-«K-^ 
 
 ^TM 
 
 '**^^=^
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD 
 ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 A..HOI-DEN, 
 
 New tc SECONDKxUO 
 
 BOOKSeLLCR. 
 
 SO HI&M STPCeT. 
 
 EXETER.

 
 ^^v
 
 TRAGEDIES; 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED 
 
 A FEW SONNETS AND VERSES.
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED 
 
 A FEW SONNETS AND VERSES. 
 
 BY T. N. TALFOURD, 
 
 5ERJEA>rr-AT-LAVV. 
 
 'I left no calling for this idle trade, 
 No duty broke."— Pop B. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXLIV.
 
 tOXDON : 
 BR^DBl^RV AND EVANS, PRIXTERS, V\'HITSFR!AHS,
 
 A/ 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 
 
 L\ publishing the following Dramas in a cheap and 
 compact form, I have little to express except my thanks 
 for the indulgence which has been extended towards 
 them. If I had felt at liberty to alter them, I should 
 have been tempted to do more than con-ect some verbal 
 errors, and curtail a few palpable redundancies of lan- 
 guage ; but I feel that when a work has been once fairly 
 presented to the public, and, to the full extent of the 
 author's hopes, accepted, he is no longer at liberty to 
 treat it as exclusively his own ; and, therefore, I have 
 confined my own coiTections within the narrow limit I 
 have suggested. In addition to the few sonnets which 
 accompanied the former editions, I have collected a few 
 more which have appeared in periodical works, and 
 added some verses which have not been before printed. 
 
 Here I might close this preface — as the slender matters 
 which have reference to each Drama have been noticed 
 in the Advertisement prefixed to each — if I did not think 
 that I ought not to allow the present occasion to pass 
 without noticing a misconception of the author of '' The 
 Hungarian Daughter," which, although not perhaps calling 
 for a separate protest, and certainly not justifying any 
 
 7G5?32
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 hostile remark, should not pass unnoticed in a collected 
 edition which includes the passage on which it is founded. 
 Mr. Stephens — an author endowed with real tragic 
 power, though not perhaps always adapting it to the 
 purposes of theatrical representation — sharing with other 
 Dramatic Poets the strong and natural desire of seeing 
 works designed for the stage presented upon it — seems to 
 have divided the plays of the present day into two classes, 
 "tlie acted'''' and the " tmacted,^* as if the distinction 
 implied some essential difference in merit or kind, and 
 not a mere difference of fortune ; and to have sought for 
 the latter a great pre-eminence in critical opinion over the 
 former. To the enunciation of this opinion, or to its main- 
 tenance by a comparison of my own dramas with tragedies 
 which have not been acted, however much to my disad- 
 vantage, I have no right to object ; — but I do object to 
 being elevated into a position of authority to which I have 
 no claim, and then regarded as expressing an opinion on 
 the works of others which it would have been impertinent 
 in me to offer. The passage is as follows : — " Were I to 
 affirm that, in my opinion, the unacted drama of this coun- 
 tiy at the present day is of a higher order than that 
 which finds its way unto the stage, such a declaration 
 would be veiy likely ascribed to prejudice, but Mr. Serjeant 
 Talfourd has most handsomely proclaimed the same truth ; 
 and from his competence, in every point of view, to set 
 the question at rest, I should presume there can be no 
 appeal."* The reference intended is, I presume, to the 
 
 * Preface to the " Hungarian Daughter," p. 19.
 
 PREFACR Vii 
 
 advertisement prefixed to the second edition of " Glen- 
 coe,"* which had been published shortly before the ap- 
 pearance of " The Hungarian Daughter," as I am uncon- 
 scious of having written anything else which bears on 
 the subject. Having seen the production and the success 
 of "Ion" and ''The Athenian Captive" attributed to 
 personal circumstances, I was desirous of stating that 
 "Glencoe" had been accepted as the work of a stranger by 
 the manager and actors, and had passed the ordeal of its 
 first representation before the disclosure of the author's 
 name ; and in making this statement I expressed the reason 
 for intruding personal matters on the public as follows : — 
 " As I am conscious that this Play has been produced at 
 a time when dramatic productions, superior to it in many 
 of the essentials of the species of composition, have recently 
 issued from the press, I think it due to the management 
 of the Haymarket Theatre and to Mr. IMacready to state 
 the exact truth respecting it." It is true that I intended 
 to express my conviction that this particular work — 
 while I might depreciate without ofi"ence — was inferior 
 in many respects to Plays not then acted, as (among others) 
 to Mr. Home's " Cosmo de Medici " — to Mr. Stephens' 
 own dramas — and to "Athelwold," " Nina Sforza," 
 and " The Blot on the 'Scutcheon," which have since 
 been represented, but I did not presume to apply the 
 same comparison to other authors of acted Plays — as 
 Knowles, Bulwer, Jerrold, or the author of " The Provost 
 of Bruges." It may be permitted to writers who, like 
 
 * Post, p. 156.
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 Mr, Stephens, are conscious of power which has not ob- 
 tained the fair opportunity of trial before living audiences, 
 to console themselves by the expression of their belief 
 that, " with the exception of a few modern tragedies ivhich 
 cannot get represented, the hundred and eighty years 
 since the adoption of the odious monopoly has not pro- 
 duced a single Play that will live at the present cen- 
 tury ; " * but it would ill become one whose dramatic 
 efforts have obtained their full measure of attention, to 
 sit thus in judgment on those of his contemporaries who 
 have not only attained splendid theatrical success, but 
 high and lasting renown. I may be allowed to add that, 
 while I am not only content but happy to attribute much 
 of the success of the two first Dramas to personal regards, 
 I feel that it was an honest success ; for, believing that 
 the liberal issue of orders has conduced greatly to impair 
 the love for the Drama, and to impoverish the managers 
 of theatres, I have always declined to solicit or use them ; 
 and have never obtained, or written, or given one on any 
 representation of either of my Plays. 
 
 In the Preface to "Glencoe," which was no doubt 
 imperfectly recollected by Mr. Stephens, when he invested 
 me with so unmerited an authority, I expressed my con- 
 currence in the demand which he and other Dramatists 
 made for the removal of all legislative restrictions on the 
 performance of Plays, and my hope that it might produce 
 the consequence they expected, in greatly facilitating the 
 representation of new Dramas. While I acquiesced in the 
 
 * Preface to " The Hungarian Daughter," page 21.
 
 PREFACE. ix 
 
 justice of this clainij I cherished no sanguine hope that 
 its success would produce the expected results ; because 
 I knew that there was a monopoly, not of the Law's 
 making, and beyond the Law's redress — a monopoly of 
 the power of representing tragic passion and suffering, 
 limited to a very few artists, which no legislation can 
 remedy. 
 
 The demands of Dramatists has been granted — the legal 
 monopoly is entirely overthrown ; every theatre within 
 the Bills of Mortality may obtain the right of representing 
 the legitimate drama ; but what is the result ? Alas ! it 
 has only been the annihilating the distinction between the 
 two classes of Dramatists, for the benefit of neither ; for 
 all our Drama is unacted now ! And thus it must con- 
 tinue, until the art of acting shall revive, and the 
 Dramatist shall possess not only a right to "a free stage," 
 but obtain actors to render it vital. 
 
 In the meantime I rejoice in the conviction that the 
 genius of our country has assumed a dramatic form, and 
 has been developed in tragedies of a high order ; some of 
 which have been acted ; others are incapable of being acted ; 
 md others will be acted, when actors of true passion shall 
 De found, but not with real success till then. Excluding 
 Tom consideration the noble dramatic poems of Taylor 
 md Darley, which are written in express repudiation of an 
 '.ctual stage, and those of Smith, Troughton and Marston, 
 vhich have been embodied upon it, there remain noble 
 ragedies in print which would do honour to the stage, 
 nd which yet I should regret to see acted in a small 
 phere, with poor accompaniments, and by frigid, illiterate,
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 or ungraceful performers. I would not — to cite one of the 
 noblest instances which our Drama presents — desire to see 
 " Cosmo de Medici," with its images of gay and princely- 
 life, and of colossal sorrow, disfigured by the vapid im- 
 becility of its youths and the mouthing inanity of its great 
 and mournful father. Whether the impulse given to dra- 
 matic poetry will long survive the annihilation of the 
 stage, I fear to conjecture ; and I am not sanguine for the 
 cause of Dramatic Authors, unless a race of actors shall 
 arise to help them. Mr. Home has already turned to 
 the Epic, and consoled us by the noble music and classic 
 imagery, and intense feeling, and starry destiny of his 
 ^ Orion," for the absence of a presentment of dramatic 
 passion and sufi"ering. If the Stage, in spite of its eman- 
 cipation, shall fall to decay, I shall deplore it — ^if it be 
 only for what we shall lose in him, and in the younger 
 genius of Robert BrowTiing — a genius only yet dimly per- 
 ceived, but deeply felt, and which requires and deserves 
 the noble discipline of dramatic conditions. Happy, 
 indeed, shall I be to find the hopes and the struggles 
 of those who have achieved the emancipation of the Stage 
 not lost in the destruction of that for the freedom of 
 which they have fought and conquered ! 
 
 T. N. T. 
 
 LoxDOX, Janl-ary 12, 1844.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Not;ce of the late Dr. Valpy, prefixed to "Ton" . . 3 
 
 Preface to " Ion " 7 
 
 ION— A Tragedy 25 
 
 Dedication of " The Athenian Captive " — to Lord Denman , 98 
 
 Preface to '« The Athenian Captive " • 99 
 
 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE— a Tragedy 106 
 
 Dedication of " Glencoe " — to Lord Jeffrey .... 162 
 
 Advertisement to " Glencoe " 163 
 
 Preface to "Glencoe" , . .166 
 
 GLENCOE— A Tragedy 175 
 
 SONNETS : 
 
 1. Evening Service at Reading School .... 233 
 
 2. The Forbury at Reading 326 
 
 3. On hearing the Shouts of the People at the Reading 
 
 Election, 1826, at a Distance .... 237 
 
 4. View of the Valley of Reading, from Tilehirst, at 
 
 THE close of the ELECTION, 1826 . . . . . 2.'^8 
 
 5. To the Thames at Westminster 239 
 
 6. To the same River 240
 
 xu CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONNETS : 
 
 7. To Mb. Macready, on his performance op "Werner" 241 
 
 8. Fame— the Symbol and Type of iMMORXAi.iTY . . . 242 
 
 9. To Mr. J\Iacreadv, on the Birth of his First Child . 243 
 
 10. To Charles Dickens, on " Oliver Twist" . . . 244 
 
 11. To Miss Adelaide Ke.mble, when about to retire 
 
 FROM THE Stage 245 
 
 12. On the Receftion of Wordsworth at Oxford . . 246 
 
 13. The Memory of the Poets 247 
 
 14. Eton College, surveyed after leaving a Son at 
 
 School for the first time . . . . . . 248 
 
 Alum Bay, Isle of Wight— Lines written at the Needles 
 
 Hotel ......... 249 
 
 Verses in Memory of a Child named after Charles Lamb . 254 
 
 APPENDIX ; 
 
 Addition to the Notice of Dr. Valpy— Presentation of 
 Plate to him on the completion of his Fiftieth 
 Year of Labour as Master of Reading School . 258 
 
 Note to 'The Atheman Captive" 265 
 
 Notes to " Glencoe " ...... 269
 
 ION. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 FIRST ACTED AT COVENT GARDEM THEATRE, 26tH MAY, 1S36.
 
