Complete Works of Edward Young, page 70
Mandane’s life’s in danger! There, indeed,
Fortune, I fear thee still: her beauties arm thee:
Her virtues make thee dreadful to my thought.
But for my love, how I could laugh at Fate!
Enter a servant, and gives him a paper. He reads.
Enter RAMESES. MEMNON swoons, and falls on RAMESES.
Ram. ‘T were happy if his soul would ne’er return:
The gods may still be merciful in this. —
His lips begin to rise. — How fares my friend?
Mem. Did Myron feel my pangs, you’d pity him.
Enter SYPHOCES.
Syph. Fainting beneath the’ oppression of her grief,
This way Mandane seeks the fresher air:
Let ns withdraw;’t will pain her to be seen,
And most of all by you.
Mem. By my own heart
I judge, and am convinced. — I dare not see her:
The sight would strike me dead.
(As Memnon is going, Mandane meets him: both start back: she shrieks. Memnon recovers himself, and falls at her knees, embracing them: she tries to disengage:he not permitting, she raises him: he takes her passionately in his arms: they continue speechless and motionless for some time.)
Ram. Was ever mournful interview like this?
See how they writhe with anguish! hear them groan!
See the large silent dew run trickling down,
As from the weeping marble; passion chokes
Their words, and they ‘re the statues of despair!
Mem. O my Mandane!
(At this she violently breaks from him, and exit.)
But one moment more.
(As Memnon is following, Rameses holds him.)
Ram. Brother!
Mem. Forgive me.
Ram. You ‘re to blame.
Mem. (Pointing after her.) — Look there:
My heart is bursting.
Ram. With revenge?
Mem. And love.
Ram. Revenge!
Mem. One dear embrace; ‘t will edge my sword!
Syph. No, Memnon; if our swords now want an edge,
They’ll want for ever: to this spot I charm thee
By the dread words, Revenge and Liberty!
This is the crisis of our fates; this moment
The guardian gods of Egypt hover o’er us;
They watch to see us act like prudent men,
And out of ills extract our happiness.
My friends, these dire calamities, like poison,
May have their wholesome use: this sad occasion,
If managed artfully, revives our hopes;
It gives Nicanor to our sinking faction,
And still the tyrant shakes.
Ram. My father comes;
Or snatch this moment, or despair for ever.
While passions glow, the heart, like heated steel,
Takes each impression, and is work’d at pleasure.
Enter NICANOR.
Nic. Why have the gods chose out my weakest hours
To set their terrors in array against me?
This would beat down the vigour of my youth,
Much more grey hairs, and life worn down so low.
Vain man! to be so fond of breathing long,
And spinning out a thread of misery!
The longer life, the greater choice of evil.
The happiest man is but a wretched thing,
That steals poor comfort from comparisons:
What, then, am I? Here will I sit me down,
Brood o’er my cares, and think myself to death.
Draw near, Rameses; I was rash erewhile,
And chid thee without cause. How many years
Have I been cased in steel?
Ram. Full threescore years
Have changed the seasons o’er your crested brow,
And seen your falchion dyed in hostile blood.
Nic. How many triumphs since the king has reign’d?
Ram. They number just your battles, one for one.
Nic. True; I have follow’d the rough trade of war
With some success, and can without a blush
Review the shaken fort and sanguine plain.
I have thought pain a pleasure, thirst and toil
Bless’d objects of ambition. I remember,
(Nor do my foes forget that bloody day,)
When the barb’d arrow from my gaping thigh
Was wrench’d with labour, I disdain’d the groan,
Because I suffer’d for Busiris’ sake.
Ram. The king is not to blame.
Nic. Is not the prince his son?
Ram. But in himself —
Nic. (Rising in passion.) And has he lost his guilt,
‘Cause he has injured me? Erewhile thy blood
Was kindled at his name. Didst thou not tell me
A shameful black design on poor Amelia?
O Memnon! what a glorious race is this,
To make the gods a party in our cause,
And draw down blessings on us!
Mem. He that supports them
In such black crimes, is sharer of their guilt.
Nic. Point out the man, and, with these wither’d hands,
I’d fly upon his throat, though he were lodged
Within the circle of Busiris’ arms.
Ram. He that prevents it not when in his power,
Supports them in their course of flaming guilt;
And you are he.
Nic. Thou ravest.
Syph. The army’s yours:
I’ve sounded every chief; but wave your finger,
Thousands fall off the tyrant’s side, and leave him
Naked of help, and open to destruction.
But sweep his minions, cut a pander’s throat,
Or lop a sycophant, the work is done.
Nic. (Starting.) What would you have me do?
Mem. Let not your heart
Fly off from your own thought; be truly great;
Resent your country’s sufferings as your own.
A generous soul is not confined at home,
But spreads itself abroad o’er all the public,
And feels for every member of the land.
What have we seen for twenty rolling years,
But one long tract of blood? or, what is worse,
Throng’d dungeons pouring forth perpetual groans;
And free-born men oppress’d? Shall half mankind
Be doom’d to curse the moment of their birth?
