There's something in the wind, for I've observ'd

      Of late he much frequents the Queen's apartment,

      And fain would court her favour, wild is she

      To gain revenge for fell Vonones' death,

      And firm resolves the ruin of Arsaces.

      Because that fill'd with filial piety,

      To save his Royal Sire, he struck the bold

      Presumptuous Traitor dead; nor heeds she

      The hand which gave her Liberty, nay rais'd her

      Again to Royalty.

      Ingratitude,

      Thou hell-born fiend, how horrid is thy form!

      The Gods sure let thee loose to scourge mankind,

      And save them from an endless waste of thunder.

      Yet I've beheld this now so haughty Queen,

      Bent with distress, and e'en by pride forsook,

      When following thy Sire's triumphant car,

      Her tears and ravings mov'd the senseless herd,

      And pity blest their more than savage breasts,

      With the short pleasure of a moment's softness.

      Thy Father, conquer'd by her charms (for what

      Can charm like mourning beauty), soon struck off

      Her chains, and rais'd her to his bed and throne.

      Adorn'd the brows of her aspiring Son,

      The fierce Vonones, with the regal crown

      Of rich Armenia, once the happy rule

      Of Tisaphernes, her deceased Lord.

      And he in wasteful war return'd his thanks,

      Refus'd the homage he had sworn to pay,

      And spread Destruction ev'ry where around,

      'Til from Arsaces' hand he met the fate

      His crimes deserv'd.

      As yet your princely Brother

      Has scap'd Thermusa's rage, for still residing

      In peaceful times, within his Province, ne'er

      Has fortune blest her with a sight of him,

      On whom she'd wreck her vengeance.

      She has won

      By spells, I think, so much on my fond father,

      That he is guided by her will alone.

      She rules the realm, her pleasure is a law,

      All offices and favours are bestow'd,

      As she directs.

      But see, the Prince, Vardanes,

      Proud Lysias with him, he whose soul is harsh

      With jarring discord. Nought but madding rage,

      And ruffian-like revenge his breast can know,

      Indeed to gain a point he'll condescend

      To mask the native rancour of his heart,

      And smooth his venom'd tongue with flattery.

      Assiduous now he courts Vardanes' friendship,

      See, how he seems to answer all his gloom,

      And give him frown for frown.

      Let us retire,

      And shun them now; I know not what it means,

      But chilling horror shivers o'er my limbs,

      When Lysias I behold. —

      That shout proclaims

      Arsaces' near approach.

      Peace, prithee, peace,

      Wilt thou still shock me with that hated sound,

      And grate harsh discord in my offended ear?

      If thou art fond of echoing the name,

      Join with the servile croud, and hail his triumph.

      I hail him? By our glorious shining God,

      I'd sooner lose my speech, and all my days

      In silence rest, conversing with my thoughts,

      Than hail Arsaces.

      Yet, again his name,

      Sure there is magic in it, Parthia's drunk

      And giddy with the joy; the houses' tops

      With gaping spectators are throng'd, nay wild

      They climb such precipices that the eye

      Is dazzl'd with their daring; ev'ry wretch

      Who long has been immur'd, nor dar'd enjoy

      The common benefits of sun and air,

      Creeps from his lurking place; e'en feeble age,

      Long to the sickly couch confin'd, stalks forth,

      And with infectious breath assails the Gods.

      O! curse the name, the idol of their joy.

      And what's that name, that thus they should disturb

      The ambient air, and weary gracious heav'n

      With ceaseless bellowings? Vardanes sounds

      With equal harmony, and suits as well

      The loud repeated shouts of noisy joy.

      Can he bid Chaos Nature's rule dissolve,

      Can he deprive mankind of light and day,

      And turn the Seasons from their destin'd course?

      Say, can he do all this, and be a God?

      If not, what is his matchless merit? What dares he,

      Vardanes dares not? blush not, noble Prince,

      For praise is merit's due, and I will give it;

      E'en 'mid the croud which waits thy Brother's smile,

      I'd loud proclaim the merit of Vardanes.

      Forbear this warmth, your friendship urges far.

      Yet know your love shall e'er retain a place

      In my remembrance. There is something here —

      Another