 NOTICE OF THE LATE DR. VALPY, 
 
 PREFIXED INSTEAD OF DEDICATION TO THE FIBST PUBLISHED 
 EDITION OF ION. 
 
 In offering this attempt at dramatic composition to the 
 public at large, I am mournfully reminded of an irre- 
 parable loss by the necessity of omitting a Dedication to 
 one whose name should have graced its opening page. 
 The two Editions which have been privately circulated 
 were inscribed to my venerable and indulgent friend, 
 Dr. Valpy, upon whose long life of kindness Death has 
 since set the final seal. When I ventured to claim for it 
 his protection, I well knew that I might rely upon that 
 charity which lavished its bounties upon every effort of 
 his pupils, for tenderness to its faults, and for generous 
 praise of any merits which the eye of friendship might 
 detect or create. There was also a propriety in seeking 
 this association for a work which was prompted by love 
 of those remains of antique beauty which he had taught 
 me to know and to revere ; which assumed that form of 
 poetry in which he had chiefly delighted ; and which, 
 although meditated in broken hours, and at long inter- 
 vals, had always mingled with the recollections of those 
 happy days, when he first awakened within me the sense 
 of classical grace, and of those after-seasons, when the 
 3 2
 
 4 NOTICE PREFIXED TO ION. 
 
 exquisite representations of Greek Tragedy, which he 
 superintended, made its images vital. He is gone to his 
 rest full of years and honours ; and I cannot receive 
 from him that sanction which he cordially gave me when 
 I presented this drama to my friends, now that I submit 
 it to the judgment of a wider and an impartial circle. 
 Death, which harmonises the pictures of human character, 
 found little in Ms to spiritualise or to soften ; but if it 
 has not enhanced the feeling of his excellences in the 
 minds of those who felt their influence, it has enabled 
 them to express that feeling without the semblance of 
 flattery. It has left them free not only to expatiate on 
 those well-directed labours which have facilitated the 
 access of the young to the elements of sound learning ; 
 on the solemn and persuasive tone of his pulpit elo- 
 quence ; on the steadiness of his attachment to principles 
 adopted with caution, expressed with moderation, yet 
 maintained without a sigh at the cost of the emoluments 
 and honoiirs to which they were obstacles ; but also to 
 revert to that remarkable kindness of disposition which 
 was the secret but active law of his moral being. His 
 nature was not ameliorated nor even characterised, but 
 wholly moulded of Christian love to an entireness of 
 which there are few examples. He had no sense of 
 injury, but as something to be forgiven. The liberal 
 allowance which he extended to all human frailties grew 
 more active when they afl^ected his own interests, and 
 interfered with his own hopes ; so that, however he 
 might reprobate evil at a distance, as soon as it came 
 within his sphere he desired only to overcome it by good. 
 Envy, Hatred, and Malice, were to him mere names, like 
 the figures of a speech in a schoolboy's theme, or the giants 
 in a fairy tale — phaptoms which scarcely touched him with
 
 NOTICE PREFIXED TO ION. 5 
 
 a transient sense of reality. His guileless simplicity of 
 heart was not preserved in learned seclusion, or by a 
 constant watchfulness over the development of youthful 
 powers, (for he found time to mingle frequently in the 
 blameless gaieties and the stining business of life), but by 
 the happy constitution of his owti nature, which passion 
 could rarely disturb, and e\al had no power to stain. His 
 system of education was animated by a portion of his 
 own spirit : it was framed to enkindle and to quicken the 
 best affections, and to render emulation itself subservient 
 to the generous friendships which it promoted. His 
 charity in its comprehensiveness, resembled nothing less 
 than the imagination of the greatest of our poets, em- 
 bracing everything human ; shedding its light upon the 
 just and the unjust ; detecting " the soul of goodness in 
 things e\il ;" stealing rigidity from wtue ; bringing into 
 gentle relief those truths which are of aspect the most 
 benign, and those suggestions and hopes which are most 
 full of consolation ; and attaching itself, in all the various 
 departments of life, to individuals whose childhood it had 
 fostered ; in whose merits its own images were multiplied, 
 or whose errors and sorrows supplied the materials of its 
 most quick and genial action. The hold which the 
 Reading school-boy had upon this chaiity could not be 
 forfeited, even "by slights, the worst of injuries ;" and 
 when broken in fortune, deserted by relatives, and frowned 
 on by the world, he had only to seek the hospitable roof 
 of his old master — "claim kindred there, and have his 
 claims allow'd." By the spirit of cordiality which breathed 
 there, all party differences were melted away, or, if per- 
 ceived at all, served only to render tolerance more vivid ; 
 and when he who had presided there for fifty years left 
 the scene of his generous labours as a permanent abode.
 
 6 NOTICE PREFIXED TO ION. 
 
 it was to diffuse the serenity of a good conscience and 
 the warmth of unchilled affections through the homes of 
 children who were made proud as well as happy by his 
 presence. Such was he to the last, amidst the infirmities 
 which accidents rather than age had accumulated around 
 him ; — the gentlest of monitors, and the most consi- 
 derate of sufferers — until he was withdrawn from those 
 whose minds he had nurtured ; one of whom, who has 
 most cause for gratitude, pays this humble tribute to his 
 memory. 
 
 London, 2Gtk May, 1836.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO THE FOURTH PUBLISHED EDITION OF ION. 
 
 The following Drama, as the readers of two Editions 
 which were printed for private circulation are already 
 aware, was composed and printed without any hope of 
 its being found capable of representation on the stage. Its 
 publication in its present form was cotemporary with its 
 production on the night of Mr. Macready's benefit, 26th 
 of May, 1836 ; and as, at that time, its repetition was not 
 anticipated, it was thought unnecessary to accompany it 
 with any Preface. But as its performance has since been 
 attended with unexpected success both in this country 
 and in America, I may, without impropriety, state the 
 \'iews with which it was written, and indulge myself in 
 the expression of my gratitude to those by whose assistance 
 it has thus far been rendered vital. The first of those 
 pui-poses will be best accomplished by extracting a portion 
 of the Preface to the earliest of the unpublished Editions, 
 which bears date in April, 1835 : — 
 
 " The title of this Drama is borrowed from the Tragedy 
 of Euripides, which gave the first hint of the situation in 
 which its hero is introduced — that of a foundling youth 
 educated in a temple, and assisting in its sei-vices ; but 
 otherwise there is no resemblance between this imperfect
 
 8 PREFACE TO 10^. 
 
 sketch and that exquisite picture. It has been written, 
 not indeed without a view to an ideal stage, which should 
 never be absent from the mind of the humblest aspirant to 
 dramatic composition, but without any hope of rendering 
 it worthy to be acted. If it w^ere 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 disin- 
 terested, deriving its strength entirely from goodness and 
 thought, 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 the 
 fortunes of its heroes. It was further necessary, in order 
 to involve such a character in circumstances which might 
 excite terror or grief or joy, to introduce other machinery 
 than 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, however accumulated, 
 present a varied 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 in- 
 volved in its chain, but to the idea of fascination, as an 
 engine by which Fate may work its purposes on the 
 innocent mind, and force it into terrible action most un- 
 congenial 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
 
 P11EFA.CE TO ION. 9 
 
 employmeut of both could not be justified in a drama in- 
 tended for visual presentation, in which a certain veri- 
 similitude 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 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 stem 
 unity of purpose, and breathing an atmosphere of Grecian 
 sentiment over the whole, so as to render the picture 
 national and coherent in all its traits, 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 tnith only can retain. 
 
 " There are few perhaps among those who have ^^■Titten 
 for the press, predominant as that majority now is over 
 the minority of mere readers, who have not, at some
 
 10 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 season of their lives, contemplated the achievement of a 
 tragedy. The narrow and well-defined limits by which 
 the action of tragedy is circumscribed — the various affec- 
 tions which may live and WTestle, and suffer within those 
 palpable boundaries — its appeal to the sources of grief 
 common 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 
 embodied, its calamities dignified, and its high destiny 
 vindicated, even in the mortal struggle by which for a 
 season it is vanquished, — may well impress every mind, 
 reaching, however feebly, towards the creative, ^\•ith a 
 fond desire to imitate the great masters of its ' so potent 
 art.' This desire has a powerful 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 which it afterwards may turn for relief to 
 the flickerings of mirth, and to brief snatches of social 
 pleasure. Perhaps ' Gorgeous Tragedy ' left a deeper im- 
 pression when she passed ' sweeping by ' my intellectual 
 vision, than would have been other\^-ise received by a 
 mind unapt for so high a correspondence, by reason of the 
 accident that the glimpse was stolen. Denied by the 
 conscientious scmples of friends an early acquaintance 
 with plays, I had derived from Mrs. More's ' Sacred 
 Dramas ' my first sense of that peculiar enjoyment which 
 the idea of dramatic action, however imperfectly con- 
 veyed, gives ; and stiff and cumbrous as they now seem I 
 owe to their author that debt of gratitude, which others 
 may perhaps share with me, who have first looked on the 
 world of literature through the net-work of most sincere
 
 PREFACE TO ION. 11 
 
 but exclusive opinions. These gave, however, but dim 
 limits of the greatness which was behind ; — I looked into 
 the domain of tragedy as into a mountain region covered 
 \\'ith mist and cloud ; — and incapable of appreciating the 
 deep humanities of Shakspeare, ' rested and expatiated ' 
 in the brocaded gi-andeurs of Diyden, Rowe, and Addison. 
 To describe the delight with which, for the first time, 
 I saw the curtain of Covent Garden Theatre raised fox 
 the representation of Cato, would be idle, — or how it was 
 sustained during the noble performance which followed, 
 when the visions of Roman constancy and classic grace, 
 which had haunted the mind through all its schoolboy 
 years (then dra^^-ing to a close), seemed bodied forth in 
 palpable form, when the poor common-places of an arti- 
 ficial 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 reconciled to the human heart by the struggle 
 of paternal love, and became ' passioned as ourselves,' 
 without losing any portion of that statue-like dignity 
 which made him the representative of a world of heroic 
 dreamings. 
 
 " After this glimpse of the acted drama, I was long 
 haunted by the idle wish to write a tragedy ; and many 
 hours did I happily, but vainly, spend in sober con- 
 templations of its theme, I tried to wreathe several 
 romantic and impossible stories, which I fashioned in my 
 evening walks into acts, and began to ■v\Tite a scene ; but 
 however pleased I might be with the outline of these fan- 
 tasies, I was too much disgusted with the alternate bald- 
 ness and fustian of the blank verse, which I produced in 
 the attempt to execute them, to proceed. At this time
 
 12 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 also, just as the laborious avocations of ray life were com- 
 mencing, 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 influence on the literature of this 
 country, such as no other individual power has ever 
 WTOught ; which has not only given to the material uni- 
 verse ' 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 phrase- 
 ology, has, on the other, cast around the loveliest con- 
 ditions a new and exquisite light, and traced out the links 
 of good by which all human things are bound together, and 
 clothed our earthly life in the solemnities which belong to 
 its origin and its destiny — humbled the pride of my 
 swelling conceits, and taught me to look on the mighty 
 works of genius, not with the presumption of an imitator, 
 but with the veneration of a child. For the early enjoy- 
 ment of this gi-eat blessing, which the sneers of popular 
 critics might other^^'ise have withheld from me for years, I 
 am indebted to my friend Mr. Baron Field, a worthy and 
 beloved associate of the most original poets and thinkers 
 of our time, who overcame my reluctance to peruse what 
 the ' Edinburgh Eeview ' had so triumphantly derided. 
 The love of contemplative poetr}'-, thus inspired, led me, 
 in such leisure as I could attain, rather to ponder over 
 the resources of the profoundest emotions, or to regard 
 them as associated with the majestic forms of the 
 universe, than to follow them into their violent conflicts 
 and mournful catastrophes j and although I never ceased
 
 PREFACE TO ION. 13 
 
 to regard the acted drama as the most delightful of 
 recreations, I sought no longer to work out a frigid 
 imitation of ^Titers, whom alone I could hope to copy, 
 and whose enchantments were dissipated by more genial 
 magic. 
 
