ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS OF WALES.
I HUMBLY beg leave to put this Tragedy under the protection of Your Royal Highness; and hope you will condescend to accept of it, as a testimony of the most unfeigned and zealous respect, due no less to your amiable virtues than to your high rank, from,
Your Royal Highness's most dutiful, and most
obedient, humble servant,
BY THE AUTHOR OF EURYDICE.
WHEN this decisive night at length appears,→
The night of every author's hopes and fears,--
What shifts, to bribe applause, poor poets try!
In all the forms of wit they court and lie:
These meanly beg it, as an alms; and those
By boastful bluster dazzle and impose.
Nor poorly fearful, nor securely vain,
Ours would by honest ways that grace obtain;
Would, as a free-born wit, be fairly tried;
And then-let truth and candour fair decide.
He courts no friend, who blindly comes to praise;
He dreads no foe--but whom his faults may raise.
Indulge a generous pride, that bids him own
He aims to please by noble means alone;
By what may win the judgment, wake the heart,
Inspiring nature, and directing art;
By scenes so wrought, so raised, as may command
Applause more from the head than from the hand.
Important is the moral we would teach:
(0, may this island practise what we preach!)-
Vice in its first approach with care to shun:
The wretch who once engages,
Crimes lead to greater crimes, and link so straight,
What first was accident, at last is fate :
Guilt's hapless servant sinks into a slave;
And Virtue's last sad strugglings cannot save.
As such our fair attempt, we hope to see
Our judges here at least-from influence free;
One place unbiass'd yet by party-rage--
Where only Honour votes,-the British stage.
We ask for justice, for indulgence sue :
Our last best licence must proceed from you."
Officers, Trojan Captives, &c.
Scene, the Palace of Agamemnon in Mycena.
CLYTEMNESTRA sitting in a disconsolate posture, and her
ATTENDANT.
Att. O CLYTEMNESTRA! O my royal mistress!
Can, then, no comfort soothe your woes awhile?
E'er since that flaming signal of sack'd Troy,
That signal fix'd and promised by the king,
Was seen some nights ago, nor food has pass'd
Your loathing lips, nor sleep has bless'd your eyes.
Or if perhaps a transient slumber hush'd
Your sighs a moment, and restrain'd your tears;
Sudden you, starting wildly, would exclaim
Of guilt, Ægisthus, Troy, and Agamemnon.
Since my lost state admits of no relief,
To that sad comfort of the wretched leave me,
To yield me to my sorrows.
Att.
Hear me, madam,
Once the dear burden of these aged arms!
My tender care from life's first opening bud!
My joy, my glory! hear your faithful servant,
And, let me add, your friend. In Reason's eye,
That never judges on a partial view,
Far less than your misfortune is your guilt.
Your guilt? Forgive me; 't is too harsh a word
For what deserves compassion more than blame.
I know the treacherous ways by which you sank,
From pleasing peace, to these unhappy fears,
This anxious tumult.
All comfort is in vain. Away!
Att. To plead your injured cause against yourself. When Agamemnon led the Greeks to Troy, And left you, madam, for the pomp of war; Left you the pride of Greece in full-blown beauty, The kindest mother and the fondest wife; If Fame says true, for Trojan captives left you ;But that apart,-how did he leave you? say. Afflicted, outraged, as a queen and mother; Betray'd to Aulis with your first-born hope, The blooming Iphigenia, under feint Of her immediate marriage to Achilles; And there no sooner at the wind-bound fleet Arrived, but you beheld her spotless blood Stream on the sullied altar of Diana, The price of winds, of a dear-purchased gale, To bear them on to Troy. Thus pierced with grief, Then fired by turns to rage, almost to vengeance, At an ambitious, cruel, haughty husband; While all your passions were together mix'd, And ready for a change; was you not left In a submissive, soothing lover's power, Ordain'd your partner in the sovereign rule O'er Argos and Mycenæ, but to you
As pliant still as Agamemnon stately?
Cly. (Rising.) Alas! too true! You touch the source of
Why did you leave me, barbarous Agamemnon?
Why leave me weeping o'er a murder'd daughter?
Why helpless leave me to a troubled mind?
Ah! why yourself betray me to a lover?
What arts Ægisthus used, too well I know;
All that can softly steal, or gaily charm,
The heart of woman. Hence, dear sad ideas!
Destroyers, hence! And dare you tempt me still,
Perfidious sirens, in that very moment
When your false charms have wreck'd my peace for ever?
O Nature! wherefore, Nature, are we form'd
One contradiction, the continual sport
Of fighting powers? O, wherefore hast thou sown
Such war within us, such unequal conflict,
Between slow Reason and impetuous Passion?
Passion resistless hurries us away,
Ere lingering Reason to our aid can come ;
And to upbraid us then it only serves.
Tormentor, cease!
Think, madam, how for years you baffled love :
You wrong yourself too much.
Nor could Ægisthus, though he touch'd your heart,
Though many a midnight tear and secret sigh
To me, and me alone, disclosed the pangs
That dimm'd your fading cheek,-yet could he not,
With all his arts, his love, submission, charms,
O'ercome the struggling purpose of your soul,
Till Melisander to a desert isle
He banish'd from your ear.
Given to the beasts a prey, or wilder Famine!
Ah, perish'd friend! serene directing light,
By Agamemnon left to guide my counsels;
Whom every science, every Muse adorn'd,
While the good honest heart enrich'd them all!
O, hadst thou still remain'd, then I this day
Had been as glorious as I now am wretched!
There breathes a felt divinity in Virtue,
In candid, unassuming, generous Virtue,
Whose very silence speaks, and which inspires,
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