A / ^ >La-^ 6 I Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN ION; A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. TO WHKH ARE ADDED A FEW SONNETS SECOND EDITION. LOXDOX : rrtlNTF.D BY A. J. VAI.I'V, RED f.ION COIIKT, FIEKT STREET. FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION, flot 1PubIisf)ftr. ^ t UNivr -^^NIA PR ^. I 935" TO THE REV. RICHARD VALPY, D.D., THIS ATTEMPT AT DRAMATIC COMPOSITION, AS A SLENDER TOKEN OF GRATITUDE, FOR BENEFITS WFIICH CANNOT BE EXPRESSED IN WORDS, IS MOST RESPECTFULIA' INSCRIBED HIS AFFECTIONATE PUPIL, T. N. TALFOURD, PREFACE TO TIIK FIRST EDITIOX, " 1 left no culling for this idle trade, Ko duty broke." Pope. The title of this Drama is borrowed from the Tragedy of Euripides, which gave the first hiiitof tiie situation in which its hero is introduced — that of a foundling youth educated in a temple, and assisting in its services; but otherwise there is no resemblance between this imperfect sketch and that exquisite picture. It has been written, — not indeed without a view to an ideal stage, vvliich should never be absent from the mind of the humblest aspirant to dramatic composition, but witliout any hope of rendering it worthy to be acted. If it were regarded as a drama composed for actual representation, I am well aware that not in " matter of form " only, but in " matter of substance," it would be found wanting. The idea of the principal character, — that of a nature essentially pure and disinterested, deriving its strength entirely from goodness and Vi PREFACE. thoiiglit, not overcoming evil by the force of will, but escaping it by an insensibility to its approach,— vividly conscious of existence and its pleasures, yet willing to lay them down at the call of duty,— is scarcely capable of being rendered sufficiently striking in itself, or of being subjected to such agitations, as tragedy requires in its heroes. It was farther necessary, in order to involve such a character in circumstances which might excite terror, or grief, or joy, to introduce other machinery thiin that of passions working naturally within, or events arising from ordinary and probable motives without ; as its own elements would not supply the contests of tragic emotion, nor would its sufferings, howeyer accumulated, present a vaiicd or impressive picture. Recourse has therefore been had, not only to the old Grecian notion of Destiny, apart from all moral agencies, and to a prophecy indicating its purport in reference to the individuals involved in its chain, but to the idea of fascination, as an engine by which Fate may work its pur- poses on the innocent mind, and force it into terrible action, most uncongenial to itself, but necessary to the issue. Either perhaps of these aids might have been permitted, if used in accordance with the entire spirit of the piece ; but the employ- ment of both could not be justified in a drama intended for visual presentation, in which a certain verisimilitude is essential to the faith of the spectator. Whether any groups, surrounded with the associations of the Greek mythology, and subjected to the capricious laws of Greek superstition, could be endowed by PllEFACK. VII genius itself with such present life as to awaken the sympathies of an English audience, may well be doubted ; but it cannot be questioned that except by sustaining a steru unity of pur- pose, and breathing an atmosphere of Grecian sentiment over the whole, so as to render the picture national and coherent in all its trails, the effect must be unsatisfactory and unreal. Conscious of my inability to produce a work thus justified to the imagination by its own completeness and power, I have not attempted it; but have sought, out of mere weakness, for " Fate and metaphysical aid" to "crown withal" the ordinary persons of a romantic play. I have, therefore, asked far too much for a spectator to grant; but the case is different with the reader, who does not seek the powerful excitements of the theatre, nor is bound to a continuous attention ; and who, for the sake of scattered sentiments or expressions which may please him, may, at least by a latitude of friendly allowance, forgive the incongruities of the machinery by which the story is conducted. This drama may be described as the phantasm of a tragedy, — not a thing of substance mortised into the living rock of humanity, — and therefore incapable of exciting that interest which grows out of human feeling, or of holding that permanent place in the memory, which truth only can retain. As this attempt at dramatic composition is not submitted to the public, but intended only for the perusal of friends, it may not be deemed an intrusion on their indulgence, if I state, on mv own behalf, the circumstances under which it was written, Viii PREFACE. and the motives which induce me, at this time, to seek for it that partial circulation to which alone it is fitted. There are few perhaps among those who have written for the press, predominant as that majority now is over the minority of mere readers, who have not, at some season of their lives, contemplated the achievement of a tragedy. The narrow aud well-defined limits by which the action of tragedy is circum- scribed — the various affections which may live, and wrestle, and suffer within