alas!
What now avails it that I saved thee once
With difficulty from the cruel slaughter? ...
Incautious youth! ... 'Tis now almost a year,
Since thou abandonedst the sure asylum,
In which with faithful Polydore thou livedst ...
That wretched old man, who has been to him
Almost a father, six revolving moons
Has quitted Elis, and in search of him
Strays through all Greece: and I no longer hear
Tidings of him, nor of my son: oh state
Of horrible suspense! ... and I am forced,
To increase its agony, within my heart
To smother my insufferable woe ...
Nor throughout all Messene have I one
Who in my grief can share; yet evermore
To my Cresphontes' tomb I ought to stray,
And there indulge my tears ... Oh pardon me,
That I have not, ere now, beloved consort,
Joined thee in death! Our mutual son alone
Keeps me alive; ah, should he be no more ...
But, who approaches? ... Polyphontes! ... Ah!
Let me avoid him.

SCENE THE SECOND.

Polyphontes, Merope.
Polyp.
Merope, return;
Why thus avoid me? ... I would fain impart
Tidings of lofty import ...

Me.
I would fain
Hear nothing from thy lips ...

Polyp.
Oh cruel lady,
Will neither time then, reason, courteous manners,
Nor prayers, avail somewhat to mitigate
Thy fierce resentment? Thy extravagant,
And bitter grief, which seemed almost exhausted,
Why for a year since has that grief resumed
All its intensity; thus to thyself
Rendering thee such a cruel enemy?
Thou hatest me; and hate so disproportioned,
My destiny, more than my fault, produces.—
I from thy consort wished to take his throne,
But not his life, I swear to thee: but how
Restrain the turbulence of conquering soldiers?
My warriors, intoxicate with blood,
Pursued him e'en within these palace walls;
Nor from their hands could I deliver him.
I was, but equitably was, his foe.
I indeed, from the noble blood descended
Of the Heraclidæ, could not well surrender
To him my throne, merely because the urn
Bestowed it on him.—But the instinctive grief
Of consort, and of mother, listens not
To reason, or to claims however just.—
I only wish to know, from whence thy rage,
Which hath so long existed, hath derived
New aliment? Do I not try all means
To alleviate the hardships of thy fate?
Ah say what reparation could be made
For a mischance in war, that every day
I do not make to thee?

Me.
Now, wouldest thou,
That I should render to thee express thanks,
Because by thee I only am bereft
Of consort, sons, and throne? ...

Polyp.
Thy sons? In life
One of them still remains to thee ...

Me.
'Tis false.—
Ah! were it but as true! ... I have lost all;
I indeed saw that innocent transfixed ...
Ah cruel! Thou perhaps exultest, thus
To hear the dreadful scene by me revealed?
On that dire night, in which thy satellites
Ransacked this palace, where confusion reigned,
And blood, and cries, and flames, and menaces;
Ah! were not all our children, with their father,
And our most loyal friends, at once destroyed?
Barbarian! thou, alone to scoff at me,
Assertest, that, my little helpless babe,
Which with so many others was first slain,
And then delivered to the hungry flames,
By me was rescued! Oh ferocious heart!
Dost thou regret that thy inhuman sight
On the sad spectacle ne'er fed itself
Of his poor mangled form? Thou didst behold,
And with thy execrable hand didst touch,
The others with a savage greediness ...
Ah miscreant! ...

Polyp.
Lady, if I deem him living,
It is because I wish him so.—As yet
The first intoxication scarce was past
Which victory brings with it, ere my heart
Was much disquieted for those slain children;
Who would not only have obtained from me,
Destitute both of consort and of offspring,
In time, the sure protection of a king,
But all a father's fondness. Thou thyself
May'st clearly see it; what support have I
To solace the infirmities of age?
Can the possessor in a sceptre triumph
To whom posterity presents a blank,
A cheerless blank? ... Since thou assertest, lady,
The death of all thy sons, and I believe it; ...
At least I may to thee, if not thy sons,
Consort, and throne restore ...

Me.
What do I hear?
Of whom thus speakest?

Polyp.
Of myself I speak.

Me.
Oh unexpected, new, and horrid insult!
Darest thou to offer to a childless mother,
That bloody right hand which hath made her childless?
Darest thou thy thoughts raise to thy monarch's bed,
Who wert his murderer? To my widowed breast
Rather present that very sword that slew him;
I fear it not, produce it ... But thou deemest,
Ferocious man, thy aggravating presence,
To me, a punishment more exquisite:
Hence, at all hours before mine eyes I see thee;
Hence, to augment my grief, thou woundest me
With such atrocious words.