 '■ But the tragic drama was about to revive amongst us, 
 and I 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 been WTitten in the interval. 
 Since the last skirts of the glory of Shakspeare's age dis- 
 appeared, we shall search in vain for serious plays of equal 
 power and beauty with Virginius, William Tell, Miran- 
 clola, Riensi, or the Merchant of London ; at least, if we 
 except Venice Preserved for the admirable conduct of 
 its story, and Doiigl<is 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 immediate interest in their successes. I also 
 enjoyed the friendship of the delightful artist to whom all 
 have by turns been indebted for the realisation of their 
 noblest conceptions, and was enabled to enjoy with more 
 exquisite relish the home-born affection "with which those 
 were endued, and the poetical grain breathed around them, 
 by finding the same influences shed by ^Ir. Macready 
 over the sphere of his social and domestic life. It will 
 not be surpiising, that, to one thus associated, the old 
 wish to accomplish something in dramatic shape should 
 recur, not accompanied by the hopes of sharing in the 
 scenic triumphs of his friends, but bounded by tlie possi- 
 bility of conducting a tale through dialogue to a close, and
 
 14 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 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 out- 
 line of its successive scenes, nearly in the oixier and to 
 the effect in which they are now completed, and made 
 some progress in an opening scene of which little now 
 remains. The attempt was soon laid aside ; for I found 
 the composition of dramatic blank verse even more diffi- 
 cult 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 occurred to me often ; I found 
 my pleasantest thoughts gathering about him ; and rather 
 more than two years ago 1 determined to make one essay 
 more. Since that time, such seasons of leisure as I could 
 find have been devoted to the work ; but I had so great 
 distrust of my ability to complete it, that I did not 
 mention my design to any one ; and I cannot charge my- 
 self with having permitted it to interfere with any profes- 
 sional or private duty. At the close of last year, I found 
 four acts reduced into form. At this time, the sudden 
 realisation of another youthful dream opened to me the 
 prospect of additional duties, which I knew full well ought 
 to preclude the continuance of those secret flirtations with 
 the Muse in which I had indulged ; and therefore I re- 
 solved to make a last effort, and, by completing my drama 
 before those duties should commence, to free myself from 
 the bondage of those threads of fantastical interest which 
 had woven themselves about my mind. I accordingly wrote 
 the fifth act with far more rapidity than any of the pre- 
 vious passages of my play ; and, before I was called upon 
 to share in more momentous business, I had communicated
 
 PREFACE TO ION. 15 
 
 to a few friends the result of my scribblings, and bade 
 adieu to my dramatic endeavours and hopes. 
 
 " But it may well be asked, Why, with the sense 
 I have confessed of the feebleness of this poetical sketch, 
 I venture to intrude it on my friends ? My chief reason 
 is, that I am anxious to cast from my own mind 
 the associations which have hung about it during the 
 composition of the poem, and which, while it remained 
 in manuscript susceptible of alteration, I could not cer- 
 tainly hope for ; and, further, to preclude the charge, (if 
 it should ever be brought to light hereafter,) that it had 
 occupied leisure which henceforth must be devoted to 
 other studies. I have also a desire to gratify myself by 
 presenting it to my friends, especially to those who are 
 removed to a distance ; because, although as a drama it 
 is unworthy the attention of the world, yet, as containing 
 thoughts which have passed through my o\^ti mind, it 
 may be acceptable to those whose conversation I can no 
 longer enjoy. It would be a sufficient reason to myself 
 for printing it, that I shall be able thus to remind Sir 
 Edward Ryan, now, most honourably to himself, and 
 happily for India, Chief Justice of Bengal, and his excel- 
 lent colleague. Sir Benjamin Malkin, of the delightful 
 hours we have spent together on the Oxford circuit, when 
 life was younger with us, and when some of the topics 
 they will find just touched on in these verses were the 
 themes of our graver walks between Ross and ]\Ionmouth, 
 or in the deep ^^•inding valleys indenting the table-land 
 above Church Stretton, or haply by moonlight in the 
 Churchyard of Ross*. I take leave to mention these, as 
 
 * Since this reference to the friends of my early professional life was 
 written, Sir Edward Ryan has returned to his country to enjoy the just 
 reward of his labours in the East with the dignity of a Privy Councillor,
 
 16 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 far away ; but there are others of my fellow-labourers 
 at home, whose sympathy and whose conversation have 
 cheered my professional life, who I believe ^\i\\ receive 
 it cordially ; and among them I hope my sometime 
 Sessions-leader, who has committed a similar offence, 
 though with more extenuating circumstances, by investing 
 with so much dignity of passion and richness of language 
 the story of the Countess of Essex, will not disdain it." 
 
 With these views Ion was sent to the press, and pre- 
 sented to many of my friends. The favour with which it 
 was received by some, whose approbation was most valu- 
 able, would have induced me at once to publish it, if I 
 had not been withheld by the suggestion of Mr. Macready, 
 that it would be effective in representation, and by the 
 belief that any interest which might be excited by such 
 an attempt would be lessened by its previous sale. The 
 prospect, that, at least for one evening, the dull tracery 
 of thought, silently and laboriously woven, might burst 
 into light at the torch of sympathy and become palpable 
 to the senses and the affections of a multitude, was too 
 delightful to be resigned, and was ultimately realised by 
 the friend who had opened it. His consent to produce 
 the Drama on the night of his benefit secured it against 
 painful repulse ; and, although I had still no expectation 
 that even he could endure it with sufficient interest to 
 render it attractive on ordinaiy occasions, I looked for- 
 ward to its single representation in the belief that it would 
 
 and the satisfaction of accepting with the honour attendant duties, 
 which his judicial ability and experience peculiarly fit liim to discharge. 
 The other, Sir Benjamin Malkin, has been taken from this world in the 
 prime of life, and in the fulness of his powers, — leaving with us the 
 recollection of an intellect as masculine and as refined — of judgment 
 and feeling as discriminating and just — and of social qualities as warm 
 and as equable, as have ever passed, by the mysterious dispensation of 
 Providence, from vigorous exercise into a memory and an example.
 
 PREFACE TO ION. 17 
 
 be tolerated by an audience disposed to be gratified, and 
 that the impression it might leave, however faint, would 
 be genial and pure. Many of those who had expressed 
 the most favourable opinions of the piece as a composition 
 were even less sanguine than myself as to the probable 
 event of the evening, and apprehended that it would ter- 
 minate in their mortification and my own. They did not 
 perceive the possibility of infusing such life into the cha- 
 racter of its youthful hero, as would bring the whole fable 
 within the sphere of human sympathies ; reconcile the 
 audience to its machinerv^ ; and render that which seemed 
 only consistent in its dreaminess, at once entire and real. 
 Such was, however, unquestionably the effect of Mr. Mac- 
 ready's performance on that evening, which I believe, — in 
 the judgment of many who cannot be influenced, like the 
 author, by personal regard or individual gratitude, — was 
 one of the most remarkable triumphs of art which have 
 graced the stage of late years. Although other of his per- 
 formances are abstractedly gTeater, none I believe approach 
 this as an effort of art, estimated with reference to the 
 nature of the materials which he animated, to diffi- 
 culties which he subdued, and to the preconceptions 
 which he charmed away. By the graces of beautiful 
 elocution, he beguiled the audience to receive the Drama 
 as belonging to a range of associations which are no longer 
 linked with the li^-ing world, but which retain an undying 
 interest of a gentler cast, as a thing which might have been : 
 and then, by his fearful power of making the fantastic real, 
 he gradually rendered the whole possible — probable — true ! 
 The consequence of this extraordinary power of vivifying 
 the frigid, and familiarising the remote, was to dissipate 
 the fears of my friends; to render the play an object of 
 attraction during the short remainder of the season ; and 
 

 
 18 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 to embolden others to attempt the part, and encourage 
 other audiences to approve it, even when the power which 
 first gave it sanction was wanting. 
 
 How little it was anticipated that the success of the 
 first performance would justify its repetition, may be 
 gathered from the Prologue, which was spoken on that 
 occasion by Mr. Serle — a gentleman, whose earnest and 
 laborious pursuit of excellence as a dramatic poet and an 
 actor, from early youth I have watched with admiration; 
 whose success I have hailed with delight ; and through 
 whom I was most happy to express my feelings. 
 
 " What airy visions on a play's first night 
 Have flush'd refulgent here on poet's sight ! 
 While emulous of glory's stainless wreath, 
 He felt ' the future in the instant ' breathe : 
 Saw in tlie soften'd gleam of radiant eyes 
 The sacred tear through lids yet tearless rise ; 
 Made to each fervid heart the great appeal 
 To bear him witness— stamp'd with living seal — 
 Of passion into forms of grandeur wrought, 
 Or grief by beauty tinged, or raised by thought : 
 As cordial hands their liberal boon conferr'd. 
 Fame's awful whisper in the distance heard, 
 Now shrunk from nicest fear, from fancied scorn, — 
 Now glow'd with hope for ' ages yet unborn.' 
 
 "With no such trembling sense of inward power 
 Our author seeks to win his little hour, 
 While to your transient glance, he dares unveil 
 The feeble outlines of a Grecian tale. 
 He boasts no magic skill your souls to draw 
 Within the circle of Athenian awe ; 
 Where Fate on all things solemn beauty throws, 
 And shapes heroic mourn in stern repose ; 
 Or to reveal the fame where genius tips 
 With love's immortal lustre heavenly lips,
 
 PREFACE TO ION. 19 
 
 "Where airs divine yet breathe around forms so fair, 
 
 That Time enamoui'd has been charm'd to spare ; 
 
 Nor his the power which deeds of old imbues 
 
 With present life, and tints with various hues ; 
 
 Casts glowing passion in heroic moulds, 
 
 And makes young feelings burn 'neath ancient folds : 
 
 Unlearn'd in arts like these, he seeks to cast 
 
 One faint reflection from the glorious past ; 
 
 A narrow space his fond ambition bounds, — 
 
 His little scenic life this evening rounds ! 
 
 " O ! if some image pure a moment play 
 O'er the soul's mirror ere it pass away ; 
 If from some chance-sown thought a genial nerve 
 Should, heart-strung, quicken virtue's cause to serve ; 
 Let these slight gifts the breath of kindness claim 
 For one night's bubble on the sea of Fame, 
 Which tempts no aid, wliich future praise insures, — 
 But lives — glows — trembles — and expires in yours !" 
 