these palpable boundaries — its appeal to the sources of grief con>mon to humanity on the one hand, and to the most majestic shapings of the imagination on the other, softening and subduing the heart to raise and to ennoble it, — and perhaps, more than all, the vivid presentment of the forms in which the strengths and weaknesses of our nature are em- bodied, its calamities dignified, and its high destiny vindicated, even in the mortal struggle by which for a season it is van- quished, — may well impress every mind, reaching, however feebly, towards the creative, with a fond desire to imitate the great masters of its " so potent art." This desire has a power- ful ally in the exuberant spirits of youth, when the mind, unchilled by the sad realities of life, searches out for novelty in those forms of sorrow, from whicli it afterwards may turn for relief to the flickerings of mirth, and to brief snatches of social pleasure. Perhaps " gorgeous Tragedy " left a deeper impression when she passed " sweeping by " my intellectual vision, than would have been otherwise received by a mind PREFACE. IX unapt for so high a correspondence, by reason of the accitleiit that the glimpse was stolen. Denied by the conscientious scruples of friends an early acquaintance with plays, 1 had derived from Mrs, IVl ore's Sacred Dramas my tirst sense of that peculiar enjoyment which the idea of dramatic action, however imperfectly conveyed, gives; and stiff and cumbrous as they now seem, T owe to their author that debt of gratitude which many perhaps share with me, who have first looked on the world of literature through the net-work of most sincere, but exclusive opinions. These gave, however, but dim hints of the greatness which was behind ; — I looked into the domain of tragedy as into a mountain region covered with mist and cloud ; — and inca|)able of appreciating the deep humanities of Shakspeare, " rested and expatiated " in the brocaded grandeurs of Dryden, Rowe, and Addison. To describe the delight with which, for the first time, I saw the curtain of Covent Garden Theatre raised for the representation of Cato, would be idle, — or how it was sustained during the noble performance which followed, when the vision of Roman con- stancy and classic grace which had haunted the mind through all its schoolboy years (then drawing to a close) seemed bodied forth in palpable form, — when the poor common-places of an artificial diction flowed "mended from the tongue" of the actor, and the thoughtful words trembling on his lips suggested at once the feeling of earthly weakness and of immortal hope, — and when the old Stoic, in his rigid grandeur, was re- X PRKFACE. conciled to the human heart by the struggle of paternal love, and became " passion'd as ourselves," without losing any portion of that statue-like dignity vt'hich made him the repre- sentative of a world of heroic drearaings. After this glimpse of the acted drama, I was long haunted by the idle wish to write a tragedy, and many hours did 1 happily, but vainly spend in sober contemplations of its theme. I tried to wreathe several romantic and impossible stories, which I fashioned in my evening walks into "flcts, and began to write a scene ; but however pleased I might be with the outline of these fantasies, I was too much disgusted with the alternate baldness and fustian of the blank verse which 1 produced in the attempt to execute them, to proceed. At this time also, just as the laborious avocations of my life were commencing, my taste and feeling, as applied to poetry, underwent an entire change, consequent on my becoming acquainted with the poetry of Wordsworth, That power which, slighted and scoffed at as it was then, has since exerted a purifying in- fluence on the literature of this country, such as no other individual power has ever wrought; which has not only given to the material universe " a speech and a language " before unheard, but has opened new sources of enjoyment even in the works of the greatest poets of past days, and imparted a new sense by which we may relish them ; — which, while on the one hand it has dissipated the sickly fascinations of gaudy phraseo- logy, has, on the other, cast around the lowliest conditions a PREFACE, XI new and exciiiisite light, and traced out the links of good by which all human things are bound together, and clothed our earthly life in ihe solemnities which belong to its origin and its destiny — humbled the pride of my swelling conceits, and taught nie to look on the mighty works of genius, not with the pre- sumption of an imitator, but with the veneration of a child. For the early enjoyment of this great blessing, which the sneers of popular critics might otherwise have withheld from me for years, I am indebted to my friend Mr. Baron Field, now filling a judicial situation at Gibraltar, who overcame my reluctance to |)eruse what the Edinburgh Review had so triumphantly derided. The love of contemplative poetry thus inspired, led me, in such leisure as 1 could attain, rather to ponder over the sources of the profoundest emotions, or to re- gard them as associated with the majestic forms of the universe, than to follow them into their violent conflicts and mournful ca- tastrophes ; and although T never ceased to regard the