Polyp.
They are most just,
These passionate transports of a sorrowing mother.
Pour out the bursting torrent of thy grief.—
But why should'st thou endeavour to persuade me
That its intensity will ne'er abate?
Dost thou to every reasonable thought
Refuse admission?—Dost thou not live on?
Already thrice five years thou hast consumed
In weeping, and uncomforted distress;—
Yet thou supportest it. Each much-loved object,
Thou sayest, is taken from thee; in the world
There's nothing that thou fearest, hopest, lovest:—
And thou remainest living?—Then, to give
Some respite to thy sighs, thou feelest yet,
That new delights may one day rise for thee,
Then thou hast not yet banished every hope.

Me.
I? ... Nothing ...

Polyp.
Yes, thou, lady: well reflect
Within thyself; ... thou wilt discover then,
That the recovery of the throne, perchance
Might make thy life less mournful.

Me.
I see clearly;
Thou never wert a father: wholly thou
A tyrant art; the throne, and that alone,
Engrosses all thy thoughts. My babes, my consort,
Far, far beyond all thrones to me were dear; ...
And I abhor thee far ...

Polyp.
Ah, Merope,
Listen to me.—I ought now to select
A fit companion for my destiny.
All is now quiet; all Messenia now
Implicitly submits to my controul:
Yet does the recollection of Cresphontes
Live in the heart of many: evermore
The multitude capriciously regrets
The monarch which they have not. And perchance,
During his transient reign, Cresphontes seemed
Just, mild humane ...

Me.
Seem'd dost thou say? He was so:
He did not stoop to feign like other monarchs.

Polyp.
And would I stoop to practise art with thee?
And make parade of that, which, if I said it,
Thou never would'st believe, that I'm consumed
By love for thee?—Listen to me. I hope
Now to be acceptably heard by thee,
As far as one who has already cost thee
So much distress, may such a hope indulge.—
Danger has ceased, and disaffected thoughts
With it have also ceased: behold my state.
Thine is a dreary life, unpitied tears,
A languishing in pale obscurity:
Thy friends, if thou hast still such, stand aloof,
Or, are from terror mute, if they lurk here.
All here for thee is force; to this, hast thou
Constrained me more than others: but at once
All from a single word of thine may wear
A different aspect. It would seem to me
A useless, cruel, and if thou wilt yet
Have it, an outrage fatal to myself,
To any other lady should I offer
The sceptre of Messenia, once thine own.
For my delinquency this now remains
The only not inadequate atonement.
A skilful leader in perpetual wars
The camp has seen me hitherto; through me
Messenia's name alone suffices now
To intimidate her foes: 'twould sooth my heart
Now to the citizens to prove myself
An exemplary king. Do thou then deign
To adapt thyself to the occasion: well may'st thou
Conquered do this, if I disdain it not
A conqueror. A life of wretchedness
Thou in Messene draggest; fallen so low
Thou canst not lower fall: for thee can I
Do all things; thou, in recompense for this,
If thou'rt disposed to pardon me the past,
May'st, I confess to thee, now make my yoke
More welcome to Messene.

Me.
To the good
Thee welcome? Who could ever make thee so?
Welcome to others, thou, who to thyself
Art an abhorrence? Thou dost know too well
How much thy yoke by all men is detested:
Nor other joy than this now mitigates
My pangs.—Provided I would make myself
For ever infamous, and scorned, and vile,
Not only to Messene, but the world,
And to myself, which is far worse, to thee
Would I resign my hand.—If thou infer,
From my protracted life, an argument
That my affliction is supportable;
I quickly hope that error to confute,
For but a span of life for me remains.

SCENE THE THIRD.

Polyphontes.
Polyp.
—Cautious in vain; thou art a mother, yes:
A day will come in which thou wilt thyself
Betray the pent-up secret of thy heart.—
Oh yes! that son of thine yet breathes. What else
In life supports her? Yet it serves my purpose,
To feign with her that I believe him dead.
Perhaps I may to perfect confidence
The mother lull, while I observe strict watch ...
But what hath watching hitherto availed me?
It never hath befallen me hitherto
To intercept a single message, never
Yet to discover where is his asylum;
If it be near or distant: thus bewilder'd
I know not how to act ... For many years
Merope seem'd to me, if not content,
Wrapt in a slumber of subsided grief,
As one that o'er a secret scheme of vengeance,
That every day becomes more ripe for action,
Broods silently. But for a year or more
Her sorrow has resumed its violence,
And her demeanour has been quite transform'd;
The tears which had been forced back on her heart,
In spite of all her efforts, from her eyes
In torrents gush ... Perchance her son is dead? ...
Yet the Messenians in their hearts retain
A faithful recollection of the father:
Nor can I otherwise divest them of it,
Even in part, except by placing her,
With me, upon the illegitimate throne.
Oh throne! by those who have usurped thy rights
With what expence of toil art thou retain'd!