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,
'T is 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 5. 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 Gods 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! 't is Bethas!
Know'st thou, vain wretch, what fate attends on those