 The part of the heroine, which affords too little scope 
 for the development of tragic power, was on this night 
 graced by the elegance and the pathos of Miss Ellen Tree, 
 which, as personated on that night, \^'ill long be perpetuated 
 by the genius and taste of Mr. Lane. As her engagements 
 at the Haymarket rendered it impossible for her to repeat 
 the character at Covent Garden, the Drama was indebted 
 to the zeal and good-nature of Miss Helen Faucit for 
 accepting it under these peculiar circumstances, and study- 
 ing it within a few days, and to her talent for giving to it 
 an importance which the author could not hope for from 
 the faintness of its outline. Its subsequent production at 
 the Haymarket calls for a sincere acknowledgment to ^Ir. 
 Morris, the veteran manager of that delightful place of 
 entertainment, and to all the members of his company, 
 especially to Mr. Vandenhoff, for his kingly personation of 
 Adrastus : to Miss Taylor, for her earnest and affecting
 
 20 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 Clemantlie ; and, most of all, to the original representative 
 of the heroine, who now illustrated the hero, and who has 
 made the story of his sufferings and his virtues familiar to 
 Transatlantic ears. Who is there who does not feel proud 
 of the just appreciation, by the great American people, of 
 one who is not only the exquisite representative of a range 
 of delightful characters, but of all that is most gi'aceful and 
 refined in English womanhood, — or fail to cherish a wish 
 for her fame and happiness, as if she were a personal 
 friend or relation of his own 1 
 
 There is one circumstance attendant on the circulation 
 of this Drama, which has afforded me peculiar grati- 
 fication — that it has been read without disapproval by 
 many of those estimable persons whose conscientious 
 scruples withhold them from the theatre, and has won 
 some of them to confess that there is nothing in the form 
 of dramatic poetry necessarily akin to guilty passions and 
 ignoble aims. I am well aware, that it is indebted for this 
 fortune not to any tone of moral feeling superior to that 
 which is to be felt in its more powerful cotemporaries, 
 but to the incidental relations of its author, and to the 
 manner of its original distribution ; and I refer to it, 
 therefore, with pleasure rather than with pride. If such 
 as these are still deterred from sharing in the refined 
 enjoyments of the acted drama, and from permitting 
 their children to receive from it the vivid impressions 
 which it leaves, by a just fear of the accidental influences 
 with which it has been too frequently associated, they 
 may be assured that an opportunity is now offered to them 
 of accepting the benefit without the alloy. They will find 
 one of those great theatres — where alone the mightiest 
 effects of heroic action and suffering can ever be felt, 
 or their greatness fitly presented, — under the direction of
 
 I'REFACE TO ION. 21 
 
 an artist whose personal worth might grace any pro- 
 fession or rank, and who, in seeking to dissipate the lan- 
 guor which has crept over the general heart in reference to 
 the stage, at the sacrifice of his own health and ease, and 
 the risk of his well-earned fortune, has had the virtue and 
 the courage to cast away all vicious appliances, and to 
 discourage every blandishment except those by which Art 
 embodies the conceptions of Genius. To Covent Garden 
 Theatre the sternest moralist may now conduct those 
 whose moral nurture he regards as his most anxious and 
 most delightful duty, without fear lest their minds should 
 be diverted from the blameless gaieties or noble passion 
 of the scene by intrusive suggestions of vice, which he 
 would screen, as far as possible, from their thoughts.* If, 
 indeed, dramatic representation itself is essentially evil ; if 
 it is a crime to render historic truths more vivid by calling 
 forth its august figures from the depth of time and the 
 silence of books, ' in their habits as they lived ; ' if it is 
 a sin to displace the vapidity of conversation, revolving in 
 its own small circle of personal experiences, by presenting 
 the genial eccentricities of character to be at once laughed 
 at and loved, and imagining the graces of society without 
 its bitterness ; if it is an ofi^ence against the Beneficent 
 Author of our Being, ' to hold a mirror up ' to the nature 
 he has moulded, in which its grandest and its fairest 
 
 * The eflFort which, at the time when these remarks were written, 
 was in progress at Covent Garden Theatre, has since been repeated at 
 Drury Lane Theatre, at a more costly sacrifice, and with more perfect 
 success. If the loss nightly incurred by the extinction of those tempta- 
 tions to profligacy, which used to insure a receipt at second price, 
 amounting in the course of the season to a large sum, was not compen- 
 sated by the attendance of many who have shunned the theatre on the 
 plea of their existence, it has at least conclusively shown that there is 
 no inevitable connection between the blandishments which relax and 
 pervert the heart of youth and the images of action and suffering 
 which enrich it — and that consciousness is doubtless its own reward.
 
 22 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 varieties shall be reflected in the happiest combinations, 
 as that choicest of all His human works — a poet's soul — 
 has cast them ; the attempts to remove from the magic 
 glass all external impurities must be fruitless. But if 
 there are those who, while they hold the faith and morals 
 of Milton, are not afraid to accept his precept and to 
 follow his example, I would entreat of them to assist the 
 lessee of a great national theatre in his generous struggle 
 to rescue the stage from the pollutions which have too 
 long debased it. I urge this on them thus earnestly, 
 because in proportion as the dissipated and frivolous have 
 withdrawn from this intellectual enjoyment, it becomes 
 their province to sustain it ; because I firmly believe that 
 its maintenance is most important to the expansion of all 
 that is social, and to the nurture of all that is great within 
 us ; because I deem it — not as an instructor in the way of 
 direct moral invitation or purpose — but as dissolving the 
 crust of selfishness which daily cares and labours gra- 
 dually form about the kindest hearts — as softening the 
 pride of conventional virtue, and bringing the outcasts of 
 humanity within its sphere ; and as combining all the 
 picturesque varieties which external distinctions present 
 with the sense of the noble equality which lies beneath 
 them. If the introduction of this Drama to the notice 
 of some who have hitherto abstained from visiting the 
 theatre by objection to extrinsic circumstances, should 
 induce them to enjoy the representation of plays of far 
 deeper sentiment and far more vivid passion, it will not 
 have been written nor acted in vain. 
 
 London, lAth November, 1837.
 
 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 
 
 AS REIRESENTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE. 
 
 Adrastus, King of Argos .... 
 Medon, High Priest of the Temple of Apollo 
 Crythes, Captain of the Royal Guard 
 Phociox, son of Medox .... 
 Ctesiphon, 
 
 Cassander, 
 
 noble Argire youths 
 
 lev ..... 
 
 Agenor, 1 
 
 Cleov, > sages of Argos 
 
 TiMOCLES, J 
 
 Iris, a boy, slave to Agenor . 
 
 Cle.maxthe, daughter of Medo.v 
 Haera, attendant on Ciemanthe 
 
 Mr. Dale. 
 
 Mr. Vandenhof. 
 
 Mr. Thompson. 
 
 Mr. C. Hill. 
 
 Mr. Roberts. 
 
 Mr. G. Bennett. 
 
 3Ir. II. Wallack. 
 
 Mr. J. Webster. 
 
 Mr. Hoirard. 
 
 Mr. Macready. 
 ' Mr. Pritchard. 
 
 Mr. Tilbury. 
 . Mr. Harris. 
 
 Miss Lane. 
 
 ' Miss Ellen Tree. 
 Miss Helen Faucit. 
 3Iiss Lacy. 
 
 ScKNE — Argos. 
 
 The Ti.ME of the Action is comprised in one day and night, and the 
 following morning.
 
 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 
 
 AS REPRESENTED AT THE HAYMARKET THEATRE. 
 
 Adrastus, King of Argos .... 
 
 CR'i-THES, Captain of the Royal Guard . 
 Medon, High Priest of the Temple of Apollo 
 Phociox, son of Medon 
 Ctesiphon, 
 
 CASSAN'DER, 
 
 lox 
 
 Agexor, 
 
 Cleon, }» sages of Argos 
 
 Timocles, J 
 
 Irus, a boy, slave to Age.voe 
 
 h 
 
 oble Argive youths 
 
 I 
 
 r Mr. Vandcnhoff. 
 1 Mr. Elton. 
 . Mr. Yarnold. 
 . Mr. Selhy. 
 . Mr. J. Fining. 
 
 r Mr. Vining. 
 \ Mr. Saville. 
 . Miss Ellen Tree, 
 
 CMr. Haines. 
 < Mr. Gough. 
 
 [ Mr. Gallot. 
 . Miss E. Phillips. 
 
 Clemanthe, daughter of Medon 
 Habra, attendant on Clemanthe 
 
 Miss Taylor. 
 Miss Gordon.
 
 ION; 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The Interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is 
 supposed to he 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 coines forward and sjyeaks. 
 
 Age. Will the dawn never visit us 1 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 ; 
 Is it not 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 1 full well ! 
 
 There often have I bless'd the opening day. 
 Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste 
 In happy wandering through the forests. 
 
 Age. Well, 
 
 Thou art not then afraid to tread it ; there 
 The earliest streak from the unrisen sun
 
 2G ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 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. 
 
 Age. Heaven be with thee, child ! 
 
 His grateful mention of delights bestow'd 
 On that most piteous state of semle 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 wdnd 
 Hath borne from each sad quarter of the vale 
 Where life was. 
 
 Re-enter Trus. 
 
 Are there signs of day-break ? 
 
 Inis. None ; 
 
 The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom. 
 
 Ac/e. 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 1 
 
 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
 
 ^cKN-E ;.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 27 
 
 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 obsen'ant care ; but v\-hen I stood 
 Upon the well-known terrace where we loved, 
 Arm link'd in arm, to watch the gleaming sails — 
 PI is favourite pastime, for he burn'd to share 
 A seaman's hardy lot, — my tears would flow, 
 And I forgot to diy- them. But I see 
 Cleon is walking yonder ; let me call him ; 
 For it must cheer thy heart to speak with him. 
 
 A'je. Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep, 
 Or, if thou wilt, to weep. [Exit Irus. 
 
 I enxj thee 
 The privilege, but Jupiter forefend 
 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, 
 
 Aae. 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 countiymen, 
 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 licence, 
 Which firmly he refuses. 
 
 Cleon. Do not chide me 
 
 If I rejoice to find the generous Priest 
 Means, with Apollo's blessing, to preserve
 
 28 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act t. 
 
 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. 
 
 Age. 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 1 
 By no internal contest is he train 'd 
 For such hard duty ; no emotions rude 
 Hath his clear spirit vanquished ; — 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,
 
 crPNE I.] lOX; A TRAGEDY. 29 
 
 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 
 iMay 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 
 "\Miere 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 
 A s 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 gngantic mould 
 
 Paced them in armour. 
 
 Age. 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 l Can he stay the pulse 
 
 Of ebbing life, — arrest the infected \vinds. 
 
 Or smite the hungry spectre of the gi'ave ? 
 
 Afje. 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 1 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
 
 30 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Cle. 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. 
 
 Age. But he shall speak. 
 
 Timocles — nay then, thus 1 must enforce thee ; 
 
 [Staying him. 
 Thou ^vilt not cast from thee a comrade's hand 
 That may be cold ere sunset. 
 
 Timocles {giring his hand). Thou mayst school me ; 
 Thy years and love have licence : but I own not 
 A stripling's mastery ; is 't fit, Agenor ? 
 
 Age. 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 ? 
 
 Tim. I blush to tell it. Weary of the night 
 And of my life, I sought the western portal : 
 It open'd, 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 : Vv'ith such mild command 
 As he has often smilingly obey'd, 
 I bade him stand aside and let me pass ; 
 ^Vhen — 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 ;
 
 SCENE I.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 31 
 
 Replaced its ponderous bars ; and, with a look 
 As modest as he wore in childhood, left me. 
 
 A'je. And thou wilt thank him for it soon ; he comes — 
 Now hold thy angry pui-pose if thou canst } 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 Ion. I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore 
 Again thy pardon. I am young in tiiist, 
 And fear lest, in the earnestness of love, 
 I stay'd thy course too rudely. Thou hast borne 
 My childish folly often, — do not frown 
 If I have ventured with unmanner'd zeal 
 To guard the ripe experience of years 
 From one rash moment's danger. 
 
