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SOPIIENE AND SOPHOCLES. 



A TALE OF ANCIENT GREECE. 

 (Continued from page 139.,) 



IN the mean time the shades of night had given way to Aurora, 

 who, fearing- in her turn the looks of the god of night, fled into the 

 arms of the mortal she loves. 



I repaired to the apartment of Imlacca : we stepped into the garden 

 together, and thence into the hall. Those pictures which the pre- 

 ceding day had appeared so dangerous to me, no longer answered 

 the idea I had till then formed of love. Their expression was 

 weak, inanimate. He that had drawn them was unacquainted 

 with love, otherwise he would have given that god more grace, 

 more fire, more charms. The slaves around him had not that lan- 

 guishing, ecstatic expression, which proceeds from the heart, and 

 works upon that of a true lover; but, exclaimed I, among so many 

 beautiful objects, I do not find Sophene ! Did they not dare to draw 

 her ? Did they know that sometimes nature goes far beyond the 

 limits of imagination, and that art may improve what it fancies, 

 though it is always inferior to reality? No, no, they did well to 

 leave out Sophene. How would they have painted Love ? She would 

 have embellished the triumph by eclipsing him who triumphs. 



Suddenly changing the discourse, I addressed to the god these 

 words, which struck Imlacca with amazement ; It is done, Love : 

 thou prevailest. Eurycone now is nothing to me. Sophene's country 

 becomes mine. I am a citizen of Aulycone ; thus then, interrupt- 

 ing me with a stern look, Sophocles does not recollect that he is the 

 envoy of Jupiter, and, running into extremes, he gives himself 

 entirely up to a passion that he lately dreaded so much. Sophocles, 

 citizen of Aulycone ! Gods ! Is it true that I heard those words ? 

 Are you forgetful of all you owe to the tender affection of your 

 father? Do you consider no more that your distracted mother longs 

 for your return ? All their love is centred in you, and will you break 

 their hearts? Who will receive their last breath ? Who will close 

 their eyes ? Imlacca, cried I, you have smoothed for me the way to 

 perdition; I wished to flee ; it was yet time : you opposed my wish. 

 What a moment do you now take to tear me from myself! O The- 

 manteus ! O Dianthes ! your unhappy son is no longer strong enough 

 to follow the dictates of his duty; a fatal passion renders him insen- 

 sible of your tenderness, of your tears, of all that is not Sophene. 

 It is in vain that the imperious voice of honour insists upon being 

 listened to ; that honour formerly so prevalent with me, has now but 

 impotent accents, that scarcely reach my ears. So speaking I looked 

 at Love. He was proud of my weakness, and I praised myself for 

 the shameful sacrifice I made to him of my reason. 

 M.M. No.9. 2H 