Shall all the mother’s fondness be employ’d
To rear them up to bondage, give them strength
To bear afflictions, and support their chains?
Syph. (Kneeling.) To you the valiant youth most humbly bend,
And beg that nature’s gifts, the vigorous nerve,
And graceful port, design’d to bless the world,
And take your great example in the field,
May not be forced, by lewdness in high place,
To other toils, to labour for disease,
To wither in a loathed embrace, and die
At an inglorious distance from the foe.
Ram. (Kneeling.) To you Amelia lifts her hands for safety.
Mem. (Bursting into tears.) To you — to you —
Nic. By Heaven, he cannot speak. — I understand thee.
Rise, rise, my son: rise, all! Your work is done;
They perish all, these creatures of my sword.
Have I not seen whole armies vaulted o’er
With flying javelins, which shut out the day,
And fell in rattling storms at my command,
To slay and bury proud Busiris’ foe?
He lives and reigns; for I have been his friend:
But I’ll unmake him, and plough up the ground
Where his proud palace stands. (Exit.)
Mem. O my Mandane!
The gods by dreadful means bestow success,
And in their vengeance most severely bless.
From thy bright streaming eyes our triumphs flow;
The tyrant falls, — Mandane strikes the blow.
So the fair Moon, when seas swell high, and pour
A wasteful deluge on the trembling shore,
Inspires the tumult from her clouded throne,
Where, silent, pensive, pale, she sits alone; —
And all the distant ruin is her own.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Scene, the field.
Enter BUSIRIS and AULETES. An alarum at a distance.
Bus. WELCOME the voice of war! Though loud the sound,
It faintly speaks the language of my heart;
It whispers what I mean. But say, Auletes,
What urge these forlorn rebels in excuse
For choosing ruin?
Aul. Various their complaints:
But some are loud, that while your heavy hand
Presses whole millions with incessant toil
(Toils fitter far for beasts than human creatures)
In building wonders for the world to gaze at,
Weeds are their food, their cup the muddy Nile.
Bus. Do they not build for me? Let that reward them.
Yes, I will build more wonders to be gazed at,
And temper all my cement with their blood.
Whose pains and art reform’d the puzzled year,
Thus drawing down the Sun to human use,
And making him their servant? Who push’d off
With mountain dams the broad redundant Nile,
Descended from the moon, and bid it wander
A stranger stream in unaccustom’d shores?
Who from the Ganges to the Danub reigns?
But virtues are forgot. — Away! to arms!
I call to mind my glorious ancestry,
Which, for ten thousand rolling years renown’d,
Shines up into eternity itself,
And ends among the gods. (An alarum,)
Enter MEMNON.
Aul. The rebel braves us.
Bus. Hold, let our weapons thirst one moment longer;
And Death stand still till he receives my nod. —
Whom meet I in the midst of my own realm,
With bold defiance on his brow?
Mem. The slave
Whom dread Busiris lately laid in chains;
An emblem of his country.
Bus. Is it thus
You thank my royal bounty?
Mem. Thus you thank’d
The good Artaxes; thus you thank’d my father.
Bus. What I have done, conclude most right and just;
For I have done it, and the gods alone
Shall ask me why. Thou livest, although they fell;
And, if they fell unjustly, greater thanks
Are due from thee, whom e’en Injustice spared.
Mem. Thy kindnesses are wrongs; they mean to soothe
My injured soul, and steal it from revenge.
Bus. Turn back thine eye; behold, thy troops are thin,
Thy men are rarely sprinkled o’er the field;
And yet thou earnest millions on thy tongue.
Mem. All thy blood-thirsty sword has laid in dust
Are on my side; they come in bloody swarms,
And throng my banners. Thy unequall’d crimes
Have made thee weak, and rob my victory —
Bus. Ha!
Mem. Kay, stamp not, tyrant; I can stamp as loud,
And raise as many daemons at the sound.
Bus. I wear a diadem.
Mem. And I a sword.
Bus. Yet, yet submit; I give thee life.
Mem. Secure your own.
No more, Busiris; bid the sun farewell.
Bus. Busiris and the sun should set together.
If this day’s angry gods ordain my fate,
Know thou, I fall like some vast pyramid;
I bury thousands in my great destruction,
And thou the first. Slave! in the front of battle,
There thou shalt find me.
Mem. Thou shalt find me there,
And have well paid that gratitude I owe. (Exeunt.)
A continued alarum.
Enter MYRON and NICANOR, meeting.
Nix. Does not mine eye strike terror through thy soul,
And shake the weapon from thy trembling arm?
Base boy! the foulness of thy guilt secures thee
From my reproach; I dare not name thy crime.
Myr. Old man, didst thou stand up in thy own cause,
I then should be afraid of fourscore years,
And tremble at grey hairs; but since thy frenzy
Has lent those venerable locks to cast
A gloss of virtue on the blackest crime,
Accursed rebellion; this gives back my heart
With all its rage, and I’m a man again.
