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The Chorus.

So dies the last shoot of our royal tree!
Who shall tell Merope this heavy news?

Polyphontes

Stranger, this news thou bringest is too great
For instant comment, having many sides
Of import, and in silence best received,
Whether it turn at last to joy or woe.
But thou, the zealous bearer, hast no part
In what it hath of painful, whether now,
First heard, or in its future issue shown.
Thou for thy labour hast deserved our best
Refreshment, needed by thee, as I judge,
With mountain-travel and night-watching spent.–
To the guest-chamber lead him, some one! give
All entertainment which a traveller needs,
And such as fits a royal house to show;
To friends, still more, and labourers in our cause.

[Attendants conduct AEPYTUS within the palace.

The Chorus

The youth is gone within; alas! he bears
A presence sad for some one through those doors.

Polyphontes

Admire then, maidens, how in one short hour
The schemes, pursued in vain for twenty years,
Are–by a stroke, though undesired, complete–
Crown’d with success, not in my way, but Heaven’s!
This at a moment, too, when I had urged
A last, long-cherish’d project, in my aim
Of peace, and been repulsed with hate and scorn.
Fair terms of reconcilement, equal rule,
I offer’d to my foes, and they refused;
Worse terms than mine they have obtain’d from Heaven.
Dire is this blow for Merope; and I
Wish’d, truly wish’d, solution to our broil
Other than by this death; but it hath come!
I speak no word of boast, but this I say:
A private loss here founds a nation’s peace.

[POLYPHONTES goes out.

The Chorus

Peace, who tarriest too long; str.
Peace, with delight in thy train;
Come, come back to our prayer!
Then shall the revel again
Visit our streets, and the sound
Of the harp be heard with the pipe,
When the flashing torches appear
In the marriage-train coming on,
With dancing maidens and boys–
While the matrons come to the doors,
And the old men rise from their bench,
When the youths bring home the bride.

Not condemn’d by my voice ant.
He who restores thee shall be,
Not unfavour’d by Heaven.
Surely no sinner the man,
Dread though his acts, to whose hand
Such a boon to bring hath been given.
Let her come, fair Peace! let her come!
But the demons long nourish’d here,
Murder, Discord, and Hate,
In the stormy desolate waves
Of the Thracian Sea let her leave,
Or the howling outermost main!

[MEROPE comes forth.

Merope

A whisper through the palace flies of one
Arrived from Tegea with weighty news:
And I came, thinking to find Arcas here.
Ye have not left this gate, which he must pass;
Tell me–hath one not come? or, worse mischance,
Come, but been intercepted by the King?

The Chorus

A messenger, sent from Arcadia here,
Arrived, and of the King had speech but now.

Merope

Ah me! the wrong expectant got his news.

The Chorus

The message brought was for the King design’d.

Merope

How so? was Arcas not the messenger?

The Chorus

A younger man, and of a different name.

Merope

And what Arcadian news had he to tell?

The Chorus

Learn that from other lips, O Queen, than mine.

Merope

He kept his tale, then, for the King alone?

The Chorus

His tale was meeter for that ear than thine.

Merope

Why dost thou falter, and make half reply?

The Chorus

O thrice unhappy, how I groan thy fate!

Merope

Thou frightenest and confound’st me by thy words.
O were but Arcas come, all would be well?

The Chorus

If so, all’s well: for look, the old man speeds
Up from the city tow’rd this gated hill.

[ARCAS comes in.

Merope

Not with the failing breath and foot of age
My faithful follower comes. Welcome, old friend!