The Prince Of Parthia Part 4

Oft has he led his conqu'ring troops, and forc'd From frowning victory her awful honours.

In infancy I was his only treasure, On me he wasted all his store of fondness.

Oh! I could tell thee of his wond'rous goodness, His more than father's love and tenderness.

But thou wouldst jeer, and say the tale was trifling; So did he dote upon me, for in childhood My infant charms, and artless innocence Blest his fond age, and won on ev'ry heart.

But, oh! from this sprung ev'ry future ill, This fatal beauty was the source of all.

CLEONE.

'Tis often so, for beauty is a flow'r That tempts the hand to pluck it.

EVANTHE.

Full three times Has scorching summer fled from cold winter's Ruthless blasts, as oft again has spring In sprightly youth drest nature in her beauties, Since bathing in Niphates'[5] silver stream, Attended only by one fav'rite maid; As we were sporting on the wanton waves, Swift from the wood a troop of hors.e.m.e.n rush'd, Rudely they seiz'd, and bore me trembling off, In vain Edessa with her shrieks a.s.sail'd The heav'ns, for heav'n was deaf to both our pray'rs.

The wretch whose insolent embrace confin'd me (Like thunder bursting on the guilty soul), With curs'd Vonones' voice pour'd in my ears A hateful tale of love; for he it seems Had seen me at Arabia's royal court, And took those means to force me to his arms.

CLEONE.

Perhaps you may gain something from the Captives Of your lost Parents.

EVANTHE.

This I meant to try, Soon as the night hides Nature in her darkness, Veil'd in the gloom we'll steal into their prison.

But, oh! perhaps e'en now my aged Sire May 'mongst the slain lie welt'ring on the field, Pierc'd like a riddle through with num'rous wounds, While parting life is quiv'ring on his lips, He may perhaps be calling on his Evanthe.

Yes, ye great Pow'rs who boast the name of mercy, Ye have deny'd me to his latest moments, To all the offices of filial duty, To bind his wounds, and wash them with my tears, Is this, is this your mercy?

CLEONE.

Blame not heav'n, For heav'n is just and kind; dear Lady, drive These black ideas from your gentle breast; Fancy delights to torture the distress'd, And fill the gloomy scene with shadowy ills, Summon your reason, and you'll soon have comfort.

EVANTHE.

Dost thou name comfort to me, my Cleone, Thou who know'st all my sorrows? plead no more, 'Tis reason tells me I am doubly wretched.

CLEONE.

But hark, the music strikes, the rites begin, And, see, the doors are op'ning.

EVANTHE.

Let's retire; My heart is now too full to meet him here, Fly swift ye hours, till in his arms I'm prest, And each intruding care is hush'd to rest.

SCENE V.

_The Scene draws and discovers, in the inner part of the Temple, a large image of the Sun, with an altar before it. Around Priests and Attendants._

_KING, ARSACES, VARDANES, GOTARZES, PHRAATES, LYSIAS, with BETHAS in chains._

HYMN.

Parent of Light, to thee belong Our grateful tributary songs; Each thankful voice to thee shall rise, And chearful pierce the azure skies; While in thy praise all earth combines, And Echo in the Chorus joins.

All the gay pride of blooming May, The Lily fair and blushing Rose, To thee their early honours pay, And all their heav'nly sweets disclose.

The feather'd Choir on ev'ry tree To hail thy glorious dawn repair, While the sweet sons of harmony With Hallelujahs fill the air.

'Tis thou hast brac'd the Hero's arm, And giv'n the Love of praise to warm His bosom, as he onward flies, And for his Country bravely dies.

Thine's victory, and from thee springs Ambition's fire, which glows in Kings.

KING [_coming forward_].

Thus, to the G.o.ds our tributary songs, And now, oh! let me welcome once again My blooming victor to his Father's arms; And let me thank thee for our safety: Parthia Shall thank thee too, and give her grateful praise To her Deliverer.

OMNES.

All hail! Arsaces!

KING.

Thanks to my loyal friends.

VARDANES [_aside_].

Curse, curse the sound, E'en Echo gives it back with int'rest, The joyful gales swell with the pleasing theme, And waft it far away to distant hills.

O that my breath was poison, then indeed I'd hail him like the rest, but blast him too.

ARSACES.

My Royal Sire, these honours are unmerited, Beneath your prosp'rous auspices I fought, Bright vict'ry to your banners joyful flew, And favour'd for the Sire the happy son.

But lenity should grace the victor's laurels, Then, here, my gracious Father--

KING.

Ha! 'tis Bethas!

Know'st thou, vain wretch, what fate attends on those Who dare oppose the pow'r of mighty Kings, Whom heav'n delights to favour? sure some G.o.d Who sought to punish you for impious deeds, 'Twas urg'd you forward to insult our arms, And brave us at our Royal City's gates.

BETHAS.

At honour's call, and at my King's command, Tho' it were even with my single arm, again I'd brave the mult.i.tude, which, like a deluge, O'erwhelm'd my gallant handful; yea, wou'd meet Undaunted, all the fury of the torrent.

'Tis honour is the guide of all my actions, The ruling star by which I steer thro' life, And shun the shelves of infamy and vice.

KING.

It was the thirst of gain which drew you on; 'Tis thus that Av'rice always cloaks its views, Th' ambition of your Prince you gladly s.n.a.t.c.h'd As opportunity to fill your coffers.

It was the plunder of our palaces, And of our wealthy cities, fill'd your dreams, And urg'd you on your way; but you have met The due reward of your audacity.

Now shake your chains, shake and delight your ears With the soft music of your golden fetters.

BETHAS.

True, I am fall'n, but glorious was my fall, The day was brav'ly fought, we did our best, But victory's of heav'n. Look o'er yon field, See if thou findest one Arabian back Disfigur'd with dishonourable wounds.

No, here, deep on their bosoms, are engrav'd The marks of honour! 'twas thro' here their souls Flew to their blissful seats. Oh! why did I Survive the fatal day? To be this slave, To be the gaze and sport of vulgar crouds, Thus, like a shackl'd tyger, stalk my round, And grimly low'r upon the shouting herd.