 Tim. 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 sundei-'d quite 
 Those thousand meshes which old custom weaves 
 To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films 
 With aiiy 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 gaeat occasion thou hast pluck'd from misery, 
 Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair, 
 But use it nobly ! 
 
 Tim. '^"S^hat, 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
 
 32 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act t. 
 
 With warmtli 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. 
 
 Tim. Have I not said so 1 
 
 Age. 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 ; ]\Iedon, 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 ; 
 Biess'd be the omen ! 
 
 Me. God of light and joy, 
 
 Once more refresh 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. Say'st thou in blood ? 
 
 3fe. 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.
 
 SCENE f.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 33 
 
 How can I cease to tremble for the sad ones 
 He mocks — and him the wretchedest of all ? 
 
 Tim. 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 ? 
 
 Me. Yes ; I believe he felt our sufferings once ; 
 When, at my strong entreaty, he despatch'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. 
 
 Age. I am prepared to brave it. 
 
 Cleon. So am I. 
 
 Tim. And I— 
 
 Ion. 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 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. 
 
 Me. 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, 
 
 D
 
 34 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 ]3ut that high promptings, which could never rise 
 Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead 
 Thus boldly for the mission. 
 
 Me. 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 one cloudless holiday ; 
 And 0, my more than father ! let me look 
 Up to thy face as if indeed a father's, 
 And give me a son's blessing. 
 
 Me. Bless thee, son ! 
 
 I should be marble now ; let's part at once. 
 
 Ion. If I should not return, bless Phocion for me ; 
 And, for Clemanthe may I speak one word, 
 One parting word with my fair playfellow 1 
 
 Me. 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. 
 
 Me. grant it be in life ! Let 's to the sacrifice. 
 
 \_Excunt. 
 
 Scene 1 1. — An ApaHment of the Temple. 
 Enter Cl^mastue followed hy Habra.. 
 
 Cle. Is he so changed 1 
 
 Hahra. 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 his sweetness wore 
 Unwonted sorrow in it. 
 
 Cle. 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.
 
 SCENE II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 35 
 
 Hahra. 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. 
 
 Cle. 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 ? 
 
 Hahra. He comes to answer for himself. I '11 leave you. 
 
 {Exit, 
 
 Cle. Stay ! Well my heart may guard its secret best 
 By its own strength. 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 Ion. How fares my pensive sister ?• 
 
 Cle. 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 honour'd death-bed of the rich, 
 D 2
 
 36 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 To him who else were lonely, that another 
 Of the great family is near and feels. 
 
 Cle. 0, 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 I 
 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 Reside him, — and, his limbs composed, 
 The ^\•idow 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. 
 
 Cle. Thou wilt leave us ! 
 
 I read it plainly in thy altered mien ; 
 Is it for ever 1 
 
 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. 
 ^ Cle. To the palace ! 
 
 Knowest thou the peril — nay the certain issue 
 That waits thee l Death ! — the tyrant has decreed it, 
 Confirm'd 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.
 
 SCENE n.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 37 
 
 Cle. Then the sword 
 
 Falls on thy neck ! 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, shall lie cold, cold. 
 To speak, smile, bless no more ! — Thou shalt not go ! 
 
 Imu Thou must not stay me, fair one; even thy 
 father, 
 WTio (blessings on him !) loves me as his son, 
 Yields to the will of Heaven. 
 
 Cle. 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, aud juster thoughts 
 Of thy admiring father close the gap 
 Thy old companion left behind him. 
 
 Cle. 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 ra\^shing, — or my head will swim. 
 And my heart faint within me. 
 
 Cle. 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 \^-ith 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 leam'd to tremble 'midst our pleasures. 
 Lest I should break the golden dream around me 
 With most ungrateful rashness. I should bless
 
 38 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 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. 
 
 Cle. Thou canst not mean it ! 
 
 Have I disclaimed 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 % 
 
 Io7i. Heaven has call'd me, 
 
 And I have pledged my honour. When thy heai-t 
 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 a 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 ! 
 
 Cle. Go ! 
 
 I would not have thee other than thou art, 
 Living or dying — and if thou shouldst fall — 
 
 Ion. Be sure I shall return. 
 
 ae. If thou shouldst fall, 
 
 I shall he happier as the affianced bride 
 Of thy cold ashes, than in proudest fortunes — 
 Thine — ever thine — [She faints in his arms. 
 
 Ion. (calls). Habra ! — So best to pai't — 
 
 Enter Habra. 
 Let her have air ; be near her through the day ; 
 I know thy tenderness — should ill new^s come * , 
 
 Of any friend, she will require it all. 
 
 [Habra bears Clemanthe out. ',^' 
 Ye Gods, that have enrich'd the life ye claim >* 
 
 With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it ! ;: 
 
 [Exit. ' 
 
 i
 
 SCENE 1] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A Terrace of the Palace. 
 
 Adrastus, Crythes. 
 
 Adras. The air breathes freshly after our long night 
 Of glorious revelry. I '11 walk awhile. 
 
 Cry. It blows across the town ; dost thou not fear 
 It bear infection with it ? 
 
 Adras. Fear ! dost talk 
 
 Of fear to me 1 I deem'd even thy poor thoughts 
 Had better scann'd their master. Prithee tell me 
 In what act, word, or look, since I have borne 
 Thy converse here, hast thou discern 'd such baseness 
 As makes thee bold to prate to me of fear ? 
 
 Cry. My liege, of human might all know thee fearless, 
 Bat may not heroes shun the elements 
 When sickness taints them ? 
 
 Adras. 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 heritor 
 Of all their glories, feei our doom is nigh ; 
 And I ^^ill meet it as befits their fame : 
 Nor will I vary my selected path 
 The breadth of my sword's edge, nor check a wish, 
 If such unkingly yielding might avert it. 
 
 Cry. Thou art ever royal in thy thoughts. 
 
 Adras. No more — 
 
 I would be private. \_Exit Crythes. 
 
 Grovelling parasite !
 
 40 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act ir. 
 
 Why should I waste these fate-environ 'd hours, 
 
 And pledge my great defiance to despair 
 
 With flatterers such as thou ! — as if my joys 
 
 Required the pale reflections cast by slaves 
 
 In mirror'd mockery round my throne, or lack'd 
 
 The aid of reptile sympathies to stream 
 
 Through fate's black pageantry ? Let weakness seek 
 
 Companionship : I '11 henceforth feast alone. 
 
 Enter a Soldier. 
 
 Soldier. My liege, forgive me, — 
 
 Adras. Well ! Speak out at once 
 
 Thy business, and retire. 
 
 Soldier. I have no part 
 
 In the presumptuous message that I bear. 
 
 Adras. Tell it, or go. There is no time to waste 
 On idle terrors. 
 
 Soldier. Thus it is, my lord : 
 
 As we were burnishing our arms, a man 
 Enter'd the court, and when we saw him first 
 Was tending towards the palace ; in amaze, 
 We hail'd the rash intruder ; still he walk'd 
 Unheeding onward, till the western gate 
 Barr'd furthei' 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. 
 
 Adras. Ah ! the graybeards 
 
 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. 
 
 Adras. Most bravely plann'd ! 
 
 Sedition worthy of the reverend host 
 Of sophist traitors ; brave to scatter fancies 
 Of discontent 'midst sturdy artizans, 
 "Whose honest sinews they direct unseen,
 
 SCENE 1.] lOX ; A TRAGEDY 41 
 
 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 gracious than his masters. 
 
 Soldier. We have already told him of the fate 
 Which waits his daring ; courteously he thank'd us, 
 But still with solemn accent urged his suit. 
 
 Adros. 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 muM fall. 
 Or the great sceptre which hath sway'd the fears 
 Of ages, will become a common staff 
 For youth to \^-ield, or age to rest upon, 
 Despoil'd of all its virtues. He must fall. 
 Else they who prompt the insult will gi'ow bold. 
 And with their pestilent vauntings through the city 
 Raise the low fog of murky discontent. 
 Which now creeps harmless through its marshy birthplace, 
 To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd ; 
 And if he cross yon threshold he shall die. 
 
 Enter Crythes and Ion. 
 
 Cru. The king! 
 
 Adras. 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 sharpened, and the headsman ready ? 
 
 Cry. Thou may'st 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. 
 
 Adras. {To Ion.) Dost thou see them ! 
 
 I(yti. I do. 
 
 Adras. By Heaven, he does not change !
 
 42 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 
 
 If, even now, thou wilt depart and leave 
 
 Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free. 
 
 Ion. I thank thee for thy oifer ; 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. 
 
 Adras. Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes ! till yon dial 
 Cast its thin shadow on the approaching hour, 
 I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant, 
 Come without word, and lead him to his doom. 
 Now leave us. 
 
 Cry. What, alone ? 
 
 Adras. 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 1 What great wars 
 Have nursed the courage that can look on death, 
 Certain and speedy death, with placid eye 1 
 
 Ion. I am a simple youth who never bore 
 The weight of annour, — one who may not boast 
 Of noble birth or valour of his own. 
 Deem not the powers which nei-ve me thus to speak 
 In thy great presence, and have made my heart 
 Upon the verge of bloody death as calm. 
 As equal in its beatings, as when sleep 
 Approach'd me nestling from the sportive toils 
 Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial forms 
 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 ! 
 
 Adras. I know it must ; so may'st 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 upon the infant w^orld ;
 
 scK.vE I.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 43 
 
 And I shall sit on my ancestral throne 
 
 To meet their vengeance ; but till then I rule 
 
 As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel. 
 
 Ion. I will not further urge thy safety to thee ; 
 It may be, as thou say'st, 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 — 
 1 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. 
 
 Adras. How ! my crimes ? 
 
 Ion. Yes ; 'tis the eternal law, that where guilt is, 
 Sorrow shall answer it ; and thou hast not 
 A poor man's privilege to bear alone, 
 Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen, 
 The penalties of evil, for in thine 
 A nation's fate lies circled. — King Adrastus ! 
 Steel'd as thy heart is with the usages 
 Of pomp and power, a few short summers since 
 Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless. 
 Oh, if maternal love embraced thee then. 
 Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet 
 Glare o'er their perishing children : hast thou shared 
 The glow of a first friendship, which is born 
 'Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth 
 Smitten amidst its playthings ; — let the spirit 
 Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity ! 
 
 Adras. 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 
 And sceptre — dost thou wonder at me now ? 
 
 Ion. I knew that we should pity — 
 
 Adras. Pity ! dare 
 
 To speak that word again, and torture waits thee !
 
 44 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 
 
 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 — 
 
 Adras. Beware ! beware ! 
 
 Ion. Thou hast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not marble, 
 And thou shalt hear me ! — Think upon the time 
 When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul 
 Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy, 
 As if some unseen visitant from heaven 
 Touch'd the calm lake and \^Teath'd its images 
 In sparkling waves ; — recall the dallying hope 
 That on the margin of assurance trembled, 
 As loth to lose in certainty too bless'd 
 Its happy being ; — taste in thought again 
 Of the stolen sweetness of those evening-walks. 
 When pansied turf was air to winged feet, 
 And circling forests, by ethereal touch 
 Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky, 
 As if about to melt in golden light 
 Shapes of one heavenly vision ; and thy heart. 
 Enlarged by its new sympathy with one, 
 Grew bountiful to all ! 
 
 Adras. That tone ! that tone ! 
 