acted drama as the most delightful of recreations, I sought no longer to work out a frigid imitation of writers, whom alone T could hope to copy, and whose enchantments were dissipated by more genial magic. But the tragic drama was about to revive among us, and J was not insensible to its progress. Although the tragedies of the last twelve years are not worthy to be compared with the noblest productions of the great age of our drama, they are, with two or three exceptions, far superior to any which had xii PREFACE. been written in tlie interval. Since the last skirts of the glory of Shakspeare's age disappeared, we shall search in vain for serious plays of equal power and beauty with Viryiuhis, William Tell, Mirandola, Rienzi, or the Merchant of London, — at least if we except Venice Preserved for the admirable conduct of its story, and Doufflas for that romantic tenderness and pathos which have been too little appreciated of late years. It happened to me to be intimately acquainted with all those who contributed to this impulse; and to take an im- mediate interest in their successes. I also enjoyed the friend- ship of the delightful artist to whom all have by turns been in- debted for the realization of their noblest conceptions, and was enabled to enjoy with more exquisite relish the home-born affection with which these were endued, and the poetical grace breathed around them, by finding the same influences shed by Mr. Macready over the sphere of his social and domestic life. It will not be surprising that, to one thus associated, the old wish to accomplish something in dramatic shape should recur, not accompanied by the hope of sharing in the scenic triumphs of his friends, but bounded by the possibility of conducting a tale through dialogue to a close, and of making it subserve to the expression of some cherished thoughts. In this state of feeling, some years ago, the scheme of the drama of Ion presented itself to me ; and, after brooding over it for some time, I wrote a prose outline of its successive scenes nearly in the order and to the eflect in which they are now PRKFACE. Xlll coniplt'ted, and mudv some progress in an opening scene ot which little now remains. The attempt was soon laid aside; for I found the composition of dramatic blank verse even more difficult now that i had present to me the ease and vividness of my friends, than when I had been contented to emulate the ponderous lines of the dramatists of Garrick's age. Still the idea of my hero recurred to me often : I found my pleasantest thoughts gathering about him ; and rather more than two years ago I determined to make one essay more. Since that time such seasons of leisure as I could find have b sages of Argos. TiMOCLES, J Irus, a boy, slave of Agenor. Clemanthe, Medon's daughter. Abra, attendant on Clemanthe. Scene. — Argos. The Time of the Action is comprised in one day and night, and the following morning. ACT THE FIRST. ION; TRAGEDY. ACT 1. SCENE T. The Interior of the Ternjjle of Apollo, which is supposed to be placed on a rocky eminence. Early morning. The interior lighted hy a single lamp sus- pended from the roof. Ac EN OR 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 I These hours Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear 4 ION;ATRAGEDY. 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 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 5 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 O N ; A T R A G E D y. 1 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 hunitm 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 iRVS. Arc there signs of day-break I IRUS. None ; The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom. AGKNOR. 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. Has care alighted on a head so young ! ON; A TRACED Y. 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 1 forgot to dry them. But I see Cleon is walking yonder ; let me c«ll him ; For sure 'twill cheer thy heart to speak with him. 8 ION;ATRAGEDY. 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 touffh Grief cannot palsy them ; I chide the air ION; A TRAGEDY. 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. CLROTS. Grant me pardon 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 10 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 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, Ton The only inmate of this fane allowed 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 I 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 Huth his clear spirit vanquish'd ; — Love, the germ ION;ATRAGEDY. 11 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, atul others have wax'd loud In righteous indignation, he hath heard With sceptic smile, or from some sleiuler 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 deptfj the beautiful and pure Alone are mirror'd ; which, though shapes of ill 12 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 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 niiss'd thy wonder. His form appears dilated ; in these 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 warrior of heroic mould Paced them in armour. I O N ; A T U A G E D Y. 13 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 I 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 I No ! 