Scene I edit
The Interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is supposed to be placed on a rocky eminence. Early morning. The interior lighted by a single lamp suspended from the roof. Agenor resting against a column;—Irus seated on a bench at the side of the scene.
[Agenor comes forward and speaks.]
AGENOR.
Will the dawn never visit us? These hours
Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear
To do the work of desolating years!
All distant sounds are hush'd;—the shriek of death
And the survivors' wail are now unheard,
As grief had worn itself to patience. Irus!
I'm loth so soon to break thy scanty rest,
But my heart sickens for the tardy morn;
Sure it is breaking;—speed and look—yet hold,
Know'st thou the fearful shelf of rock that hangs
Above the encroaching waves, the loftiest point
That stretches eastward?
IRUS.
Know it? Yes, my Lord;
There often have I bless'd the opening day,
Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste
In happy wandering through the forests.
AGENOR.
Well,
Thou art not then afraid to tread it; there
The earliest streak from the unrisen sun
Is to be welcomed;—tell me how it gleams,
In bloody portent or in saffron hope,
And hasten back to slumber.
IRUS.
I shall hasten:
Believe not that thy summons broke my rest;
I was not sleeping. [Exit Irus.]
AGENOR.
Heaven be with thee, child!
His grateful mention of delights bestow'd
On that most piteous state of servile childhood
By liberal words chance-dropp'd, hath touch'd a vein
Of feeling which I deem'd for ever numb'd,
And, by a gush of household memories, breaks
The icy casing of that thick despair
Which day by day hath gather'd o'er my heart,
While, basely safe, within this column'd circle,
Uplifted far into the purer air
And by Apollo's partial love secured,
I have, in spirit, glided with the Plague
As in foul darkness or in sickliest light
It wafted death through Argos; and mine ears,
Listening athirst for any human sound,
Have caught the dismal cry of confused pain,
Which to this dizzy height the fitful wind
Hath borne from each sad quarter of the vale
Where life was.
[Re-enter Irus.]
Are there signs of day-break?
IRUS.
None; The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom.
AGENOR.
It cannot surely be. Thine eyes are dim
(No fault of thine) for want of rest, or now
I look upon them near, with scalding tears.
Hath care alighted on a head so young!
What grief hast thou been weeping?
IRUS.
Pardon me;
I never thought at such a mournful time
To plead my humble sorrow in excuse
Of poorly-render'd service: but my brother —
Thou mayst have noted him,—a sturdy lad,
With eye so merry and with foot so light
That none could chide his gamesomeness—fell sick
But yesterday, and died in my weak arms
Ere I could seek for stouter aid: I hoped
That I had taught my grief to veil its signs
From thy observant care; but when I stood
Upon the well-known terrace where we loved,
Arm link'd in arm, to watch the gleaming sails—
His favourite pastime, for he burn'd to share
A seaman's hardy lot,—my tears would flow,
And I forgot to dry them. But I see
Cleon is walking yonder; let me call him;
For sure 'twill cheer thy heart to speak with him.
AGENOR.
Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep,
Or, if thou wilt, to weep.
[Exit Irus.]
I envy thee
The privilege, but Jupiter forfend
That I should rob thee of it!
[Enter Cleon.]
CLEON.
Hail, Agenor!
Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet
To find thy age unstricken.
AGENOR.
Rather mourn That I am destined still to linger here
In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me.
I chide these sinews that are framed so tough
Grief cannot palsy them; I chide the air
Which round this citadel of nature breathes
With sweetness not of this world; I would share
The common grave of my dear countrymen,
And sink to rest while all familiar things
Old custom has endear'd are failing with me,
Rather than shiver on in life behind them:
Nor should these walls detain me from the paths
Where death may be embraced, but that my word,
In a rash moment plighted to our host,
Forbids me to depart without his license,
Which firmly he refuses.
CLEON.
Do not chide me
If I rejoice to find the generous Priest
Means, with Apollo's blessing, to preserve
The treasure of thy wisdom;—nay, he trusts not
To promises alone; his gates are barr'd
Against thy egress:—none, indeed, may pass them
Save the youth Ion, to whose earnest prayer
His foster-father grants reluctant leave
To visit the sad city at his will:
And freely does he use the dangerous boon,
Which, in my thought, the love that cherish'd him,
Since he was found within the sacred grove
Smiling amidst the storm, a most rare infant,
Should have had sternness to deny.
