The Prince Of Parthia Part 8

BETHAS.

Yes, I must think you what you would be thought, For honest minds are easy of belief, And always judge of others by themselves, But often are deceiv'd; yet Parthia breeds not Virtue much like thine, the barb'rous clime teems With nought else but villains vers'd in ill.

ARSACES.

Dissimulation never mark'd my looks, Nor flatt'ring deceit e'er taught my tongue, The tale of falsehood, to disguise my thoughts: To Virtue, and her fair companion, Truth, I've ever bow'd, their holy precepts kept, And scann'd by them the actions of my life.

Suspicion surely ne'er disturbs the brave, They never know the fears of doubting thoughts; But free, as are the altars of the G.o.ds, From ev'ry hand receive the sacrifice.

SCENE VII.

_ARSACES, BETHAS, EVANTHE and CLEONE._

EVANTHE.

Heav'ns! what a gloom hangs round this dreadful place, Fit habitation for the guilty mind!

Oh! if such terrors wait the innocent, Which tread these vaults, what must the impious feel, Who've all their crimes to stare them in the face?

BETHAS.

Immortal G.o.ds! is this reality?

Or mere illusion? am I blest at last, Or is it to torment me that you've rais'd This semblance of Evanthe to my eyes?

It is! it is! 'tis she!--

ARSACES.

Ha!--what means this?-- She faints! she faints! life has forsook its seat, Pale Death usurps its place--Evanthe, Oh!

Awake to life!--Love and Arsaces call!--

BETHAS.

Off--give her to my arms, my warm embrace Shall melt Death's icy chains.

CLEONE.

She lives! she lives!-- See, on her cheeks the rosy glow returns.

ARSACES.

O joy! O joy! her op'ning eyes, again, Break, like the morning sun, a better day.

BETHAS.

Evanthe!--

EVANTHE.

Oh! my Father!--

ARSACES.

Ha!--her Father!

BETHAS.

Heav'n thou art kind at last, and this indeed Is recompense for all the ills I've past; For all the sorrows which my heart has known, Each wakeful night, and ev'ry day of anguish.

This, this has sweet'n'd all my bitter cup, And gave me once again to taste of joy, Joy which has long been stranger to this bosom.

Hence--hence disgrace--off, ignominy off-- But one embrace--I ask but one embrace, And 'tis deny'd.

EVANTHE.

Oh, yes, around thy neck I'll fold my longing arms, thy softer fetters, Thus press thee to my happy breast, and kiss Away those tears that stain thy aged cheeks.

BETHAS.

Oh! 'tis too much! it is too much! ye G.o.ds!

Life's at her utmost stretch, and bursting near With heart-swoln ecstasy; now let me die.

ARSACES.

What marble heart Could see this scene unmov'd, nor give a tear?

My eyes grow dim, and sympathetic pa.s.sion Falls like a gushing torrent on my bosom.

EVANTHE.

O! happy me, this place, which lately seem'd So fill'd with horror, now is pleasure's circle.

Here will I fix my seat; my pleasing task Shall be to cherish thy remaining life.

All night I'll keep a vigil o'er thy slumbers, And on my breast repose thee, mark thy dreams, And when thou wak'st invent some pleasing tale, Or with my songs the tedious hours beguile.

BETHAS.

Still let me gaze, still let me gaze upon thee, Let me strain ev'ry nerve with ravishment, And all my life be center'd in my vision.

To see thee thus, to hear thy angel voice, It is, indeed, a luxury of pleasure!-- Speak, speak again, for oh! 'tis heav'n to hear thee!

Celestial sweetness dwells on ev'ry accent;-- Lull me to rest, and sooth my raging joy.

Joy which distracts me with unruly transports.

Now, by thy dear departed Mother's shade, Thou brightest pattern of all excellence, Thou who in prattling infancy hast blest me, I wou'd not give this one transporting moment, This fullness of delight, for all--but, ah!

'Tis vile, Ambition, Glory, all is vile, To the soft sweets of love and tenderness.

EVANTHE.

Now let me speak, my throbbing heart is full, I'll tell thee all--alas! I have forgot-- 'T 'as slipt me in the tumult of my joy.

And yet I thought that I had much to say.

BETHAS.

Oh! I have curs'd my birth, indeed, I have Blasphem'd the G.o.ds, with unbecoming pa.s.sion, Arraign'd their Justice, and defy'd their pow'r, In bitterness, because they had deny'd Thee to support the weakness of my age.

But now no more I'll rail and rave at fate, All its decrees are just, complaints are impious, Whate'er short-sighted mortals feel, springs from Their blindness in the ways of Providence; Sufficient wisdom 'tis for man to know That the great Ruler is e'er wise and good.

ARSACES.