'Tis human guilt that blackens in the cloud, Flashes athwart its mass in jagged fire, Whirls in the hurricane, pollutes the air. 14 ION; A TRAGEDY. 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 — Tiniocles : Something hath ruflQed him.— Good day, Timocles ! [TiMOCLES passes in J) out. He will not speak to us. ION; A TRAGEDY. 15 AGENOR. But he shall speak. Tiraocles — 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, 1 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? 16 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. TIMOCLES. 1 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 ! ION; A TRAGEDY. 17 Enter Ton. 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 vt^ith unmanner'd zeal To guard the ripe experiences of years From one rash moment's danger. TIMOCLES. Leave thy care. If I am weary of the tlutterer 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 B 18 ION; A TRAGEDY. Those thousand meshes which old custom weaves 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 unterapted : — do not lose The great occasion thou hast pluck'd from misery. Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair, But use it nobly ! TIMOCLKS. What, to strike ? to slay ? ION. No ! — not unless the audible voice of Heaven Call thee to that dire office ; but to shed ION ; A TRAG EDY. 19 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 spirit 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. 20 ION; A TRAGEDY. 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 strugglin;^ 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 — ION; A TRAGEDY. 21 But help achieved in blood. ION. Sayst thou in blood i 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 wretcbedest of all ? 22 ION; A TRAGEDY. TIMOCLES. Aud canst thou pity him f 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 I ION;ATRAGEDY. 23 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 1. TIMOCLES. And I- lON. O 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 24 ION; A TRAGEDY. Befits the lip of Phoebus ; — 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 ! ION ; A TRAGEDY. 25 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 ? 26 ION; A TRAGEDY. 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. [Elxeunt. ION; A TRAGEDY. 27 SCENE II. An apartment of the Temple. Enter CLEMANTliii followed hy A BRA. CLEMANTHl-;. Is he so changed I A BRA. 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 \ 28 ION; A TRAGEDY. Me he forgets already ; for five days. Five melancholy days, 1 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 '11 leave you. [Exit. CLEMANTHE. Stay ! Well my heart may guard its secret best By its own strength. I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 29 Enter loN. ION. How fares my pensive sister i 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 draiu'd by fever'd lips, :3() ION; A TRAGEDY. 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 deathbed of the rich, To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near and feels. CLEMANTHE. O 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; A TRAG EDY. 31 ION. No, Clemanthe ; They are the patient sorrows that touch nearest ! If thou hadst seen the warrior while 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. 32 ION;ATRAGEDY. 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; A TRAGEDY. 33 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 ! c 34 ION, A TRAGEDY. I shall not bear his presence if thou fullest 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 I 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. ION; A TRAGEDY. 35 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, T 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 mid perilous duty which hath press'd 36 ION;ATRAGEDY. 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 I 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 endow'd me with the right to claim Thy help through this our journey, be its course ION;ATRAGEDY. 37 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. CLEM-ANTHE. 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. 38 ION;ATRAGEDY. 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 hears Clemanthe out. Ye Gods, that have enrich'd the life ye claim With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it ! [Exit. END OF ACT I. ACT THE SECOND. ACT II. SCENE I. A Terrace of the Palace. ADRASTUS, CRYTHES. ADRASTUS. The air breathes freshly after our long night Of glorious revelry. I '11 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 42 ION; A TRAGEDY. 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 ION; A TRAGEDY. 43 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 v\ ish, 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 : 1 '11 henceforth feast alone. 44 ION; A TRAGEDY. Enter a Soldier. SOLDIER. M3? liege, forgive me. ADRASTUS. Well ! Speak out at once Tby 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 ION;ATRAGEDY. 45 Enter' (1 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. 46 ION;ATRAGEDY. ADKASTUS. 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 ur^ed his suit. ION;ATRAGEDY. 