The G.o.ds Forefend!--Pardon me, Royal Sir, if I Dare, seemingly disloyal, seize your sword, Despair may urge you far--

ARSACES.

Ha! traitors! rebels!-- h.o.a.ry rev'rend Villain! what, disarm me?

Give me my sword--what, stand ye by, and see Your Prince insulted? Are ye rebels all?--

BARZAPHERNES.

Be calm, my gracious Lord!

GOTARZES.

Oh! my lov'd Brother!

ARSACES.

Gotarzes too! all! all! conspir'd against me?

Still, are ye all resolv'd that I must live, And feel the momentary pangs of death?-- Ha!--this, shall make a pa.s.sage for my soul--

[_s.n.a.t.c.hes BARZAPHERNES' sword._

Out, out vile cares, from your distress'd abode-- [_Stabs himself._

BARZAPHERNES.

Oh! ye eternal G.o.ds!

GOTARZES.

Distraction! heav'ns!

I shall run mad--

ARSACES.

Ah! 'tis in vain to grieve-- The steel has done its part, and I'm at rest.-- Gotarzes, wear my crown, and be thou blest, Cherish, Barzaphernes, my trusty chief-- I faint, oh! lay me by Evanthe's side-- Still wedded in our deaths--Bethas--

BARZAPHERNES.

Despair, My Lord, has broke his heart, I saw him stretch'd, Along the flinty pavement, in his gaol-- Cold, lifeless--

ARSACES.

He's happy then--had he heard This tale, he'd--Ah! Evanthe chides my soul, For ling'ring here so long--another pang And all the world, adieu--oh! adieu!-- [_Dies._

GOTARZES.

Oh!

Fix me, heav'n, immoveable, a statue, And free me from o'erwhelming tides of grief.

BARZAPHERNES.

Oh! my lov'd Prince, I soon shall follow thee; Thy laurel'd glories whither are they fled?-- Would I had died before this fatal day!-- Triumphant garlands pride my soul no more, No more the lofty voice of war can charm-- And why then am I here? Thus then-- [_Offers to stab himself._

GOTARZES.

Ah! hold, Nor rashly urge the blow--think of me, and Live--My heart is wrung with streaming anguish, Tore with the smarting pangs of woe, yet, will I Dare to live, and stem misfortune's billows.

Live then, and be the guardian of my youth, And lead me on thro' virtue's rugged path.

BARZAPHERNES.

O, glorious youth, thy words have rous'd the Drooping genius of my soul; thus, let me Clasp thee, in my aged arms; yes, I will live-- Live, to support thee in thy kingly rights, And when thou 'rt firmly fix'd, my task's perform'd, My honourable task--Then I'll retire, Pet.i.tion gracious heav'n to bless my work, And in the silent grave forget my cares.

GOTARZES.

Now, to the Temple, let us onward move, And strive t' appease the angry pow'rs above.

Fate yet may have some ills reserv'd in store, Continu'd curses, to torment us more.

Tho', in their district, Monarchs rule alone, Jove sways the mighty Monarch on his throne: Nor can the shining honours which they wear, Purchase one joy, or save them from one care.

_Finis._

FOOTNOTES:

[5] The Tigris.