Ion (Talfourd)/Act II

Scene I
''A Terrace of the Palace. Adrastus, Crythes.''

ADRASTUS.

The air breathes freshly after our long night Of glorious revelry. I'll walk awhile.

CRYTHES.

It blows across the town; dost thou not fear It bear infection with it?

ADRASTUS.

Fear! dost talk Of fear to me? I deem'd even thy poor thoughts Had better scann'd their master. Prithee tell me In what act, word, or look, since I have borne Thy converse here, hast thou discern'd such baseness As makes thee bold to prate to me of fear?

CRYTHES.

My liege, of human might all know thee fearless, But may not heroes shun the elements When sickness taints them?

ADRASTUS.

Let them blast me now!— I stir not; tremble not; these massive walls, Whose date o'erawes tradition, gird the home Of a great race of kings, along whose line The eager mind lives aching, through the darkness Of ages else unstoried, till its shapes Of armed sovereigns spread to godlike port, And, frowning in the uncertain dawn of time, Strike awe, as powers who ruled an elder world, In mute obedience. I, sad heriter Of all their glories, feel our doom is nigh; And I will meet it as befits their fame; Nor will I vary my selected path The breadth of my sword's edge, nor check a wish, If such unkingly yielding might avert it.

CRYTHES.

Thou art ever royal in thy thoughts.

ADRASTUS.

No more— I would be private.

[Exit Crythes.]

Grovelling parasite! Why should I waste these fate-environ'd hours, And pledge my great defiance to despair With flatterers such as thou;—as if my joys Required the pale reflections cast by slaves In mirror'd mockery round my throne, or lack'd The aid of reptile sympathies to stream Through fate's black pageantry? Let weakness seek Companionship: I'll henceforth feast alone.

[Enter a Soldier.]

SOLDIER.

My liege, forgive me.

ADRASTUS.

Well! Speak out at once Thy business, and retire.

SOLDIER.

I have no part In the presumptuous message that I bear.

ADRASTUS.

Tell it, or go. There is no time to waste On idle terrors.

SOLDIER.

Thus it is, my lord:— As we were burnishing our arms, a man Enter'd the court, and when we saw him first Was tending towards the palace; in amaze, We hail'd the rash intruder; still he walk'd Unheeding onward, till the western gate Barr'd further course; then turning, he besought Our startled band to herald him to thee, That he might urge a message which the sages Had charged him to deliver.

ADRASTUS.

Ha! the greybeards Who, mid the altars of the gods, conspire To cast the image of supernal power From earth its shadow consecrates. What sage Is so resolved to play the orator That he would die for 't?

SOLDIER.

He is but a youth, Yet urged his prayer with a sad constancy Which could not be denied.

ADRASTUS.

Most bravely plann'd! Sedition worthy of the reverend host Of sophist traitors; brave to scatter fancies Of discontent midst sturdy artisans, Whose honest sinews they direct unseen, And make their proxies in the work of peril!— 'Tis fit, when burning to insult their king, And warn'd the pleasure must be bought with life, Their valour send a boy to speak their wisdom! Thou know'st my last decree; tell this rash youth The danger he incurs;—then let him pass, And own the king more gentle than his masters.

SOLDIER.

We have already told him of the fate Which waits his daring; courteously he thank'd us, But still with solemn accent urged his suit.

ADRASTUS.

Tell him once more, if he persists, he dies— Then, if he will, admit him. Should he hold His purpose, order Crythes to conduct him, And see the headsman instantly prepare To do his office.

[Exit Soldier.]

So resolved, so young— 'Twere pity he should fall; yet he must fall, Or the great sceptre, which hath sway'd the fears Of ages, will become a common staff For youth to wield or age to rest upon, Despoil'd of all its virtues. He must fall, Else they who prompt the insult will grow bold, And with their pestilent vauntings through the city Raise the low fog of murky discontent, Which now creeps harmless through its marshy birthplace, To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd; And if he cross yon threshold, he shall die.

[Enter Crythes and Ion.]

CRYTHES.

The king!

ADRASTUS.

Stranger, I bid thee welcome; We are about to tread the same dark passage, Thou almost on the instant.—Is the sword [To Crythes.] Of justice sharpen'd, and the headsman ready?

CRYTHES.

Thou mayst behold them plainly in the court; Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground, The steel gleams on the altar; and the slave Disrobes himself for duty.

ADRASTUS. [to Ion.]