47 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 ttiust 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 birth- place, To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd ; And if he cross von threshold, he shall die. 48 ION;ATRAGEDY. 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:ATRAGEDY. 49 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, D 50 ION; A TR AG EDY. I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant, Come without word and lead him to his doom. Now leave us. CRYTHES. What, alone t 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 I I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 51 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. 52 ION; A TRAGEDY. 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 fathers' 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 ION; A TRAGEDY. o3 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 ! Mail'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. O, 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 ; despoil'd my life Of innocence and hope — all but the sword 54 ION; A TRAGEDY. 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 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 55 Were ruffled with the troubiing-s 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 etherial 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, 56 ION; A TRAGEDY. 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? loN. , 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 ecstacies; Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun. And welcome thundered from a thousand throats. ION;ATRAGEDY. 57 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 — 58 I O N ; A T U A G E D Y. 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 ION;ATRAGEDY. o9 From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrunk When mine has 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 60 ION; A TRAGEDY. A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it, Or, deck'd for slaughter at their monarch'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 ? ION; A TRAGEDY. (51 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 stayed 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 02 I O N ; A T R A G E J) Y. 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 ecstacies of passion'd years, Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain Fate's iron grapple ! Could 1 now behold That son with knife uplifted at ray heart, A moment ere my life-blood foUow'd it, I would embrace him with my dying eyes, And pardon destiny ! While jocund smiles Wreathed on the infant's 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 ION; A TRAGEDY. (>0 As stricken into stone : I heard him cry, Press'd by the rudeness of the murderers' 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 cJiildish. Enter Crythes and Guards. ADRASTUS. Why art thou here ? (>4 I O N ; A T R A G E I) Y. CRYTHES. The dial points the hour, ADRASTUS. Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd i 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 roH'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; A TRAGEDY. G5 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. — Benigntint 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 E 06 ION;ATRAGEDY. The course of liberal speech, and, if it rise So as too loudly to offend my ear. Strike the rash brawler dead 1 — what idle dream Of long-past days had melted me ? It fades — It vanishes — I am again a king I ION;ATRAGEDY. 67 SCENE II. The interior of the Temple. [Same as Act I. Scene I.] [Clemanthe sea^e^/— 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. 68 ION;ATRAG EDY. Haply thy voice may rouse her. AGRNOR. Dear Clemanthe, Hope (lawns 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 ? MKDON. No. ION;ATRAGEDY. G9 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 ! [Clemanthk rises and rushes to the back of the stage, at ivhich Ion appears, and returns with him.^ 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 Jiis blood ! — why pause ye, Why shout ye not his welcome I MEDON. Dearest girl, This is no scene for thee ; go to thy chamber, I '11 come to thee ere long. \^Elxeunt Cl/EManthe and Abra.] She is o'erwrought 70 lONjATRAGEDY. 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 U)N ; \ TK AG ED Y. 'A Plead with the silent emphasis of years. [Exeunt all but Medon aud Ton. 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. 72 ION; A TRAGEDY. 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; A TRAGEDY. 73 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 1 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, 74 ION; A TRAGEDY. 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 i PHOCION. I have : Now let Adrastus tremble ! MEDON. May we hear it ? PHOCION. I am sworn first to utter it to him. ION;ATRAGEDY. 75 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 70 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 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 knowest 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. PHOCIUN. Thou wert absent ? Yes ! For the proud miscreant lives ! ION; AT RAGED Y. 77 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 bi'ow 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 78 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 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 stedfast gaze — ray 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, O, give allowance to his soften'd nature 1 ION;ATRAGEDY. 