 Whence came it 1 from thy lips ? It cannot be — 
 The long-hush'd music of the only voice 
 That ever spake unbought affection to me. 
 And waked my soul to blessing ! — 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 1 
 
 Ion. As a child. 
 
 Adras. 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 ;
 
 scK.NE I.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 45 
 
 Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups 
 Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun, 
 And welcome thunder'd from a thousand throats, 
 j 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 accurs'd, 
 A second son was born, to steal the love 
 '\\'hich fate had else scarce rifled : he became 
 i 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 ; 
 j j\ly very mother — Jove ! I cannot bear 
 ! To speak it now — look'd freezingly upon me ! 
 Ion. But thy brother — 
 
 Adras. 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 
 "\Miich, 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. 
 
 lori. Did they dare 
 
 Accuse thee ? 
 
 Adras. Not in open speech : — they felt 
 
 I should have seized the miscreant by the throat, 
 And crush'd the lie half spoken with the life 
 Of the base speaker : — but the tale look'd out 
 From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank 
 When mine have met them ; murmur'd through the crowd 
 That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game, 
 Stood distant from me ; burnt into ray soul 
 When I beheld it in my father's shudder ! 
 
 X
 
 46 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act ir. 
 
 Ion. Didst not declare thy innocence ? 
 
 Adras. To whom ? 
 
 To parents who could doubt me ? To the ring 
 Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons, 
 Who should have studied to prevent my wish 
 Before it grew to language ; hail'd my choice 
 To service as a prize to wrestle for ; 
 And whose reluctant courtesy I bore, 
 Pale with proud anger, till from lips compress'd 
 The blood has started ! To the common herd, 
 The vassals of our ancient house, the mass 
 Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil 
 A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it. 
 Or, deck'd for slaughter at their master's call, 
 To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd 
 In heaps to swell his glory or his shame ? 
 Answer to them ? No ! though my heart had burst, 
 As it was nigh to bursting ! — To the mountains 
 I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow 
 Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool 
 ]My spirit's fever — struggled with the oak 
 In search of weariness, and leam'd to rive 
 Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly stung 
 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 ? 
 
 Adras. A blessed one ! 
 
 Which the strange magic of thy voice re\ives, 
 And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps 
 Were in a wood-encircled valley stay'd 
 By the bright vision of a maid, whose face 
 Most lovely more than loveliness reveal'd 
 In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd 
 Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine. 
 With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth 
 The body of her aged sire, whose death 
 Left her alone. I aided her sad Avork, 
 And soon two lonely ones by holy rites
 
 .cENE I.] lOX; A TRAGEDY. 47 
 
 Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months, 
 
 In streamlike unity flow'd silent by us 
 
 In our delightful nest. j\Iy father's spies — 
 
 Slaves, whom my nod should have consign'd to stripes 
 
 Or the swift falchion — track'd our sylvan home 
 
 Just as my bosom knew its second joy, 
 
 And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son. 
 
 Ion. Urged by thy trembling parents to avert 
 That dreadful prophecy ? 
 
 Adras. 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 I now behold 
 That son with knife uplifted at my heart, 
 A moment ere my life-blood follow'd it, 
 I would embrace him with my dying eyes. 
 And pardon destiny ! While jocund smiles 
 A\'reathed 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 sea eddies ; I stood still 
 As stricken into stone : I heard him cry, 
 Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe, 
 Severer ill unfearing — then the splash 
 Of waters that shall cover him for ever ; 
 And could not stir to save liim ! 
 
 Irni. And the mother — 
 
 Adras. She spake no word, but clasp'd me in her arms, 
 And lay her down to die. A lingering gaze 
 Of love she fix'd on me — none other loved. 
 And so pass'd hence. By Jupiter, her look ! 
 Her dying patience glimmers in thy face ! 
 She lives again ! She looks upon me now ! 
 There 's magic in't. Bear with me — I am childish. 
 
 Enter Crythes and Guards. 
 Adras. Why art thou here ? 
 Crt/. The dial points the hour.
 
 48 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act u. 
 
 Adras. Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd ? 
 Hast thou no heart — no sense ? 
 
 Cry. Scarce half an hour 
 
 Hath flown since the command on which I wait. 
 
 Adras. Scarce half an hour ! — years — years have roll'd 
 since then. 
 Begone ! remove that pageantry of death — 
 It blasts my sight — and hearken ! Touch a hair 
 Of this brave youth, or look on him as now 
 With thy cold herdsman's eye, and yonder band 
 Shall not expect a fearful show in vain. 
 Hence ! without a word. \^Exit Crythes. 
 
 What wouldst thou have me do ? 
 
 Ion. Let thy awaken'd heart speak its own language ; 
 Convene thy sages ; — frankly, nobly meet them ; 
 Explore with them the pleasure of the gods, 
 And, whatsoe'er the sacrifice, perform it. 
 
 Adra--. Well ! I will seek their presence in an hour ; 
 Go summon them, young hero : hold ! no word 
 Of the strange passion thou hast \\'itness'd here. 
 
 Jon. Distrust me not. — Benignant Powers, I thank ye ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Adras. Yet stay — he's gone — his spell is on me yet ; 
 What have I promised him 1 To meet the men 
 AMio from my living head would strip the crown. 
 And sit in judgment on me 1 — I must do it — 
 Yet shall my band be ready to o'erawe 
 The course of liberal speech, and if it rise 
 So as too loudly to offend my ear, 
 Strike the rash brawler dead ! — AVhat idle dream 
 Of long-past days had melted me 1 It fades — 
 It vanishes — I am again a king ! 
 
 Scene II. — The Interior of the Temple. 
 Same as Act i. Scene r. 
 
 Clemanthe seated — Habra attending her. 
 Hahra. 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
 
 stEN-E II.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 48 
 
 Tliy 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 ! 
 Siill she is rapt. 
 
 Enter Agenor. 
 speak to my sweet mistress ; 
 Haply thy voice may rouse her. 
 
 Age. Dear Clemanthe, 
 
 Hope dawns in every omen ; we shall taste 
 Our household joys again. 
 
 Enter Medon, Cleon, Timocles, and others. 
 Me. Clemanthe here ! 
 
 How sad ! how pale ! 
 
 Hahra. Her eye is kindling — hush ! 
 
 Cle. Hark ! hear ye not a distant footstep % 
 Me. No. 
 
 Look round, my fairest child ; thy friends are near thee. 
 
 Cle. Yes !— now 'tis lost — 'tis on that endless stair — 
 Nearer and more distinct — 'tis his — 'tis his — 
 lie lives ! he comes ! 
 
 [Clemanthe rises and rushes to the back of the stage, at 
 which Ion appears^ and returns icith her. 
 
 Here is your messenger, 
 "\Miom Heaven has rescued from the tyrant's rage 
 Ye sent him forth to brave. Rejoice, old men. 
 That ye are guiltless of his blood ! — why pause ye ? 
 AN'hy shout ye not his welcome ? 
 
 3Ie. Dearest girl, 
 
 This is no scene for thee ; go to thy chamber ; 
 I "11 come to thee ere long. [E.mint Clemanthe and Habra. 
 
 She is o'erwrought 
 hv fear and joy for one whose infant hopes 
 \\'ere mingled with her own, even as a brother's. 
 
 Tim. Ion! 
 
 How shall we do thee honour 1 
 
 Ion. None is due 
 
 Sive to the gods whose gi'acious influence sways 
 The king ye deem'd relentless ; — he consents
 
 5(r ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act n. 
 
 To meet ye presently in council : — speed ! 
 
 This may be virtue's latest rally in him, 
 
 In fitful strength, ere it be quench'd for ever ! 
 
 Me. Haste to your seats ; I will but speak a word 
 With our brave friend, and follow : though convened 
 In speed, let our assembly lack no forms 
 Of due observance, which to furious power 
 Plead with the silent emphasis of years. 
 
 \_Exeunt all hut Medon and Ion. 
 Ion, draw near me ; this eventful day 
 Hath shown thy nature's graces circled round 
 With firmness which accomplishes the hero ; — 
 And it would bring to me but one proud thought — 
 That virtues which required not culture's aid 
 Shed their first fragrance 'neath my roof, and there 
 Found shelter ; — but it also hath reveal'd 
 What I may not hide from thee, that my child, 
 My blithe and innocent girl — more fair in soul, 
 More delicate in fancy, than in mould — 
 Loves thee with other than a sister's love. 
 I should have cared for this : I vainly deem'd 
 A fellowship in childhood's thousand joys 
 And household memories had nurtured friendship 
 Which might hold peaceful empire in the soul ; 
 But in that guise the traitor hath stolen in. 
 And the fair citadel is thine. 
 
 Ion. 'Tis true. 
 
 I did not think the nurseling of thy house 
 Could thus disturb its holiest inmate's duty 
 With tale of selfish passion ; — but we met 
 As playmates who might never meet again. 
 And then the hidden truth flash'd forth, and show'd 
 To each the image in the other's soul 
 In one bright instant. 
 
 Me. Be that instant blest 
 
 Which made thee truly ours. My son ! my son ! 
 'Tis we should feel uplifted, for the seal 
 Of gi'eatness 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.
 
 SCENE II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 51 
 
 Ion. Spurn her ! My father ! 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon. 
 
 Me. Ctesiphon ! — and breathless — 
 
 Art come to chide me to the council ? 
 
 Ctes, No ; 
 
 To bring unwonted joy ; thy son approaches. 
 
 Me. Thank Heaven ! Hast spoken with him % Is he well \ 
 
 Ctes. I strove in vain to reach him, for the crowd, 
 Roused from the untended couch and dismal hearth 
 By the strange \'isiting of hope, press'd round him ! 
 But, by his head erect and fiery glance, 
 I know that he is well, and that he bears 
 A message which shall shake the tyrant. \Shouts?\ See I 
 The throng is tending this way — now it parts, 
 And yields him to thy arms. 
 
 Enter Phociox. 
 
 Me. Welcome, my Phocion — 
 
 Long waited for in Argos ; how detained 
 Now matters not, since thou art here in joy. 
 Hast brought the answer of the god % 
 
 Pho. I have : 
 
 Now let Adrastus tremble ! 
 
 j\[e. iVIay we hear it ? 
 
 Pho. I am sworn first to utter it to him. 
 
 Ctes. But it is fatal to him ! — Say but that ! 
 
 Pho. Ha, Ctesiphon ! — I mark'd thee not before 
 How fares thy father ] 
 
 Ion {to Phocion). Do not speak of him. 
 
 Ctes. {overhearing Ion). Not speak of him ! Dost think 
 there is a moment 
 WTien common things eclipse the burning thought 
 Of him and vengeance ? 
 
 Pho. Has the tyrant's sword — 
 
 Ctes. No, Phocion ; that v/ere merciful and brave, 
 Compared to his base deed ; yet will I tell it 
 To make the flashing of thine eye more deadly, 
 And edge thy words that they may rive his heartstrings. 
 The last time that Adrastus dared to face 
 The Sages of the state, although my father, 
 E 2
 
 62 ION ; A TRAGEDY, Ia<-i ri. 
 
 Yielding to Nature's mild decay, had left 
 
 All worldly toil and hope, he gather'd strength, 
 
 In his old seat, to speak one word of warning. 
 
 Thou know'st how bland with years his wisdom grew. 
 
 And with what phrases, steep'd in love, he sheathed 
 
 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. 
 
 Pko. Thou wert absent ? Yes ! 
 
 The heartless tyrant lives ! 
 