Dost thou see them?

ION.

I do.

ADRASTUS.

By Heaven, he does not change! If, even now, thou wilt depart and leave Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free.

ION.

I thank thee for thy offer; but I stand Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich In all that makes life precious to the brave; Who perish not alone, but in their fall Break the far-spreading tendrils that they feed, And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me For them, I am content to speak no more.

ADRASTUS.

Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes! till yon dial Cast its thin shadow on the approaching hour, I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant, Come without word, and lead him to his doom. Now leave us.

CRYTHES.

What, alone?

ADRASTUS.

Yes, slave! alone. He is no assassin!

[Exit Crythes.]

Tell me who thou art. What generous source owns that heroic blood, Which holds its course thus bravely? What great wars Have nursed the courage that can look on death, Certain and speedy death, with placid eye?

ION.

I am a simple youth, who never bore The weight of armour,—one who may not boast Of noble birth or valour of his own. Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak In thy great presence, and have made my heart Upon the verge of bloody death as calm, As equal in its beatings, as when sleep Approach'd me nestling from the sportive toils Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial dreams Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows Of soft oblivion, to belong to me!— These are the strengths of Heaven; to thee they speak, Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry, Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come!

ADRASTUS.

I know it must; so mayst thou spare thy warnings. The envious gods in me have doom'd a race, Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts, Whence their own dawn'd upon the infant world; And I shall sit on my ancestral throne To meet their vengeance; but till then I rule As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel.

ION.

I will not further urge thy safety to thee; It may be, as thou sayst, too late; nor seek To make thee tremble at the gathering curse Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall; But thou art gifted with a nobler sense— I know thou art, my sovereign!—sense of pain Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls, And in whose father's souls, thou and thy fathers Have kept their cherish'd state; whose heartstrings, still The living fibres of thy rooted power, Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn From heavenly justice on them.

ADRASTUS.

How! my crimes?

ION.

Yes; 'tis the eternal law, that where guilt is, Sorrow shall answer it; and thou hast not A poor man's privilege to bear alone, Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen, The penalties of evil, for in thine A nation's fate lies circled.—King Adrastus! Steel'd as thy heart is with the usages Of pomp and power, a few short summers since Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless. Oh, if maternal love embraced thee then, Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet Glare o'er their perishing children: hast thou shared The glow of a first friendship, which is born Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth Smitten amidst its playthings;—let the spirit Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity!

ADRASTUS.

In every word thou dost but steel my soul. My youth was blasted;—parents, brother, kin— All that should people infancy with joy— Conspired to poison mine; despoiled my life Of innocence and hope—all but the sword And sceptre—dost thou wonder at me now?

ION.

I knew that we should pity—

ADRASTUS.

Pity! dare To speak that word again, and torture waits thee! I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on— Thy time is short, and I am pledged to hear.

ION.

If thou hast ever loved—

ADRASTUS.

Beware! beware!

ION.

Thou hast! I see thou hast! Thou art not marble, And thou shalt hear me!—Think upon the time When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy, As if some unseen visitant from heaven Touch'd the calm lake and wreath'd its images In sparkling waves;—recall the dallying hope That on the margin of assurance trembled, As loth to lose in certainty too bless'd Its happy being;—taste in thought again Of the stolen sweetness of those evening-walks, When pansied turf was air to winged feet, And circling forests, by ethereal touch Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky, As if about to melt in golden light Shapes of one heavenly vision; and thy heart, Enlarged by its new sympathy with one, Grew bountiful to all!

ADRASTUS.

That tone! that tone! Whence came it? from thy lips? It cannot be— The long-hush'd music of the only voice That ever spake unbought affection to me, And waked my soul to blessing!—O sweet hours Of golden joy, ye come! your glories break' Through my pavilion'd spirit's sable folds! Roll on! roll on!—Stranger, thou dost enforce me To speak of things unbreathed by lip of mine To human ear:—wilt listen?

ION.

As a child.

ADRASTUS.

Again! that voice again!—thou hast seen me moved As never mortal saw me, by a tone Which some light breeze, enamour'd of the sound, Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth This city, which, expectant of its Prince, Lay hush'd, broke out in clamorous ecstasies; Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun, And welcome thunder'd from a thousand throats, My doom was seal'd. From the hearth's vacant space, In the dark chamber where my mother lay, Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness, Came forth, in heart-appalling tone, these words Of me the nurseling—"Woe unto the babe! "Against the life which now begins shall life "Lighted from thence be arm'd, and, both soon quench'd, "End this great line in sorrow!"—Ere I grew Of years to know myself a thing accursed, A second son was born, to steal the love Which fate had else scarce rifled: he became My parents' hope, the darling of the crew Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery To trace in every foible of my youth— A prince's youth!—the workings of the curse; My very mother—Jove! I cannot bear To speak it now—look'd freezingly upon me!

