This, this is truly great, this is the Hero,
Like heav'n, to scatter blessings 'mong mankind
And e'er delight in making others happy.
Cold is the praise which waits the victor's triumph
(Who thro' a sea of blood has rush'd to glory),
To the o'erflowings of a grateful heart,
By obligations conquer'd: Yet, extend
Thy bounty unto me.
[Kneels.
King.
Ha! rise Arsaces.
Arsaces.
Not till you grant my boon.
King.
Speak, and 'tis thine—
Wide thro' our kingdom let thy eager wishes
Search for some jewel worthy of thy seeing;
Something that's fit to show the donor's bounty,
And by the glorious sun, our worship'd God,
Thou shalt not have denial; e'en my crown
Shall gild thy brows with shining beams of Empire.
With pleasure I'll resign to thee my honours,
I long for calm retirement's softer joys.
Arsaces.
Long may you wear it, grant it bounteous heav'n,
And happiness attend it; 'tis my pray'r
That daily rises with the early sweets
Of nature's incense, and the lark's loud strain.
'Tis not the unruly transport of ambition
That urges my desires to ask your crown;
Let the vain wretch, who prides in gay dominion,
Who thinks not of the great ones' weighty cares,
Enjoy his lofty wish, wide spreading rule.
The treasure which I ask, put in the scale,
Would over-balance all that Kings can boast,
Empire and diadems.