O perfidy! O guilt! O fatal day!
O death! forever present to my sight!
Methinks even now I hear the dismal shrieks,
I hear them cry, “O save the king, his wife,
His sons;” I see the walls all stained with blood,
The flaming palace, helpless women crushed
Beneath the smoking ruins, fear and tumult
On every side, arms, torches, death, and horror:
Then, rolled in dust, and bathing in his blood,
Cresphontes pressed me to his arms, upraised
His dying eyes, and took his last farewell;
Whilst his two hapless babes, the tender fruits
Of our first love, thrown on the bleeding bosom
Of their dead father, lifted up the hands
Of innocence, and begged me to protect them
Against the barbarous murderers: Ægisthus
Alone escaped: some god defended him.
O thou who didst protect his infancy
Watch o’er and guard him, bring him to my eyes;
O let him from inglorious solitude
Rise to the rank of his great ancestors!
I’ve borne his absence long, and groaned in chains
These fifteen years: now let Ægisthus reign
Instead of Mérope: for all my pains
And sorrows past, be that the great reward.
SCENE II.
mérope, ismenia, euricles.
mérope.
Well! what of Narbas, and my son?
euricles.
Confused
I stand before thee; all our cares are vain;
We’ve searched the banks of Peneus, and the fields
Of fair Olympia, even to the walls
Of proud Salmoneus, but no Narbas there
Is to be found or heard of, not a trace
Remaining of him.
mérope.
Narbas is no more,
And all is lost.
ismenia.
Whatever thy fears suggest
Thou still believest; and yet who knows but now,
Even whilst we speak, the happy Narbas comes
To crown thy wishes, and restore thy son.
euricles.
Perhaps his love, tempered with fair discretion,
Which long concealed Ægisthus from the eyes
Of men, may hide his purposed journey from thee:
He dreads the murderer’s hand, and still protects him
From those who slew Cresphontes: we must strive
By artful methods to elude the rage
That cannot be opposed: I have secured
Their passage hither, and have placed some friends
Of most approved valor, whose sharp eyes
Will look abroad, and safe conduct them to thee.
mérope.
I’ve placed my surest confidence in thee.
euricles.
But what alas! can all my watchfulness
And faithful cares avail thee, when the people
Already meet to rob thee of thy right,
And place another on Messene’s throne?
Injustice triumphs, and the shameless crowd,
In proud contempt of sacred laws, incline
To Poliphontes.
mérope.
Am I fallen so low:
And shall my son return to be a slave?
To see a subject raised to the high rank
Of his great ancestors, the blood of Jove
Debased, degraded, forced to own a master.
Have I no friend, no kind protector left?
Ungrateful subjects! have you no regard,
No reverence for the memory of Cresphontes?
Have you so soon forgot his glorious deeds,
His goodness to you?
euricles.
Still his name is dear,
Still they regret him, still they weep his fate,
And pity thine: but power intimidates,
And makes them dread the wrath of Poliphontes.
mérope.
Thus, by my people still oppressed, I see
Justice give way to faction, interest still,
The arbiter of fate, sells needy virtue
To powerful guilt; the weak must to the strong
Forever yield: but let us hence, and strive
To fire once more their coward hearts to rage
And fierce resentment, for the injured blood
Of Hercules: excite the people’s love;
Flatter their hopes; O tell them, Euricles,
Their master is returned.
euricles.
I’ve said too much
Already; Poliphontes is alarmed:
He dreads your son; he dreads your very tears:
Restless ambition, that holds nothing dear
Or sacred but itself, has filled his soul
With bitterness and pride: because he drove
The ruffian slaves from Pylos and Amphrysa,
And saved Messene from a band of robbers,
He claims it as his conquest: for himself
Alone he acts, and would enslave us all:
He looks towards the crown, and to attain it
Would throw down every fence, break every law,
Spill any blood that shall oppose him: they
Who killed thy husband were not more revengeful,
More bloody, than the cruel Poliphontes.
mérope.
I am entangled in some fatal snare
On every side, danger and guilt surround me:
This Poliphontes, this ambitious subject,
Whose crimes—
euricles.
He’s here: you must dissemble.
SCENE III.
mérope,