You may command my services,

      I'm happy to obey. Of late your Brother

      Delights in hind'ring my advancement,

      And ev'ry boaster's rais'd above my merit,

      Barzaphernes alone commands his ear,

      His oracle in all.

      I hate Arsaces,

      Tho' he's my Mother's son, and churchmen say

      There's something sacred in the name of Brother.

      My soul endures him not, and he's the bane

      Of all my hopes of greatness. Like the sun

      He rules the day, and like the night's pale Queen,

      My fainter beams are lost when he appears.

      And this because he came into the world,

      A moon or two before me: What's the diff'rence,

      That he alone should shine in Empire's seat?

      I am not apt to trumpet forth my praise,

      Or highly name myself, but this I'll speak,

      To him in ought, I'm not the least inferior.

      Ambition, glorious fever! mark of Kings,

      Gave me immortal thirst and rule of Empire.

      Why lag'd my tardy soul, why droop'd the wing,

      Nor forward springing, shot before his speed

      To seize the prize? – 'Twas Empire – Oh! 'twas Empire —

      Yet, I must think that of superior mould

      Your soul was form'd, fit for a heav'nly state,

      And left reluctant its sublime abode,

      And painfully obey'd the dread command,

      When Jove's controuling fate forc'd it below.

      His soul was earthly, and it downward mov'd,

      Swift as to the center of attraction.

      It might be so – But I've another cause

      To hate this Brother, ev'ry way my rival;

      In love as well as glory he's above me;

      I dote on fair Evanthe, but the charmer

      Disdains my ardent suit, like a miser

      He treasures up her beauties to himself:

      Thus is he form'd to give me torture ever. —

      But hark, they've reach'd the Temple,

      Didst thou observe the croud, their eagerness,

      Each put the next aside to catch a look,

      Himself was elbow'd out? – Curse, curse their zeal —

      Stupid folly!

      I'll tell thee, Lysias,

      This many-headed monster multitude,

      Unsteady is as giddy fortune's wheel,

      As woman fickle, varying as the wind;

      To-day they this way course, the next they veer,

      And shift another point, the next another.

      Curiosity's another name for man,

      The blazing meteor streaming thro' the air

      Commands our wonder, and admiring eyes,

      With eager gaze we trace the lucent path,

      'Til spent at length it shrinks to native nothing.

      While the bright stars which ever steady glow,

      Unheeded shine, and bless the world below.

      Oh! give me way, the haughty victor comes,

      Surrounded by adoring multitudes;

      On swelling tides of praise to heav'n they raise him;

      To deck their idol, they rob the glorious beings

      Of their splendour.

      My royal Lady,

      Chace hence these passions.

      Peace, forever peace,

      Have I not cause to hate this homicide?

      'Twas by his cursed hand Vonones fell,

      Yet fell not as became his gallant spirit,

      Not by the warlike arm of chief renown'd,

      But by a youth, ye Gods, a beardless stripling,

      Stab'd by his dastard falchin from behind;

      For well I know he fear'd to meet Vonones,

      As princely warriors meet with open daring,

      But shrunk amidst his guards, and gave him death,

      When faint with wounds, and weary with the fight.

      With anguish I have heard his hapless fate,

      And mourn'd in silence for the gallant Prince.

      Soft is thy nature, but, alas! Edessa,

      Thy heart's a stranger to a mother's sorrows,

      To see the pride of all her wishes blasted;

      Thy fancy cannot paint the storm of grief,

      Despair and anguish, which my breast has known.

      Oh! show'r, ye Gods, your torments on Arsaces,

      Curs'd be the morn which dawn'd upon his birth.

      Yet, I intreat —

      Away! for I will curse —

      Oh! may he never know a father's fondness,

      Or know it to his sorrow, may his hopes

      Of joy be cut like mine, and his short life

      Be one continu'd tempest; if he lives,

      Let him be curs'd with jealousy and fear,

      And vext with anguish of neglecting scorn;

      May tort'ring hope present the flowing cup,

      Then hasty snatch it from his eager thirst,

      And when he dies base treach'ry be the means.

      Oh! calm your spirits.

      Yes, I'll now be calm,

      Calm as the sea when the rude waves are laid,

      And nothing but a gentle swell remains;

      My curse is heard, and I shall have revenge;

      There's something here which tells me 'twill be so,

      And peace resumes her empire o'er my breast.

      Vardanes is the Minister of Vengeance;

      Fir'd by ambition, he aspiring seeks

      T'adorn his brows with Parthia's diadem;

      I've fann'd the fire, and wrought him up to fury,

      Envy shall urge him forward still to dare,

      And discord be the prelude