When adverse bold battalions shook the earth,
And horror triumph'd on the hostile field,
I sought you with a glorious enmity,
And arm'd my brow with the stern frown of war.
But now the angry trumpet wakes no more
The youthful champion to the lust for blood.
Retiring rage gives place to softer passions,
And gen'rous warriors know no longer hate,
The name of foe is lost, and thus I ask
Your friendship.
Bethas. Ah! why dost thou mock me thus?
Arsaces. Let the base coward, he who ever shrinks,
And trembles, at the slight name of danger,
Taunt, and revile, with bitter gibes, the wretched;
The brave are ever[1] to distress a friend.
Tho' my dear country (spoil'd by wasteful war,
Her harvests blazing, desolate her towns,
And baleful ruin shew'd her hag[g]ard face)
Call'd out on me to save her from her foes,
And I obey'd, yet to your gallant prowess,
And unmatch'd deeds, I admiration gave.
But now my country knows the sweets of safety,
Freed from her fears; sure now I may indulge
My just esteem for your superior virtue.
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 Gods,
From ev'ry hand receive the sacrifice.
Scene 7.
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 Gods! is this reality?
Or meer[2] 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! 't is 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,
