VOLTAIRE: 60+ Works in One Volume - Philosophical Writings, Novels, Historical Works, Poetry, Plays & Letters. Вольтер. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Вольтер
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One in the bloom of youth, the other sunk

       Into the vale of years: “What brings thee here?”

       They cried, “and wherefore for Alcides’ race

       Art thou a suppliant?” At this word they raised

       The dagger to my breast: but heaven preserved me.

       Pierced o’er with wounds, the youngest of them fell

       Dead at my feet; the other basely fled,

       Like an assassin: knowing not what blood

       I might have shed, and doubtful of my fate,

       I threw the bloody corpse into the sea,

       And fled; your soldiers stopped me; at the name

       Of Mérope, I yielded up my arms,

       And they have brought me hither.

      euricles.

       Why these tears,

       My royal mistress?

      mérope.

       Shall I own it to thee?

       I melted with compassion, as he told

       His melancholy tale; I know not why,

       But my heart sympathized with his distress:

       It cannot be, I blush to think it, yet

       Methought I traced the features of Cresphontes:

       Cruel remembrance! wherefore am I mocked

       With such deceitful images as these,

       Such fond delusions?

      euricles.

       Do not then embrace

       Such vain suspicions, he’s not that barbarian,

       That vile impostor, which we thought him.

      mérope.

       No:

       Heaven hath imprinted on his open front

       The marks of candor, and of honesty.

       Where wert thou born?

      ægisthus.

      In Elis.

      mérope.

       Ha! in Elis!

       In Elis! sayst thou? Knowst thou aught of Narbas,

       Or of Ægisthus? Never hath that name

       Yet reached thine ear? What rank, condition, friends,

       Who was thy father?

      ægisthus.

       Polycletes, madam,

       A poor old man: to Narbas, or Ægisthus,

       Of whom thou speakest, I am a stranger.

      mérope.

       Gods!

       Why mock ye thus a poor unhappy mortal?

       A little dawn of hope just gleamed upon me,

       And now my eyes are plunged in deepest night:

       Say, what rank did thy parents hold in Greece?

      ægisthus.

       If virtue made nobility, old Sirris

       And Polycletes, from whose blood I sprang,

       Are not to be despised: their lot indeed

       Was humble, but their exemplary virtues

       Made even poverty respectable:

       Clothed in his rustic garb, my honest father

       Obeys the laws, does all the good he can,

       And only fears the gods.

      mérope.

       [Aside.

       How strangely he affects me! every word

       Has some new charm:

       [Turning to Ægisthus.

       But wherefore left you then

       The good old man? It must be dreadful to him

       To lose a son like thee.

      ægisthus.

       A fond desire

       Of glory led me hither: I had heard

       Of your Messene’s troubles, and your own:

       Oft had I heard of the illustrious queen,

       Whose virtues merited a better fate;

       The sad recital moved my soul; ashamed

       To spend at Elis my inglorious days,

       I longed to brave the terrors of the field

       Beneath thy banners: this was my design,

       And this alone: an idle thirst of fame

       Misled my steps, and in their helpless age

       Persuaded me to leave my wretched parents:

       ’Tis my first fault, and I have suffered for it:

       Heaven hath avenged their cause, and I am fallen

       Into a fatal snare.

      mérope.

       ’Tis plain he is not,

       Cannot be guilty; falsehood never dwells

       With such ingenuous, sweet simplicity:

       Heaven has conducted here this hapless youth,

       And I will stretch the hand of mercy to him:

       It is enough for me he is a man,

       And most unfortunate; my son perhaps

       Even now laments his more distressful fate:

       O he recalls Ægisthus to my thoughts:

       Their age the same; perhaps Ægisthus now

       Wanders like him from clime to clime, unknown,

       Unpitied, suffers all the bitter woes

       And cruel scorn that waits on penury:

       Misery like this will bend the firmest soul,

       And wither all its virtues: lot severe

       For a king’s offspring, and the blood of gods!

       O if at least—

      SCENE III.

       Table of Contents

      mérope, ægisthus, euricles, ismenia.

      ismenia.

       Hark! madam, heard you not

       Their loud tumultuous cries? You know not what—

      mérope.

       Whence are thy fears?

      ismenia.

       ’Tis Poliphontes’ triumph:

       The wavering people flatter his ambition,

       And give their voices for him; he is chosen

       Messene’s king: ’tis done.

      ægisthus.

       I thought the gods

       Had on the throne of her great ancestors

       Placed Mérope: O heaven! the greater still

       Our rank on earth, the more have we to fear:

       A poor abandoned exile, like myself,

       Is less to be lamented than a queen:

       But we have all our sorrows.

       [Ægisthus is led off.

      euricles.

       [To Mérope.