AGENOR.
What, Ion
The only inmate of this fane allow'd
To seek the mournful walks where death is busy!—
Ion our sometime darling, whom we prized
As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismiss'd
From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud
To make the happy happier! Is he sent
To grapple with the miseries of this time,
Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears
As it would perish at the touch of wrong?
By no internal contest is, he train'd
For such hard duty; no emotions rude
Hath his clear spirit vanquish'd;—Love, the germ
Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth,
Expanding with its progress, as the store
Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals
Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury,
To flush and circle in the flower. No tear
Hath fill'd his eye save that of thoughtful joy
When, in the evening stillness, lovely things
Press'd on his soul too busily; his voice,
If, in the earnestness of childish sports,
Raised to the tone of anger, check'd its force,
As if it fear'd to break its being's law,
And falter'd into music; when the forms
Of guilty passion have been made to live
In pictured speech, and others have wax'd loud
In righteous indignation, he hath heard
With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein
Of goodness, which surrounding gloom conceal'd,
Struck sunlight o'er it: so his life hath flow'd
From its mysterious urn a sacred stream,
In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure
Alone are mirror'd; which, though shapes of ill
May hover round its surface, glides in light,
And takes no shadow from them.
CLEON.
Yet, methinks,
Thou hast not lately met him, or a change
Pass'd strangely on him had not miss'd thy wonder.
His form appears dilated; in those eyes
Where pleasure danced, a thoughtful sadness dwells;
Stern purpose knits the forehead, which till now
Knew not the passing wrinkle of a care:
Those limbs which in their heedless motion own'd
A stripling's playful happiness, are strung
As if the iron hardships of the camp
Had given them sturdy nurture; and his step,
Its airiness of yesterday forgotten,
Awakes the echoes of these desolate courts,
As if a hero of gigantic mould
Paced them in armour.
AGENOR.
Hope is in thy tale.
This is no freak of Nature's wayward course,
But work of pitying Heaven; for not in vain
The gods have pour'd into that guileless heart
The strengths that nerve the hero;—they are ours.
CLEON.
How can he aid us? Can he stay the pulse
Of ebbing life,—arrest the infected winds,
Or smite the hungry spectre of the grave?
AGENOR.
And dost thou think these breezes are our foes,—
The innocent airs that used to dance around us,
As if they felt the blessings they convey'd,
Or that the death they bear is casual? No!
Tis human guilt that blackens in the cloud,
Flashes athwart its mass in jagged fire,
Whirls in the hurricane, pollutes the air,
Turns all the joyous melodies of earth
To murmurings of doom. There is a foe
Who in the glorious summit of the state
Draws down the great resentment of the gods,
Whom he defies to strike us;—yet his power
Partakes that just infirmity which Nature
Blends in the empire of her proudest sons—
That it is cased within a single breast,
And may be pluck'd thence by a single arm.
Let but that arm, selected by the gods,
Do its great office on the tyrant's life,
And Argos breathes again!
CLEON.
A footstep!—hush!
Thy wishes, falling on a slavish ear,
Would tempt another outrage: 'tis a friend—
An honest though a crabbed one—Timocles:
Something hath ruffled him.—Good day, Timocles!
[Timocles passes in front.]
He will not speak to us.
AGENOR.
But he shall speak.
Timocles—nay then, thus I must enforce thee;
[staying him.]
Sure thou wilt not refuse a comrade's hand
That may be cold ere sunset.
TIMOCLES. [giving his hand.]
Thou mayst school me;
Thy years and love have license: but I own not
A stripling's mastery; is 't fit, Agenor?
AGENOR.
Nay, thou must tell thy wrong; whate'er it prove,
I hail thy anger as a hopeful sign,
For it revives the thought of household days,
When the small bickerings of friends had space
To fret, and Death was not for ever nigh
To frown upon Estrangement. What has moved thee?
TIMOCLES.