Nic. Come on, and use that force of arms I taught thee;
I’ll now resume the life I gave so late.
Myr. I grieve thou hast but half a life to lose,
And dost defraud my vengeance. At my touch,
Thou moulder’st into dust, and art forgotten. —
(Preparing to fight, Myron stops short.)
Ah, no! I cannot fight with thee: begone,
And shake elsewhere; thou canst not want a death
In such a field, though I refuse it to thee.
Rameses, Memnon, give them to my sword,
Sustain’d by thousands; but to fly from thee,
From thee, most injured man, shall be my praise,
And rise above the conquest of my foes.
Nic. ‘T is not old age, — the’ avenging gods pursue thee!
(He retires before Nicanor off the stage. A loud alarum.)
Enter BUSIRIS and AULETES, in pursuit.
Bus. ‘T is well; I like this madness of the field:
Let heighten’d horrors and a waste of death
Inform the world, Busiris is in arms.
But then I grudge the glory of my sword
To slaves and rebels: while they die by me,
They cheat my vengeance, and survive in fame.
Aul. I panted after in the paths of death,
And could not but from far behold your plume
O’ershadow slaughter’d heaps, while your bright helm
Struck a distinguish’d terror through the field,
The distant legions trembling as it blazed.
Bus. Think not a crown alone lights up my name;
My hand is deep in fight. Forbid it, Isis,
That whilst Busiris treads the sanguine field,
The foremost spirit of his host should conquer
But by example, and beneath the shade,
Of this high-brandish’d arm. Didst thou e’er fear!
Sure’t is an art; I know not how to fear;
‘T is one of the few things beyond my power;
And if death must be fear’d before ‘t is felt,
Thy master is immortal, O Auletes. —
But while I speak, they live!
Where fall the sounding cataracts of Nile,
The mountains tremble, and the waters boil:
Like them I’ll rush, like them my fury pour,
And give the future world one wonder more. (Exeunt.)
Enter MYRON, engaged with a party: his plume is smitten off: he drives the foe, and returns.
Myr. When Death’s so near, but dares not venture on us,
‘T is Heaven’s regard, a kind of salutation,
Which to ourselves our own importance shows.
Faint as I am, and almost sick of blood,
There is one cordial would revive me still, —
The sight of Memnon: place that fiend before me — (Exit.)
Enter MEMNON.
Mem. Where, where’s the prince? O give him to my sword!
His tall white plume, which, like a high-wrought foam,
Floated on the tempestuous stream of fight,
Shov’d where he swept the field. I follow’d swift,
But my approach has turn’d him into air — (Enter Myron.)
The fight but now begins!
Myr. Why, who art thou?
Mem. Prince, I am —
Myr. (Disdainfully.) Memnon!
Mem. No; I’m Mandane.
Myr. Ha!
Mem. (Striking his own head and breast.)
She’s here, she’s here, she’s all: her wrongs and virtues!
Virtues and wrongs! Thou worse than murderer!
Myr. I charge thee, name her not; forbear the croak
With that ill-omen’d note.
Mem. Mandane!
Myr. Be it so.
When I reflect on her mean love for thee,
And plot against my life, my pain is less.
Mem. ‘T is false; she meant, she knew it not. Rameses,
He, only he, was conscious of the thought.
Myr. Then I’m a wretch indeed!
Mem. As such I’ll use thee:
I’ll crush thee like some poison on the earth;
Then haste and cleanse me in the blood of men.
Myr. I thank thee for this spirit which exalts thee
Into a foe I need not blush to meet.
Now, from my soul, it joys me thou art found,
And found alive. By Heaven, so much I hate thee,
I fear’d that thou wast dead, and hadst escaped me.
I’ll drench my sword in thy detested blood,
Or soon make thee immortal by my own villain!
Mem. Myron!
Myr. Rebel!
Mem. Myron! — (They fight.)
Myr. Hell!
Mem. Mandane!
Myr. (Falls.) — Just the blow, and juster still,
Because embitter’d to me by that hand
I most detest; which gives my soul an earnest
Of vast unfathomable woes to come;
That dreadful dowry for my dreadful love.
I leave the world my misery’s example;
If used aright, no trivial legacy. (Dies.)
Enter SYPHOCES.
Syph. My lord, I bring you most unwelcome news:
As poor Mandane wander’d near the field,
In hope to see her injuries revenged,
Thoughtless of any sufferings but the past,
A party of the foe saw, seized, and bore her off.
Mem. Vengeance and conquest now are trivial things;
Love made their prize. ‘T is impious in my soul
To entertain a thought but of her rescue:
Now, now I plunge into the thickest war,
As some bold diver, from a precipice
Into mid ocean, to regain a gem
Whose loss impoverish’d kings; to bring it back,
Or see the day no more. (Exeunt.)
Enter MANDANE, prisoner.
