The Prince Of Parthia Part 13

ARSACES.

Ha! why that look of anguish?

Why didst thou name me with that sound of sorrow?

Ah! say, why stream those gushing tears so fast From their bright fountain? sparkling joy should now Be lighten'd in thine eye, and pleasure glow Upon thy rosy cheek;--ye sorrows hence-- 'Tis love shall triumph now.

EVANTHE.

Oh! [_Sighs._

ARSACES.

What means that sigh?

Tell me why heaves thy breast with such emotion?

Some dreadful thought is lab'ring for a vent, Haste, give it loose, ere strengthen'd by confinement It wrecks thy frame, and tears its snowy prison.

Is sorrow then so pleasing that you h.o.a.rd it With as much love, as misers do their gold?

Give me my share of sorrows.

EVANTHE.

Ah! too soon You'll know what I would hide.

ARSACES.

Be it from thee-- The dreadful tale, when told by thee, shall please; Haste, to produce it with its native terrors, My steady soul shall still remain unshaken; For who when bless'd with beauties like to thine Would e'er permit a sorrow to intrude?

Far hence in darksome shades does sorrow dwell, Where hapless wretches thro' the awful gloom, Echo their woes, and sighing to the winds, Augment with tears the gently murm'ring stream; But ne'er disturbs such happiness as mine.

EVANTHE.

Oh! 'tis not all thy boasted happiness, Can save thee from disquietude and care; Then build not too securely on these joys, For envious sorrow soon will undermine, And let the goodly structure fall to ruin.

ARSACES.

I charge thee, by our mutual vows, Evanthe, Tell me, nor longer keep me in suspense: Give me to know the utmost rage of fate.

EVANTHE.

Then know--impossible!--

ARSACES.

Ha! dost thou fear To shock me?--

EVANTHE.

Know, thy Father--loves Evanthe.--

ARSACES.

Loves thee?

EVANTHE.

Yea, e'en to distraction loves me.

Oft at my feet he's told the moving tale, And woo'd me with the ardency of youth.

I pitied him indeed, but that was all, Thou would'st have pitied too.

ARSACES.

I fear 'tis true; A thousand crouding circ.u.mstances speak it.

Ye cruel G.o.ds! I've wreck'd a Father's peace, Oh! bitter thought!

EVANTHE.

Didst thou observe, Arsaces, How reluctant he gave me to thy arms?

ARSACES.

Yes, I observ'd that when he gave thee up, It seem'd as tho' he gave his precious life.

And who'd forego the heav'n of thy love?

To rest on thy soft swelling breast, and in Sweet slumbers sooth each sharp intruding care?

Oh! it were bliss, such as immortals taste, To press thy ruby lips distilling sweets, Or circl'd in thy snowy arms to s.n.a.t.c.h A joy, that G.o.ds----

EVANTHE.

Come, then, my much-lov'd Prince, Let's seek the shelter of some kind retreat.

Happy Arabia opens wide her arms, There may we find some friendly solitude, Far from the noise and hurry of the Court.

Ambitious views shall never blast our joys, Or tyrant Fathers triumph o'er our wills: There may we live like the first happy pair Cloth'd in primeval innocence secure.

Our food untainted by luxurious arts, Plain, simple, as our lives, shall not destroy The health it should sustain; while the clear brook Affords the cooling draught our thirsts to quench.

There, hand in hand, we'll trace the citron grove, While with the songsters' round I join my voice, To hush thy cares and calm thy ruffl'd soul: Or, on some flow'ry bank reclin'd, my strains Shall captivate the natives of the stream, While on its crystal lap ourselves we view.

ARSACES.

I see before us a wide sea of sorrows, Th' angry waves roll forward to o'erwhelm us, Black clouds arise, and the wind whistles loud.

But yet, oh! could I save thee from the wreck, Thou beauteous casket, where my joys are stor'd, Let the storm rage with double violence, Smiling I'd view its wide extended horrors.

EVANTHE.

'Tis not enough that we do know the ill, Say, shall we calmly see the tempest rise, And seek no shelter from th' inclement sky, But bid it rage?--

ARSACES.

Ha! will he force thee from me?

What, tear thee from my fond and bleeding heart?

And must I lose thee ever? dreadful word!

Never to gaze upon thy beauties more?

Never to taste the sweetness of thy lips?

Never to know the joys of mutual love?

Never!--Oh! let me lose the pow'r of thinking, For thought is near allied to desperation.

Why, cruel Sire--why did you give me life, And load it with a weight of wretchedness?