I blush to tell it. Weary of the night
And of my life, I sought the western portal:
It opened, when ascending from the stair
That through the rock winds spiral from the town,
Ion, the foundling cherish'd by the Priest,
Stood in the entrance: with such mild command
As he has often smilingly obey'd,
I bade him stand aside and let me pass;
When—wouldst thou think it?—in determined speech
He gave me counsel to return: I press'd
Impatient onward: he, with honied phrase
His daring act excusing, grasp'd my arm
With strength resistless; led me from the gate;
Replaced its ponderous bars; and, with a look
As modest as he wore in childhood, left me.
AGENOR.
And thou wilt thank him for it soon; he comes—
Now hold thy angry purpose if thou canst!
[Enter Ion.]
ION.
I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore
Again thy pardon. I am young in trust,
And fear lest, in the earnestness of love,
I stayed thy course too rudely. Thou hast borne
My childish folly often,—do not frown
If I have ventured with unmanner'd zeal
Ta guard the ripe experiences of years
From one rash moment's danger.
TIMOCLES.
Leave thy care.
If I am weary of the flutterer life,
Is mortal bidding thus to cage it in?
ION.
And art thou tired of being? Has the grave
No terrors for thee? Hast thou sunder'd quite
Those thousand meshes which old custom weayes
To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films
With airy lustre various? Hast subdued
Those cleavings of the spirit to its prison,
Those nice regards, dear habits, pensive memories,
That change the valour of the thoughtful breast
To brave dissimulation of its fears?
Is Hope quench'd in thy bosom? Thou art free,
And in the simple dignity of man
Standest apart untempted:—do not lose
The great occasion thou hast pluck'd from misery,
Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair,
But use it nobly!
TIMOCLES.
What, to strike? to slay?
ION.
No!—not unless the audible voice of Heaven
Call thee to that dire office; but to shed
On ears abused by falsehood, truths of power
In words immortal,—not such words as flash
From the fierce demagogue's unthinking rage
To madden for a moment and expire,—
Nor such as the rapt orator imbues
With warmth of facile sympathy, and moulds
To mirrors radiant with fair images,
To grace the noble fervour of an hour;—
But words which bear the spirits of great deeds
Wing'd for the Future; which the dying breath
Of Freedom's martyr shapes as it exhales,
And to the most enduring forms of earth
Commits—to linger in the craggy shade
Of the huge valley, 'neath the eagle's home,
Or in the sea-cave where the tempest sleeps,
Till some heroic leader bid them wake
To thrill the world with echoes!—But I talk
Of things above my grasp, which strangely press
Upon my soul, and tempt me to forget
The duties of my youth;—pray you forgive me.
TIMOCLES.
Have I not said so?
AGENOR.
Welcome to the morn!
The eastern gates unfold, the Priest approaches;
[As Agenor speaks, the great gates at the back of the scene open; the sea is discovered far beneath,—the dawn breaking over it; Medon, the Priest, enters attended.]
And lo! the sun is struggling with the gloom,
Whose masses fill the eastern sky, and tints
Its edges with dull red;—but he will triumph;
Bless'd be the omen!
MEDON.
God of light and joy,
Once more delight us with thy healing beams!
If I may trace thy language in the clouds
That wait upon thy rising, help is nigh—
But help achieved in blood.
ION.
Sayst thou in blood?
MEDON.
Yes, Ion!—why, he sickens at the word,
Spite of his new-born strength;—the sights of woe
That he will seek have shed their paleness on him.
Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow?
ION.
I pass'd the palace where the frantic king
Yet holds his crimson revel, whence the roar
Of desperate mirth came, mingling with the sigh
Of death-subdued robustness, and the gleam
Of festal lamps mid spectral columns hung
Flaunting o'er shapes of anguish made them ghastlier.
How can I cease to tremble for the sad ones
He mocks—and him the wretchedest of all?
TIMOCLES.
And canst thou pity him? Dost thou discern,
Amidst his impious darings, plea for him?
ION.
Is he not childless, friendless, and a king?
He's human; and some pulse of good must live
Within his nature—have ye tried to wake it?
MEDON.