ION.

But thy brother—

ADRASTUS.

Died. Thou hast heard the lie, The common lie that every peasant tells Of me his master,—that I slew the boy. 'Tis false! One summer's eve, below a crag Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb, He lay a mangled corpse: the very slaves, Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart, Now coin'd their own injustice into proofs To brand me as his murderer.

ION.

Did they dare Accuse thee?

ADRASTUS.

Not in open speech:—they felt I should have seized the miscreant by the throat, And crush'd the lie half-spoken with the life Of the base speaker;—but the tale look'd out From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank When mine have met them; murmur'd through the crowd That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game, Stood distant from me; burnt into my soul When I beheld it in my father's shudder!

ION.

Didst not declare thy innocence?

ADRASTUS.

To whom? To parents who could doubt me? To the ring Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons, Who should have studied to prevent my wish Before it grew to language; hail'd my choice To service as a prize to wrestle for; And whose reluctant courtesy I bore, Pale with proud anger, till from lips compress'd The blood has started? To the common herd, The vassals of our ancient house, the mass Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it, Or, deck'd for slaughter at their master's call, To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd In heaps to swell his glory or his shame? Answer to them: No! though my heart had burst, As it was nigh to bursting!—To the mountains I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool My spirit's fever—struggled with the oak In search of weariness, and learn'd to rive Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung. Might mate in cordage with its infant stems; Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air Headlong committed, clove the water's depth Which plummet never sounded;—but in vain.

ION.

Yet succour came to thee?

ADRASTUS.

A blessed one! Which the strange magic of thy voice revives, And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps Were in a wood-encircled valley stay'd By the bright vision of a maid, whose face Most lovely more than loveliness reveal'd, In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine. With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth The body of her aged sire, whose death Left her alone. I aided her sad work, And soon two lonely ones by holy rites Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months, In streamlike unity flow'd silent by us In our delightful nest. My father's spies— Slaves, whom my nod should have consign'd to stripes Or the swift falchion—track'd our sylvan home Just as my bosom knew its second joy, And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son.

ION.

Urged by thy trembling parents to avert That dreadful prophecy?

ADRASTUS.

Fools! did they deem Its worst accomplishment could match the ill Which they wrought on me? It had left unharm'd A thousand ecstasies of passion'd years, Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain Fate's iron grapple! Could I now behold That son with knife uplifted at my heart, A moment ere my life-blood follow'd it, I would embrace him with my dying eyes, And pardon destiny! While jocund smiles Wreathed on the infants face, as if sweet spirits Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul, The ruffians broke upon us; seized the child; Dash'd through the thicket to the beetling rock 'Neath which the deep wave eddies: I stood still As stricken into stone: I heard him cry, Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe, Severer ill unfearing—then the splash Of waters that shall cover him for ever; And could not stir to save him!

ION.

And the mother—

ADRASTUS.

She spake no word, but clasp'd me in her arms, And lay her down to die. A lingering gaze Of love she fix'd on me—none other loved, And so pass'd hence. By Jupiter, her look! Her dying patience glimmers in thy face! She lives again! She looks upon me now! There's magic in 't. Bear with me—I am childish.

[Enter Crythes and Guards.]

ADRASTUS.

Why art thou here?

CRYTHES.

The dial points the hour.

ADRASTUS.

Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd? Hast thou no heart—no sense?

CRYTHES.

Scarce half an hour Hath flown since the command on which I wait.

ADRASTUS.

Scarce half an hour!—years—years have roll'd since then. Begone! remove that pageantry of death— It blasts my sight—and hearken! Touch a hair Of this brave youth, or look on him as now With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band Shall not expect a fearful show in vain. Hence without word.

[Exit Crythes.]

What wouldst thou have me do?

ION.

Let thy awaken'd heart speak its own language; Convene thy Sages;—frankly, nobly meet them; Explore with them the pleasure of the gods, And, whatsoe'er the sacrifice, perform it.

ADRASTUS.