79 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 for the shows Of outward strength that builds up tyranny. 80 ION;ATRAGEDY. 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 splendor, 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 ! ION; A T R A G E D Y. 81 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 ! lExeunt. 82 ION;ATRAGEDY. 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 ? 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. ION;ATRAGEDY. 83 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 g^auds 84 ION;ATRAGEDY. 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 th& earth with us In penitential shame ; or, if this power Hath left a heart made weak by luxury And hard by pride, thou had at least the power To cease the mockery of thy frantic revels. I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 85 ADRASTUS. I have yet power to puuish 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 heavealy breeze That no ignoble vapour from the vale Could mingle with — smit by the flaming marl And lighted for destruction ? How it stood 8G ION;ATRAGEDY. 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 splendors 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 I So shall the royalty of Argos pass In festal blaze to darkness. Plave ye spoken I AGENOR, 1 speak no more to thee ! — Great Jove, look down ! l^Shoutinr/ lailhout.^ ADRASTUS. What factious brawl is this? — disperse it, soldiers. lONjATRAGEDY. 87 [Shoutinr/ renewed - As some of the soldiers are about to march, Phocion rushes in, followed hy Ctesiphon, Ion, and Medon.] Whence is this insolent intrusion ? PHOCION. King ! I bear Apollo's answer to thy prayer. ADKASTUS. Has not thy travel taught thy knee its duty ? Here we had school'd thee better. PHOCION. Kneel to thee ! MEDON. PatieucC; my son ! Do homage to the king. 88 fION;ATRAGEDY. PHOCION. Never ! — thou (alk'st of schooling — ^know, Adrastiis, 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 dnngeons ; 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 the love that softens. ADRASTUS. Peace ! speak thy message. PHOCION, Shall I tell it here ? ION; A TRAGEDY. 89 Or sball I seek thy couch at dead of night And breathe it in low whispers?- -As thou wilt. ADRAsrus. 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 j^pollo's messenger, whose lips 90 ION;ATRAGEDY. Were never stain'd with falsehood. PHOCION. Come on, all ! AG EN OR. Surround him, friends ! Die with him ! ADRASTUS. Soldiers, charge Upon these rebels; hew them down. On, on ! The soldiers advance and surround the j^^ople ; they seize Phocion. Ion rushes from the hack 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; ION ; 4 TRAGEDY. 01 Enrage liini not — wait while I speak a word — [To Adrastus.] M}? sovereign, I implore thee, do not stain This sacred place with blood ; in Heaven's great name 1 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 standust here, 92 ION; A TRAG EDY. Wilt thou lie stiff and weltering in thy blood, - The vision presses on me now. ADRASTl ;S. Art mad ? Resign my 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 i^edestal. 'Tis seal'd ! MEDON. Let us withdraw, and strive By sacrifice to pacify the gods ! ION; A TRAGEDY. 93 Me DON, AGi':NOR, and Councillors retire: they leave CtE8IPHon, Phogion, and Iom. Ion still stands apart, as rapt 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 94 ION; A TRAGEDY. Will I bring friends to meet thee. Shall we speak To yon rapt youth ? ^pointing to loN. 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 ION;ATRAGEDY. 95 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. END OF ACT II. ACT THE THIRD. ACT III. SCENE I. A terrace of the Temple. CLHMANTHK, ION. CLiiMANTHE. Nay, I must chide this sorrow from thy brow, Or 'twill rebuke my happiness ; — I know Too well the miseries that hem us round ; And yet the inward sunshine of my soul. Unclouded by their melancholy shadows, Bathes in its deep tranquillity one image — One only image, which no outward storm Can ever ruffle. Let me wean thee, then. From this vain pondering o'er the general woe. Which makes my joy look ugly. 100 ION; A TRAGEDY. ION. No, my fair one. The gloom that wrongs thy love is unredeem'd By generous sense of others' woe : too sure It rises from dark presages within. And will not from me. CLEMANTHE. Then it is most groundless ! Hast thou not won the blessings of the perishing By constancy, the fame of which shall live "While a heart beats in Argos ? — hast thou not Upon one agitated bosom pour'd The sweetest peace ? and can thy generous nature. While it thus sheds felicity around it, B.emain itself unbless'd ? I (^ N . 