 Gtes. Had I beheld 
 
 That sacrilege, Adrastus had lain dead. 
 Or I had been torn piecemeal by his minions. 
 But I was far away : when I return'd, 
 1 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 
 ^\'as audible, and we might only learn 
 By short convulsive tremblings of his frame 
 That life still flicker'd in it — yet at last, 
 By some unearthly inspiration roused. 
 He dropp'd his wither'd hands, and sat erect 
 As in his manhood's glory — the free blood 
 Flush'd crimson through his cheeks, his furrow'd brow 
 Expanded clear, and his eyes opening full 
 Gleam'd with a youthful fire ; — I fell in awe 
 Upon my knees before him — still he spake not, 
 But slowly raised his arm untrembling ; clench'd 
 His hand as if it grasp'd an airy knife, 
 And struck in air : my hand was joined with his 
 In nervous grasp — my lifted eye met his 
 In steadfast gaze — my pressure answered 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 !
 
 scKN-E ri.T ION ; A TRAGEDY. 5} 
 
 Plio. 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, 
 give allowance to his soften'd nature ! 
 
 Ctes. 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, 
 think ! before the irrevocable deed 
 Shuts out all thought, how much of power's excess 
 Is theirs who raise the idol : — do we groan 
 ]3eneath the personal force of this rash man, 
 AV^ho forty summers since hung at the breast 
 A playful weakling ; whom the heat unnerves ; 
 The north wind pierces ; and the hand of death 
 "W^ill, in a moment, change to clay as vile 
 As that of the scourged slave whose chains it severs ? 
 No ! 'tis our weakness gasping, or the shows 
 Of outward strength that builds up tyranny, 
 And makes it look so glorious : — If we shrink 
 Faint-hearted from the reckoning of our span 
 Of mortal days, we pamper the fond wish 
 For long duration in a line of kings : 
 If the rich pageantiy of thoughts must fade 
 All unsubstantial as the regal hues 
 Of eve which purpled them, our cunning frailty 
 ]\Iust robe a living image with their pomp. 
 And wreath a diadem around its brow, 
 In which our sunny fantasies may live 
 Empearl'd, and gleam, in fatal splendour, far 
 On after ages. We must look within 
 For that which makes us slaves : — on sympathies 
 ^\'hich find no kindred objects in the plain 
 Of common life — affections that aspire 
 In air too thin — and fancy's dew/ 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 !
 
 54 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act n. 
 
 Ctes. Go talk to others, if thou wilt ; — to me 
 All argument, save that of steel, is idle. 
 
 3Io. No more : — let 's to the council — there, my son. 
 Tell thy great message nobly ; — and for thee. 
 Poor orphan'd youth, be sure the gods are just ! \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — The great Square of the City. Adrastus seated 
 on a throne ; Agenor, Timocles, Cleon, and others, seated 
 as Councillors — Soldiers line the stage at a distance. 
 
 Adras. Upon your summons. Sages, I am here ; 
 Your king attends to know your pleasure ; speak it ! 
 
 Age. And canst thou ask ? If the heart dead within thee 
 lleceives no impress of this awful time. 
 Art thou of sense forsaken 1 Are thine ears 
 So charm'd by strains of slavish minstrelsy, 
 That the dull groan and frenzy-pointed shriek 
 Pass them unheard to Heaven ? Or are thine eyes 
 So conversant with prodigies of grief. 
 They cease to dazzle at them ? Art thou arm'd 
 'Gainst wonder, while, in all things, Nature turns 
 To dreadful contraries ; — while Youth's full cheek 
 Is shrivell'd into furrows of sad years, 
 And 'neath its glossy curls untinged by care 
 Looks out a keen anatomy ; — while Age 
 Is stung by feverish torture for an hour 
 Into youth's strength ; while fragile Womanhood 
 Starts into frightful courage, all unlike 
 The gentle strength its gentle weakness feeds 
 To make affliction beautiful, and stalks 
 Abroad, a tearless and unshuddering thing ; — 
 While Childhood, in its orphan'd freedom blithe. 
 Finds, in the shapes of wretchedness which seem 
 Grotesque to its unsadden'd vision, cause 
 For dreadful mirth that shortly shall be hush'd 
 In never-broken silence ; and while Love, 
 Immortal through all change, makes ghastly Death 
 Its idol, and with furious passion digs 
 Amid sepulchral images for gauds 
 To cheat its fancy with ? — Do sights like these
 
 PCKNE irr.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 55 
 
 Glare through the realm thou shouldst be parent to, 
 And canst thou find the voice to ask " our pleasure ?" 
 
 Adras. Cease, babbler ; — wherefore would ve 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. 
 
 Age. Thou hast the power 
 
 To cast thyself upon the earth with us 
 In penitential shame ; or, if this power 
 Hath left a heart made weak by luxury 
 And hard by pride, thou hast at least the power 
 To cease the mockery of thy frantic revels, 
 
 Adras, I have yet power to punish insult — look 
 I use it not, Agenor ! — Fate may dash 
 ]\Iy sceptre from me, but shall not command 
 i\Iy ^^-ill to hold it \\-ith 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, 
 ^^llich look'd perpetual, as the flowing course 
 Of human things. Have ye beheld a pine 
 That clasp'd the mountain-summit with a root 
 As firm as its rough marble, and, apart 
 From the huge shade of undistinguish'd trees, 
 Lifted its head as in delight to share 
 The evening glories of the sky, and taste 
 The wanton dalliance of the heavenly breeze 
 That no ignoble vapour from the vale 
 Could mingle with — smit by the flaming marl, 
 And lighted for destruction ? How it stood 
 One glorious moment, fringed and wreathed -sN-ith fire 
 Which show'd the inward graces of its shape, 
 tJncumber'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
 
 dG ION ; A TRAGEDY. [a(t ir. 
 
 The storm-cloud roll'd behind it for a curtain 
 
 To gird its splendours round, and made the blast 
 
 Its minister to whirl its flashing shreds 
 
 Aloft towards heaven, or to the startled depths 
 
 Of forests that afar might share its doom ! 
 
 So shall the royalty of Argos pass 
 
 In festal blaze to darkness ! Have ye spoken 1 
 
 Age. I speak no more to thee ! — Great Jove, look down ! 
 
 [Slioutiuff mthout. 
 
 Adra^, What factious brawl is this ? — disperse it, sol- 
 diers. 
 {Shouting renevced — As some of the soldiers are about to 
 march, Phocion rushes in, followed by Ctesiphon, 
 Ion, and Medon. 
 Whence is this insolent intrusion 1 
 
 Pho. King ! 
 
 I bear Apollo's answer to thy prayer. 
 
 Adras. Has not thy travel taught thy knee its duty ] 
 Here we had school'd thee better. 
 
 Pho, Kneel to thee ! 
 
 Me. Patience, my son ! Do homage to the king. 
 
 Pho. Never ! — thou talk'st of schooling — know, 
 Adrastus, 
 That I have studied in a nobler school 
 Than the dull haunt of venal sophistry 
 Or the lewd guard-room ; o'er which ancient heaven 
 Extends its arch for all, and mocks the span 
 Of palaces and dungeons ; where the heart 
 In its free beatings, 'neath the coarsest vest, 
 Claims kindred with diviner things than power 
 Of kings can raise or stifle — in the school 
 Of mighty Nature — where I learn'd to blush 
 At sight like this, of thousands basely hush'd 
 Before a man no mightier than themselves, 
 Save in the absence of that love that softens. 
 
 Adras. Peace ! speak thy message. 
 
 Pho. Shall I tell it here ? 
 
 Or shall I seek thy couch at dead of night, 
 And breathe it in low whispers ? — As thou wilt. 
 
 Adras. Here — and this instant ! 
 
 Pho. Hearken then, Adrastus 
 
 I
 
 SCENE in] lOX ; A TRAGEDY. 57 
 
 And hearken, Argives — thus Apollo speaks : — 
 
 [Beads a scroll. 
 " Argos ne'er shall find release ^ 
 " Till her monarch's race shall cease.'^ 
 
 Adras. 'Tis not God's will, but man's sedition speaks : — 
 Guards ! tear that lying parchment from his hands, 
 And bear him to the palace. 
 
 Me. Touch him not, — 
 
 He is Apollo's messenger, whose lips 
 Were never stain'd with falsehood. 
 
 Pho. Come on, all ! 
 
 Age. Surround him, friends ! Die with him ! 
 
 Adras. Soldiers, charge 
 
 Upon these rebels ; hew them down. On, on ! 
 
 [The soldiers advance and surround the people ; they seize 
 Phocion. Ion rushes from the hack of the stage, and 
 throxcs hiihselfbdireen Adrastus and Phocion. 
 
 Pho. [To Adrastus.] Yet I defy thee. 
 
 Ion. [To Phocion.] Friend ! for sake of all, 
 Enrage him not — wait while I speak a word — ■ 
 [To Adrastus.] ^ly sovereign, I implore thee, do not stain 
 This sacred place with blood ; in Heaven's great name 
 I do conjure thee — and in he?^s, whose shade 
 Is mourning for thee now ! 
 
 Adras. Release the stripling — 
 
 Let him go spread his treason where he will : 
 He is not worth my anger. To the palace ! 
 
 Ion. Nay, yet an instant ! — let my speech have power 
 From Heaven to move thee further : thou hast heard 
 The sentence of the god, and thy heart owns it ; 
 If thou wilt cast aside this cumbrous pomp. 
 And in seclusion purify thy soul 
 Long fever'd and sophisticate, the gods 
 May give thee space for penitential thoughts ; 
 If not — as surely as thou standest here, 
 Wilt thou lie stiiF and weltering in thy blood — 
 The vision presses on me now. 
 
 Adras. Art mad ? 
 
 Resign thy state ? Sue to the gods for life, 
 The common life which every slave endures, 
 And meanly clings to ? No ; within yon walls
 
 58 ION ; A TRAGEDY. fArr ii. 
 
 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. (ivho stands apart leaning on a -pedestal). 'Tis 
 seal'd ! 
 
 Me. Let us withdraw, and strive 
 
 By sacrifice to pacify the gods ! 
 
 [Medon, Agenor, and Councillors, retire : they leave 
 Ctesiphon, Phocion, and Ion. Ion st'dl stands 
 apart, as rajyt in meditation. 
 
 Ctes. 'Tis well : the measure of his guilt is fill'd. 
 Where shall we meet at sunset ? 
 
 Pho. 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. 
 
 Ctes. Thither 
 
 Will I bring friends to meet thee. Shall we speak 
 To yon rapt youth ? [^Pointing to Ion. 
 
 Pho. His nature is too gentle. 
 
 At sunset we mil meet. — With arms ? 
 
 Ctes. A knife — 
 
 One sacrificial knife will serve. 
 
 Pho. At sunset ! 
 
 [^Exeurd Ctesiphon and Phocion sererally. Ion come* 
 forward. 
 
 Ion. wretched King, thy words have seal'd thy doom ! 
 Why should I shiver at it, when no way, 
 Save this, remains to break the ponderous cloud 
 That hangs above my wretched country 1 — 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,
 
 ^LEN-E in.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 59 
 
 ]\ry sinews stiffen like it. Courage, Ion ! 
 
 No spectral form is here ; all outward things 
 
 "^^'ear 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 ya^\'ns before its victim. Gracious powers ! 
 
 If the great duty of my life be near, 
 
 Grant it may be to suffer, not to strike ! [Exit, 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I . — A Terrace of the Temple. 
 
 Clemanthe, Ion. 
 