Well! I will seek their presence in an hour; Go summon them, young hero: hold! no word Of the strange passion thou hast witness'd here.

ION.

Distrust me not.—Benignant Powers, I thank ye! [Exit.]

ADRASTUS.

Yet stay—he 's gone—his spell is on me yet; What have I promised him? To meet the men Who from my living head would strip the crown And sit in judgment on me?—I must do it— Yet shall my band be ready to o'erawe The course of liberal speech, and, if it rise So as too loudly to offend my ear, Strike the rash brawler dead!—What idle dream Of long-past days had melted me? It fades— It vanishes—I am again a king!

Scene II
The Interior of the Temple.

[Same as Act I. Scene I.]

[Clemanthe seated—Abra attending her.]

ABRA.

Look, dearest lady!—the thin smoke aspires In the calm air, as when in happier times It show'd the gods propitious; wilt thou seek Thy chamber, lest thy father and his friends, Returning, find us hinderers of their council? She answers not—she hearkens not—with joy Could I believe her, for the first time, sullen! Still she is rapt.

[Enter Agenor.]

O speak to my sweet mistress; Haply thy voice may rouse her.

AGENOR.

Dear Clemanthe, Hope dawns in every omen; we shall hail Our tranquil hours again.

[Enter Medon, Cleon, Timocles, and others.]

MEDON.

Clemanthe here! How sad! how pale!

ABRA.

Her eye is kindling—hush!

CLEMANTHE.

Hark! hear ye not a distant footstep?

MEDON.

No. Look round, my fairest child; thy friends are near thee.

CLEMANTHE.

Yes!—now 'tis lost—'tis on that endless stair— Nearer and more distinct—'tis his—'tis his— He lives! he comes!

[Clemanthe rises and rushes to the back of the stage, at which Ion appears, and returns with her.] Here is your messenger, Whom Heaven has rescued from the tyrant's rage Ye sent him forth to brave. Rejoice, old men, That ye are guiltless of his blood!—why pause ye? Why shout ye not his welcome?

MEDON.

Dearest girl, This is no scene for thee; go to thy chamber; I'll come to thee ere long.

[Exeunt Clemanthe and Abra.]

She is o'erwrought By fear and joy for one whose infant hopes Were mingled with her own, even as a brother's. Timocles. Ion! How shall we do thee honor?

ION.

None is due Save to the gods whose gracious influence sways The king ye deem'd relentless;—he consents To meet ye presently in council:—speed; This may be nature's latest rally in him, In fitful strength, ere it be quench'd for ever!

MEDON.

Haste to your seats; I will but speak a word With our brave friend, and follow: though convened In speed, let our assembly lack no forms Of due observance, which to furious power Plead with the silent emphasis of years.

[Exeunt all but Medon and Ion.]

Ion, draw near me; this eventful day Hath shown thy nature's graces circled round With firmness which accomplishes the hero;— And it would bring to me but one proud thought— That virtues which required not culture's aid Shed their first fragrance 'neath my roof, and there Found shelter;—but it also hath reveal'd What I may not hide from thee, that my child, My blithe and innocent girl—more fair in soul, More delicate in fancy than in mould— Loves thee with other than a sister's love. I should have cared for this: I vainly deem'd A fellowship in childhood's thousand joys And household memories had nurtured friendship Which might hold blameless empire in the soul; But in that guise the traitor hath stolen in, And the fair citadel is thine.

ION.

Tis true. I did not think the nurseling of thy house Could thus disturb its holiest inmate's duty With tale of selfish passion;—but we met As playmates who might never meet again, And then the hidden truth flash'd forth, and show'd To each the image in the other's soul In one bright instant.

MEDON.

Be that instant blest Which made thee truly ours. My son! my son! 'Tis we should feel uplifted, for the seal Of greatness is upon thee; yet I know That when the gods, won by thy virtues, draw The veil which now conceals their lofty birthplace, Thou wilt not spurn the maid who prized them lowly.

ION.

Spurn her! My father!

[Enter Ctesiphon.]

MEDON.

Ctesiphon!—and breathless— Art come to chide me to the council?

CTESIPHON.

No; To bring unwonted joy; thy son approaches.

MEDON.

Thank Heaven! Hast spoken with him? Is he well?

CTESIPHON.

I strove in vain to reach him, for the crowd, Roused from the untended couch and dismal hearth By the strange visiting of hope, press'd round him! But, by his head erect and fiery glance, I know that he is well, and that he bears A message which shall shake the tyrant. [Shouts.] See! The throng is tending this way—now it parts, And yields him to thy arms.