Yes; I believe he felt our sufferings once;
When, at my strong entreaty, he dispatch'd
Phocion my son to Delphos, there to seek
Our cause of sorrow; but, as time dragg'd on
Without his messenger's return, he grew
Impatient of all counsel,—to his palace
In awful mood retiring, wildly call'd
The reckless of his court to share his stores
And end all with him. When we dared disturb
His dreadful feastings with a humble prayer
That he would meet us, the poor slave, who bore
The message, flew back smarting from the scourge,
And mutter'd a decree that he who next
Unbidden met the tyrant's glance should die.
AGENOR.
I am prepared to brave it.
CLEON.
So am I.
TIMOCLES.
And I—
ION.
O Sages, do not think my prayer
Bespeaks unseemly forwardness—send me!
The coarsest reed that trembles in the marsh,
If Heaven select it for its instrument,
May shed celestial music on the breeze
As clearly as the pipe whose virgin gold
Befits the lip of Phœbus;—ye are wise,
And needed by your country; ye are fathers:
I am a lone stray thing, whose little life
By strangers' bounty cherish'd, like a wave
That from the summer sea a wanton breeze
Lifts for a moment's sparkle, will subside
Light as it rose, nor leave a sigh in breaking.
MEDON.
Ion, no sigh!
ION.
Forgive me if I seem'd
To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if I fall;
Nor would I tax thy love with such a fear,
But that high promptings, which could never rise
Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead
Thus boldly for the mission.
MEDON.
My brave boy!
It shall be as thou wilt. I see thou art call'd
To this great peril, and I will not stay thee.
When wilt thou be prepared to seek it?
ION.
Now.
Only before I go, thus, on my knee,
Let me in one word thank thee for a life
Made by thy love a cloudless holiday;
And O, my more than father! let me look
Up to thy face as if indeed a father's,
And give me a son's blessing.
MEDON.
Bless thee, son!
I should be marble now; let's part at once.
ION.
If I should not return, bless Phocion from me;
And, for Clemanthe—may I speak one word,
One parting word with my fair playfellow?
MEDON.
If thou wouldst have it so, thou shalt.
ION.
Farewell then! Your prayers wait on my steps.
The arm of Heaven I feel in life or death will be around me.
[Exit.]
MEDON.
O grant it be in life! Let's to the sacrifice.
[Exeunt.]
Scene II edit
An apartment of the Temple. Enter Clemanthe followed by Abra.
CLEMANTHE.
Is he so changed?
ABRA.
His bearing is so alter'd,
That, distant, I scarce knew him for himself;
But, looking in his face, I felt his smile
Gracious as ever, though its sweetness wore
Unwonted sorrow in it.
CLEMANTHE.
He will go
To some high fortune, and forget us all,
Reclaim'd (be sure of it) by noble parents;
Me he forgets already; for five days,
Five melancholy days, I have not seen him.
ABRA.
Thou knowest that he has privilege to range
The infected city; and, 'tis said, he spends
The hours of needful rest in squalid hovels
Where death is most forsaken.
CLEMANTHE.
Why is this?
Why should my father, niggard of the lives
Of aged men, be prodigal of youth
So rich in glorious prophecy as his?
ABRA.
He comes to answer for himself. I'll leave you.
[Exit.]
CLEMANTHE.
Stay! Well my heart may guard its secret best
By its own strength.
[Enter Ion.]
ION.
How fares my pensive sister?
CLEMANTHE.
How should I fare but ill when the pale hand
Draws the black foldings of the eternal curtain
Closer and closer round us—Phocion absent—
And thou, forsaking all within thy home,
Wilt risk thy life with strangers, in whose aid
Even thou canst do but little?
ION.
It is little:
But in these sharp extremities of fortune,
The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter
Have their own season. Tis a little thing
To give a cup of water; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarean juice
Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unmourn'd 'twill fall
Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand
To know the bonds of fellowship again;
And shed on the departing soul a sense
More precious than the benison of friends
About the honor'd death-bed of the rich,
To him who else were lonely, that another
Of the great family is near and feels.
CLEMANTHE.
Oh, thou canst never bear these mournful offices!
So blithe, so merry once! Will not the sight
Of frenzied agonies unfix thy reason,
Or the dumb woe congeal thee?
ION.
No, Clemanthe;
They are the patient sorrows that touch nearest!