1 strove awhile To think the assured possession of thy love I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 101 With too divine a burthen weigh'd my heart And press'd my spirits down ; — but 'tis not so ; Nor will I with false tenderness beguile thee. By feigning that my sadness has a cause So exquisite. Clemanthe ! thou wilt find me A sad companion ; — I who knew not life, Save as the sportive breath of happiness, Now feel my minutes teeming, as they rise, With grave experiences ^ I dream no more Of azure realms where restless beauty sports In myriad shapes fantastic ; but black vaults In long succession open till the gloom Afar is broken by a streak of fire That shapes my name — the fearful wind that moans Before the storm articulates its sound ; And as I pass'd but now the solemn range Of Argive monarchs, that in sculptured mockery Of present empire. sit, their eyes of stone Bent on me instinct with a frightful life That drew me into fellowship with them, mnv -o-RMiis: 102 ION; A TRAGEDY. As conscious marble ; while their ponderous lips — Fit organs of eternity — unclosed, And, as I live to tell thee, murmur'd " Hail ! Hail ! Ion the Devoted ! " CLEMANTHE. These are fancies, Which thy soul, late expanded with great purpose, Shapes, as it quivers to its natural circle In which its joys should lurk, as in the bud The cells of fragrance cluster. Bid them from thee, And strive to be thyself. ION. I will do so ! I '11 gaze upon thy loveliness, and drink Its quiet in ; — how beautiful thou art ! — My pulse throbs now as it was wont ; — a being, Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it. Cannot show darkly. ION; A TR AG EDY. 103 CLEMANTHE. We shall soon be happy ; My father will rejoice to bless our love, And Argos waken ; — for her tyrant's course Must have a speedy end. ION. It must ! It must ! CLEMANTHE. Yes ; for no empty talk of public wrongs Assails him now ; keen hatred and revenge Are roused to crush him. ION. Not by such base agents May the august lustration be achieved : He who shall cleanse his country from the guilt For which Heaven smites her, should be pure of soul, 104 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. Guileless as infancy, and undist.urb'd By personal anger as thy father is, When, with unswerving hand and piteous eye. He stops the brief life of the innocent kid Bound with white fillets to the altar ; — so Enwreathed by fate the royal victim heaves, And soon his breast shall shrink beneath the knife Of the selected slayer ! CLEMANTHE. 'Tis thyself Whom thy strange language pictures— Ion ! thou- lON. She has said it ! Her pure lips have spoken out What all things intimate ; — didst thou not mark Me for the office of avenger — me ? CLEMANTHE. No ; — save from the wild picture that thy fancy — Thy o'erwrought fancy drew ; I thought it look'd ION; A TRAGEDY. 105 Too like tlice, and I shuddered. ION. So do I ! And yet T almost wish I shudder'd more, For the dire thought has grown familiar with me — Could I escape it ! CLEMANTHE. 'Twill away in sleep. ION. No, no ! I dare not sleep — for well I know That then the knife will gleam, the blood will gush, The form will stiffen ! — 1 will walk awhile In the sweet evening light, and try to chase These fearful images away. CLEMANTHE. Let me Go with thee. O, how often hand in hand lOG ION; A TRAGEDY. In such a lovely light have we roam'd westward Aimless and blessed, when we were no more Than playmates : — surely we are not grown stranger Since yesterday ! ION. No, dearest, not to-night : The plague yet rages fiercely in the vale, And I am placed in grave commission here To watch the gates ; — indeed thou must not pass ; I will be merrier when we meet again, — Trust me, my love, I will ; farewell ! [Exit loN. CLEMANTHE. Farewell then ! How fearful disproportion shows in one Whose life hath been all harmony ! He bends Towards that thick covert where in blessed hour My father found him, which has ever been His chosen place of musing. Shall I follow ? Am I already grown a selfish mistress, ION; ATRAGEDY. 107 To watch his solitude with jealous eye, And claim him all ? That let me never be — Yet danger from within besets him now, Known to me only — I will follow him. lExit. 108 ION; A TRAGEDY. SCENE II. An opening in a deep wood — in front an old grey altar Enter loN. ION. O winding pathways, o'er whose scanty blades Of unaspiring grass mine eyes have bent So often when my musing fancy sway'd. That craved alliance with no wider scene Than your fair thickets border'd, but was pleased To deem the toilsome years of manhood flown, And, on the pictured mellowness of age Idly reflective, image my return From careful wanderings, to find ye gleam With unchanged aspect on a heart unchanged, And melt the busy past to a sweet dream As then the future was ; — why should ye now Echo my steps with melancholy sound ION; A THAGEDY. 109 As ye were conscious of a guilty presence ? The lovely light of eve, that, as it waned, Touch'd ye with softer, homelier look, now fades In dismal blackness ; and yon twisted roots Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms My thoughts grew humorous, look terrible. As if about to start to serpent life. And hiss around me ; — whither shall I turn — Where fly ? — I see the myrtle-cradled spot Where human love instructed by divine Found and embraced me first ; I '11 cast me down Upon that earth as on a mother's breast, In hope to feel myself again a child, [Ion goes into the wood. £w. 5546 THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara Goleta, California THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE jgesrr"— STAMPED BELOW. A.VA iyA^TrR~-g:QJl^.^-- )»i-8,'60(B2594s4)476 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A A 001 425 739 8