[Enter Phocion.]

MEDON.

Welcome, my Phocion— Long waited for in Argos; how detain'd Now matters not, since thou art here in joy. Hast brought the answer of the god?

PHOCION.

I have: Now let Adrastus tremble!

MEDON.

May we hear it?

PHOCION.

I am sworn first to utter it to him.

CTESIPHON.

But it is fatal to him!—Say but that!

PHOCION.

Ha, Ctesiphon!—I mark'd thee not before; How fares thy father?

ION. [to Phocion.]

Do not speak of him.

CTESIPHON. [overhearing Ion.]

Not speak of him! Dost think there is a moment When common things eclipse the burning thought Of him and vengeance?

PHOCION.

Has the tyrant's sword—

CTESIPHON.

No, Phocion; that were merciful and brave Compared to his base deed; yet will I tell it To make the flashing of thine eye more deadly, And edge thy words that they may rive his heartstrings. The last time that Adrastus dared to face The Sages of the state, although my father Yielding to nature's mild decay, had left All worldly toil and hope, he gather'd strength, In his old seat, to speak one word of warning. Thou know'st how bland with years his wisdom grew, And with what phrases, steep'd in love, he sheath'd The sharpness of rebuke; yet, ere his speech Was closed, the tyrant started from his throne, And with his base hand smote him;—'twas his death-stroke! The old man totter'd home, and only once Raised his head after.

PHOCION.

Thou wert absent? Yes! The royal miscreant lives!

CTESIPHON.

Had I beheld That sacrilege, the tyrant had lain dead, Or I had been torn piecemeal by his minions. But I was far away: when I return'd, I found my father on the nearest bench Within our door, his thinly silver'd head Supported by wan hands, which hid his face And would not be withdrawn;—no groan, no sigh Was audible, and we might only learn By short convulsive tremblings of his frame That life still flicker'd in it—yet at last, By some unearthly inspiration roused, He dropp'd his wither'd hands, and sat erect As in his manhood's glory—the free blood Flush'd crimson through his cheeks, his furrow'd brow Expanded clear, and his eyes opening full Gleam'd with a youthful fire;—I fell in awe Upon my knees before him—still he spake not, But slowly raised his arm untrembling; clench'd His hand as if it grasp'd an airy knife, And struck in air: my hand was join'd with his In nervous grasp—my lifted eye met his In steadfast gaze—my pressure answer'd his— We knew at once each other's thought; a smile Of the old sweetness play'd upon his lips, And life forsook him. Weaponless I flew To seek the tyrant, and was driven with scoffs From the proud gates which shelter him. He lives— And I am here to babble of revenge!

PHOCION.

It comes, my friend—haste with me to the king!

ION.

Even while we speak, Adrastus meets his council; There let us seek him: should ye find him touch'd With penitence, as happily ye may, 0 give allowance to his soften'd nature!

CTESIPHON.

Show grace to him!—Dost dare?—I had forgot, Thou dost not know how a son loves a father!

ION.

I know enough to feel for thee; I know Thou hast endured the vilest wrong that tyranny In its worst frenzy can inflict;—yet think, O think! before the irrevocable deed Shuts out all thought, how much of power's excess Is theirs who raise the idol:—do we groan Beneath the personal force of this rash man, Who forty summers since hung at the breast A playful weakling; whom the heat unnerves, The north-wind pierces; and the hand of death May, in a moment, change to clay as vile As that of the scourged slave whose chains it severs? No! 'tis our weakness gasping, or the shows Of outward strength that builds up tyranny, And makes it look so glorious:—If we shrink Faint-hearted from the reckoning of our span Of mortal days, we pamper the fond wish For long duration in a line of kings: If the rich pageantry of thoughts must fade All unsubstantial as the regal hues Of eve which purpled them, our cunning frailty Must robe a living image with their pomp, And wreathe a diadem around its brow, In which our sunny fantasies may live Empearl'd, and gleam, in fatal splendour, far On after ages. We must look within For that which makes us slaves;—on sympathies Which find no kindred objects in the plain Of common life—affections that aspire In air too thin—and fancy's dewy film Floating for rest; for even such delicate threads, Gather'd by fate's engrossing hand, supply The eternal spindle whence she weaves the bond Of cable strength in which our nature struggles!