If thou hadst seen the warrior when he writhed
In the last grapple of his sinewy frame
With conquering anguish, strive to cast a smile
(And not in vain) upon his fragile wife,
Waning beside him,—and, his limbs composed,
The widow of the moment fix her gaze
Of longing, speechless love, upon the babe,
The only living thing which yet was hers,
Spreading its arms for its own resting-place,
Yet with attenuated hand wave off
The unstricken child, and so embraceless die,
Stifling the mighty hunger of the heart;
Thou couldst endure the sight of selfish grief
In sullenness or frenzy;—but to-day
Another lot falls on me.
CLEMANTHE.
Thou wilt leave us!
I read it plainly in thy alter'd mien;—
Is it for ever?
ION.
That is with the gods!
I go but to the palace, urged by hope,
Which from afar hath darted on my soul,
That to the humbleness of one like me
The haughty king may listen.
CLEMANTHE.
To the palace!
Knowest thou the peril—nay the certain issue
That waits thee? Death!—The tyrant has decreed it,
Confirmed it with an oath; and he has power
To keep that oath; for, hated as he is,
The reckless soldiers who partake his riot
Are swift to do his bidding.
ION.
I know all;
But they who call me to the work can shield me,
Or make me strong to suffer.
CLEMANTHE.
Then the sword
Falls on thy neck! O Gods! to think that thou,
Who in the plenitude of youthful life
Art now before me, ere the sun decline,
Perhaps in one short hour shalt lie cold, cold,
To speak, smile, bless no more!—Thou shalt not go!
ION.
Thou must not stay me, fair one; even thy father,
Who (blessings on him!) loves me as his son,
Yields to the will of Heaven.
CLEMANTHE.
And he can do this!
I shall not bear his presence if thou fallest
By his consent; so shall I be alone.
ION.
Phocion will soon return, and juster thoughts
Of thy admiring father close the gap
Thy old companion left behind him.
CLEMANTHE.
Never! What will to me be father, brother, friends,
When thou art gone—the light of our life quench'd—
Haunting like spectres of departed joy
The home where thou wert dearest?
ION.
Thrill me not
With words that, in their agony, suggest
A hope too ravishing,—or my head will swim,
And my heart faint within me.
CLEMANTHE.
Has my speech
Such blessed power? I will not mourn it then,
Though it hath told a secret I had borne
Till death in silence:—how affection grew
To this, I know not;—day succeeded day,
Each fraught with the same innocent delights,
Without one shock to ruffle the disguise
Of sisterly regard which veil'd it well,
Till thy changed mien reveal'd it to my soul,
And thy great peril makes me bold to tell it.
Do not despise it in me!
ION.
With deep joy
Thus I receive it. Trust me, it is long
Since I have learn'd to tremble midst our pleasures,
Lest I should break the golden dream around me
With most ungrateful rashness. I should bless
The sharp and perilous duty which hath press'd
A life's deliciousness into these moments,—
Which here must end. I came to say farewell,
And the word must be said.
CLEMANTHE.
Thou canst not mean it!
Have I disclaim'd all maiden bashfulness,
To tell the cherish'd secret of my soul
To my soul's master, and in rich return
Obtain'd the dear assurance of his love,
To hear him speak that miserable word
I cannot—will not echo?
ION.
Heaven has call'd me,
And I have pledged my honor. When thy heart
Bestow'd its preference on a friendless boy,
Thou didst not image him a recreant; nor
Must he prove so, by thy election crown'd.
Thou hast endowed me with the right to claim
Thy help through this our journey, be its course
Lengthen'd to age, or in an hour to end,
And now I ask it!—bid my courage hold,
And with thy free approval send me forth
In soul apparell'd for my office!
CLEMANTHE.
Go!
I would not have thee other than thou art,
Living or dying—and if thou shouldst fall—
ION.
Be sure I shall return.
CLEMANTHE.
If thou shouldst fall,
I shall be happier as the affianced bride
Of thy cold ashes, than in proudest fortunes—
Thine—ever thine— [she faints in his arms.]
ION. [calls.]
Abra!—So best to part— [Enter Abra.]
Let her have air; be near her through the day;
I know thy tenderness—should ill news come
Of any friend, she will require it all.
[Abra bears Clemanthe out.]
Ye Gods, that have enrich'd the life ye claim
With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it!
[Exit.]