CTESIPHON.

Go talk to others if thou wilt;—to me All argument, save that of steel, is idle.

MEDON.

No more;—let's to the council—there, my son, Tell thy great message nobly;—and for thee, Poor orphan'd youth, be sure the gods are just!

[Exeunt.]

Scene III
''The great Square of the City. Adrastus seated on a throne; Agenor, Timocles, Cleon, and others, seated as Councillors—Soldiers line the stage at a distance.''

ADRASTUS.

Upon your summons, Sages, I am here; Your king attends to know your pleasure; speak it!

AGENOR.

And canst thou ask? If the heart dead within thee Receives no impress of this awful time, Art thou of sense forsaken 1 Are thine ears So charm'd by strains of slavish minstrelsy That the dull groan and frenzy-pointed shriek Pass them unheard to Heaven? Or are thine eyes So conversant with prodigies of grief, They cease to dazzle at them? Art thou arm'd 'Gainst wonder, while, in all things, Nature turns To dreadful contraries;—while Youth's full cheek Is shrivell'd into furrows of sad years, And 'neath its glossy curls untinged by care Looks out a keen anatomy;—while Age Is stung by feverish torture for an hour Into youth's strength; while fragile Womanhood Starts into frightful courage, all unlike The gentle strength its gentle weakness feeds To make affliction beautiful, and stalks Abroad, a tearless, an unshuddering thing;— While Childhood, in its orphan'd freedom blithe, Finds, in the shapes of wretchedness which seem Grotesque to its unsadden'd vision, cause For dreadful mirth that shortly shall be hush'd In never-broken silence; and while Love, Immortal through all change, makes ghastly Death Its idol, and with furious passion digs Amid sepulchral images for gauds To cheat its fancy with?—Do sights like these Glare through the realm thou shouldst be parent to, And canst thou find the voice to ask "our pleasure?"

ADRASTUS.

Cease, babbler;—wherefore would ye stun my ears With vain recital of the griefs I know, And cannot heal?—will treason turn aside The shafts of fate, or medicine Nature's ills? I have no skill in pharmacy, nor power To sway the elements.

AGENOR.

Thou hast the power To cast thyself upon the earth with us In penitential shame; or, if this power Hath left a heart made weak by luxury And hard by pride, thou hast at least the power To cease the mockery of thy frantic revels.

ADRASTUS.

I have yet power to punish insult—look I use it not, Agenor!—Fate may dash My sceptre from me, but shall not command My will to hold it with a feebler grasp; Nay, if few hours of empire yet are mine, They shall be colour'd with a sterner pride, And peopled with more lustrous joys than flush'd In the serene procession of its greatness, Which look'd perpetual, as the flowing course Of human things. Have ye beheld a pine That clasp'd the mountain-summit with a root As firm as its rough marble, and, apart From the huge shade of undistinguish'd trees, Lifted its head as in delight to share The evening glories of the sky, and taste The wanton dalliance of the heavenly breeze That no ignoble vapour from the vale Could mingle with—smit by the flaming marl, And lighted for destruction? How it stood One glorious moment, fringed and wreathed with fire Which show'd the inward graces of its shape, Uncumber'd now, and midst its topmost boughs, That young Ambition's airy fancies made Their giddy nest, leap'd sportive;—never clad By liberal summer in a pomp so rich As waited on its downfall, while it took The storm-cloud roll'd behind it for a curtain To gird its splendours round, and made the blast Its minister to whirl its flashing shreds Aloft towards heaven, or to the startled depths Of forests that afar might share its doom! So shall the royalty of Argos pass In festal blaze to darkness! Have ye spoken?

AGENOR.

I speak no more to thee!—Great Jove, look down!

[Shouting without.]

ADRASTUS.

What factious brawl is this?—disperse it, soldiers.

[Shouting renewed—As some of the soldiers are about to march, Phocion rushes in, followed by Ctesiphon, Ion and Medon.]

Whence is this insolent intrusion?

PHOCION.

King! I bear Apollo's answer to thy prayer.

ADRASTUS.

Has not thy travel taught thy knee its duty? Here we had school'd thee better.

PHOCION.

Kneel to thee!

MEDON.

Patience, my son! Do homage to the king.

PHOCION.

Never!—thou talk'st of schooling—know, Adrastus, That I have studied in a nobler school Than the dull haunt of venal sophistry Or the lewd guard-room;—o'er which ancient heaven Extends its arch for all, and mocks the span Of palaces and dungeons; where the heart In its free beatings, 'neath the coarsest vest, Claims kindred with diviner things than power Of kings can raise or stifle—in the school Of mighty Nature—where I learn'd to blush At sight like this, of thousands basely hush'd Before a man no mightier than themselves, Save in the absence of that love that softens.

ADRASTUS.

Peace! speak thy message.

PHOCION.

Shall I tell it here I Or shall I seek thy couch at dead of night, And breathe it in low whispers?—As thou wilt.

ADRASTUS.

Here—and this instant!

PHOCION.

Hearken then, Adrastus, And hearken, Argives—thus Apollo speaks:— [Reads a scroll.] "Argos ne'er shall find release "Till her monarch's race shall cease."

ADRASTUS.

Tis not God's will, but man's sedition speaks:— Guards! tear that lying parchment from his hands, And bear him to the palace.

MEDON.

Touch him not,— He is Apollo's messenger, whose lips Were never stain'd with falsehood.

PHOCION.

Come on, all!

AGENOR.

Surround him, friends! Die with him!

ADRASTUS.

Soldiers, charge Upon these rebels; hew them down. On, on!

[''The soldiers advance and surround the people; they seize Phocion. Ion rushes from the back of the stage, and throws himself between Adrastus and Phocion.'']

PHOCION [to Adrastus.]

Yet I defy thee.

ION.

[To Phocion.] Friend! for sake of all, Enrage him not—wait while I speak a word— [To Adrastus.] My sovereign, I implore thee, do not stain This sacred place with blood; in Heaven's great name I do conjure thee—and in hers, whose spirit Is mourning for thee now!

ADRASTUS.

Release the stripling— Let him go spread his treason where he will: He is not worth my anger. To the palace!

ION.

Nay, yet an instant!—let my speech have power From Heaven to move thee further: thou hast heard The sentence of the god, and thy heart owns it; If thou wilt cast aside this cumbrous pomp, And in seclusion purify thy soul Long fever'd and sophisticate, the gods May give thee space for penitential thoughts: If not—as surely as thou standest here, Wilt thou lie stiff and weltering in thy blood.— The vision presses on me now.

ADRASTUS.

Art mad? Resign thy state? Sue to the gods for life, The common life which every slave endures, And meanly clings to? No; within yon walls I shall resume the banquet, never more Broken by man's intrusion. Councillors, Farewell!—go mutter treason till ye perish!

[Exeunt Adrastus, Crythes, and Soldiers.]

ION [who stands apart leaning on a pedestal.]

'Tis seal'd!

MEDON.

Let us withdraw, and strive By sacrifice to pacify the gods!

[''Medon, Agenor, and Councillors retire: they leave Ctesiphon, Phocion, and Ion. Ion still stands apart, as wrapt in meditation.'']

CTESIPHON.

'Tis well; the measure of his guilt is fill'd. Where shall we meet at sunset?

PHOCION.

In the grove Which with its matted shade imbrowns the vale, Between those buttresses of rock that guard The sacred mountain on its western side, Stands a rude altar—overgrown with moss, And stain'd with drippings of a million showers, So old, that no tradition names the power That hallow'd it,—which we will consecrate Anew to freedom and to justice.

CTESIPHON.

Thither Will I bring friends to meet thee. Shall we speak To yon rapt youth? [pointing to Ion.]

PHOCION.

His nature is too gentle. At sunset we will meet. —With arms?

CTESIPHON.

A knife One sacrificial knife will serve.

PHOCION.

At sunset!

[''Exeunt Ctesiphon and Phocion severally. Ion comes forward.'']

ION.

O wretched man, thy words have seal'd thy doom! Why should I shiver at it, when no way, Save this, remains to break the ponderous cloud That hangs above my wretched country?— death— A single death, the common lot of all, Which it will not be mine to look upon,— And yet its ghastly shape dilates before me; I cannot shut it out; my thoughts grow rigid, And as that grim and prostrate figure haunts them, My sinews stiffen like it. Courage, Ion! No spectral form is here; all outward things Wear their own old familiar looks; no dye Pollutes them. Yet the air has scent of blood, And now it eddies with a hurtling sound, As if some weapon swiftly clove it. No— The falchion's course is silent as the grave That yawns before its victim. Gracious powers! If the great duty of my life be near, Grant it may be to suffer, not to strike! [Exit.]