 Cle. 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 guilty. 
 
 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 \\-ill not from me. 
 
 Cle. 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 1 and can thy generous nature.
 
 fiO ION: A TRAGEDY. [* 
 
 While it thu55 sheds felicity around it, 
 Remain itself unbless'd ? 
 
 I(/)i. I strove awhile 
 
 To think the assured pos.^ession of thy love 
 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 tliey rise, 
 With grave experiences ; I dream no more 
 Of azure realms where restless beauty sports 
 In myriad shapes fantastic ; dismal vaults 
 In black succession open, till the gloom 
 Afar is broken by a streak of fire 
 That shapes my name — the fearful wind that mo.in8 
 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 i>n me instinct wilh a frightful life 
 That drew me into fellowship with thom, 
 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 ! " 
 
 Cle. These are fancies, 
 
 Which thy soul, late expanded with great purpi^se, 
 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. 
 
 loti. I will do so ! 
 
 I'll gaze upon thy loTeline=s, and <lrink 
 Its quiet in ; — how beautiful thou art I — 
 My pulse throbs now as it was wont ; — a being, 
 Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it, 
 Cannot show darkly. 
 
 Ck. We shall soon be happy ;
 
 SCENE r.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 6: 
 
 My father \y\\\ rejoice to bless our love, 
 And Argos waken ; — for her tyrant's course 
 Must have a speedy end. 
 
 Ion. It must ! It must ! 
 
 Cle. 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, 
 Guileless as infancy, and undistuib'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 ! 
 
 Cle. 'Tis thyself 
 
 Whom, thy strange language pictures — Ion ! thou — 
 
 Ion. She has said it ! Her pure lips have spoken out 
 ^^'hat all things intimate ; — didst thou not mark 
 Jle for the office of avenger — me ? 
 
 Cle. No ; — save from the wild picture that thy fancy— 
 Thy o'er\\Tought fancy drew ; I thought it look'd 
 Too like thee, and I shudder'd. 
 
 Ion. So do I ! 
 
 And yet I almost wish I shudder'd more, 
 For the dire thought has grown familiar with me — 
 Could I escape it ! 
 
 Cle. '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 ! — I will walk awhile 
 In the sweet evening light, and try to chase 
 These fearful images away. 
 
 C7e. Let me 
 
 Go with thee. 0, how often hand in hand 
 In such a lovely light have we roam'd westward 
 Aimless and blessed, when we were no more
 
 62 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act iii. 
 
 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 commih,sion here 
 To watch the gates ; — indeed thou must not pass ; 
 I will be merrier when we meet again, — 
 Trust me my love, 1 will ; farewell ! [Kx'a Ion. 
 
 Cle. 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, 
 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 ! [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — An openinj in a deep vcvvd — in front in oil >ir,y 
 altar. 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 Ion. winding pathways, o'er whose scanty blades 
 Of unaspiring grass mine eyes have bent 
 So often when by 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 a.spect 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 
 As ye were conscious of a guilty presence ? 
 The lovely light of eve, that, as it wane*!, 
 Touch'd ye with softer, homelier look, now fades
 
 HTSE 71] ION : A TRAGEDV. 6b 
 
 In dismal blackness ; and yon t%\-isted roots 
 
 Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms 
 
 ^ly 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 
 
 "^^'here human love instructed by divine 
 
 Found and embraced me first ; I '11 cast me dovsTi 
 
 Upon that earth as on a mother's breast, 
 
 In hope to feel myself again a child. 
 
 [Ion goes into the vood. 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and other Arnire youths. 
 
 Ctes. Sure this must be the place that Phocion spoke 
 of;- 
 The twilight deepens, yet he does not come. 
 C), if, instead ot idle dreams of freedom, 
 He knew the sharpness of a giief like mine, 
 He would not linger thus ! 
 
 f'a<. The sun's broad disk 
 
 Of misty red, a few brief minutes since, 
 Sank 'neath the leaden wave ; but night steals on 
 With rapid pace to veil us, and thy thoughts 
 Are eager as the favouring darkness. 
 
 Enter Phocion. 
 
 Cfes!. \\'elcome ! 
 
 Thou know'st all here. 
 
 P/io. Yes ; I rejoice, Cassander, 
 
 To find thee my companion in a deed 
 Worthy of all the dreamings of old days, 
 When we, two rebel youths, grew safely brave 
 In visionary perils. We '11 not shame 
 Our young imaginations. Ctesiphon, 
 We look to thee for guidance in our aim. 
 
 Cte.?. I bring you glorious news. There is a soldier, 
 "\Vho in his reckless boyhood was my comrade, 
 And though by taste of luxury subdued 
 Even to brook the tyrant's service, bums 
 With generous anger to avenge that grief 
 I bear above all others. He has made
 
 M ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 
 
 The retribution sure. From him I learnt 
 That when Adrastus reach 'd his palace court, 
 He paused, to strugs^le with some mighty throe 
 Of passion ; then call'd eagerly for wine, 
 And bade his soldiers share his choicest stores, 
 And snatch, like him, a day from Fortune. Soon, 
 As one worn out by watching and excess. 
 He stagger'd to his couch, where now he lies 
 Oppress'd with heavy sleep, while his loose soldiers^ 
 Made by the fierce carousal vainly mad 
 Or grossly dull, are scatter'd through the courts 
 Unarm'd and cautionless. The eastern portal 
 Is at this moment open ; by that gate 
 We all may enter unperceived, and line 
 The passages which gird the royal chamber, 
 While one blest hand accomplishes the doom 
 Which Heaven pronounces. Nothing now remains, 
 But that as all would share this action's glorj'. 
 We join in one great vow, and choose one arm 
 Our common minister. Oh, if ihese sorrows 
 Confer on me the office to return 
 Upon the tyrant's shivering he;irt the l>low 
 Which crush 'd my father's spiilt, I will leave 
 To him who cares for toys the i>atriot's laurel 
 And the applause of ages ! 
 
 Pho. Let the gods 
 
 By the old course of lot reveal the name 
 Of the predestined champion. For myself, 
 Here do I solemnly devote all powers 
 Of soul and bodv to that glorious pui^pose 
 We live but to fulfil. 
 
 Ctes. And I ! 
 
 Cas. And I ! 
 
 Ion. [ Who ha^ advanced from the tcood., rushes to the 
 altar and exclaims] And I ! 
 
 Pho. Most welcome! The serenest powers of justice, 
 In prompting thy unspotted soul to join 
 Our bloody councils sanctify and bless them ! 
 
 Ion. The gods have prompted me, for they have given 
 One dreadful voice to all things which should be 
 Else dumb or musical ; and I rejoice
 
 SCEXE If.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 6a 
 
 To step from the gi-ini ground or waking dreams 
 Into this fellowship which makes all clear. 
 Wilt trust me, Ctesiphon ? 
 
 Ctes. Yes ; but we waste 
 
 The precious minutes in vain talk ; if lots 
 Must guide us, have ye scrolls ? 
 
 Pho. Cassander has them : 
 
 The flickering light of yonder glade will serve him 
 To inscribe them with our names. Be quick, Cassander ! 
 
 Ctes. I wear a casque, beneath whose iron circlet 
 My father's dark hairs whiten'd ; let it hold 
 The names of his avengers ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon takes off his helmet and gives it to Cassander, 
 icho retires icith it. 
 
 Pho. [to Ctesiphon.] He whose name 
 
 Thou shalt draw first, shall fill the post of gloiy. 
 Were it not also well, the second name 
 Should designate another charged to take 
 The same great office, if the first should leave 
 His work imperfect ? 
 
 Ctes. There can scarce be need ; 
 
 Yet as thou wilt. May the first chance be mine ! 
 I will leave little for a second arm. 
 
 [Cassander returns icith the helmet. 
 
 Ctes. Now, gods, decide ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon draws a lot from the helmet. 
 
 Pho. The name 1 Why dost thou pause ! 
 
 Ctes. 'Tis Ion ! 
 
 Ion. Well I knew it would be mine ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon draics another lot. 
 
 Ctes. Phocion ! it wdll be thine to strike him dead 
 If he should prove faint-hearted. 
 
 Pho. With my life 
 
 I '11 answer for his constancy. 
 
 Ctes. [to Ion.] Thy hand ! 
 
 'Tis cold as death. 
 
 Ion. Yes ; but it is as firm. 
 
 What ceremony next ? 
 
 [Ctesiphon leads Ion to the altar and gives him a knife. 
 
 Ctes. Receive this steel, 
 
 For ages dedicate in my sad home 
 
 F
 
 66 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act iir. 
 
 To sacrificial uses ; grasp it nobly, 
 And consecrate it to untrembling service 
 Against the King of Argos and his race. 
 
 Ion. His race ! Is he not left alone on earth % 
 He hath no brother, and no child. 
 
 Ctes. Such words 
 
 The god hath used who never speaks in vain. 
 
 Pho. There were old rumours of an infant born 
 And strangely vanishing ; — a tale of guilt 
 Half-hush'd, perchance distorted in the hushing. 
 And by the wise scarce heeded, for they deem'd it 
 One of a thousand guilty histories. 
 Which, if the walls of palaces could speak, 
 Would show that, nursed by prideful luxury. 
 To pamper which the virtuous peasant toilsj 
 Crimes grow unpunish'd, which the pirates' nest. 
 Or want's foul hovel, or the cell which justice 
 Keeps for unlicensed guilt, would startle at ! 
 We must root out the stock, that no stray scion 
 Renew the tree, whose branches, stifling virtue. 
 Shed poison-dews on life. 
 
 Ion. {Approaches the altar, and lifting up the knife, 
 speal'S.^^ Ye eldest gods, 
 
 Who in no statues of exactest form 
 Are palpable ; who shun the azure heights 
 Of beautiful Olympus, and the sound 
 Of ever-young Apollo's minstrelsy ; 
 Yet, mindful of the empire which ye held 
 Over dim Chaos, keep revengeful wrath 
 On falling nations, and on kingly lines 
 About to sink for ever : ye, who shed 
 Into the passions of earth's giant brood 
 And their fierce usages the sense of justice ; 
 Who clothe the fated battlements of tyranny 
 With blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe 
 Through the proud halls of time-embolden'd guilt 
 Portents of ruin, hear me ! — In your presence. 
 For now I feel ye nigh, I dedicate 
 This arm to the destruction of the king 
 And of his race ; keep me pitiless : 
 Expel all human weakness from my frame,
 
 scKXE II.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 67 
 
 That this keen weapon shake not when his heart 
 Should feel its point ; and if he has a child 
 "Whose blood is needful to the sacrifice 
 My country asks, harden my soul to shed it ! — 
 Was not that thunder 1 
 
 Ctes. No ; I heard no sound. 
 
 Now mark me, Ion ! thou shalt straight be led 
 To the king's chamber : we shall be at hand ; 
 Nothing can give thee pause. Hold ! one should watch 
 The city's eastern portal, lest the troops, 
 Returning from the work of plunder home, 
 Surround us unprepared. Be that thy duty. [To Piiociok. 
 
 Pho. I am to second Ion if he fail, 
 
 Ctes. He cannot fail ; — I shall be nigh. '^\Tiat, Ion ? 
 
 Ion. Who spake to me 1 Where am I ? Friends, your 
 I am prepared ; yet grant me for a moment, [pardon ; 
 One little moment to be left alone. 
 
 Ctes. Be brief then, or the season of revenge 
 Will pass. At yonder thicket we '11 expect thee, 
 
 [Exeunt all hit Ion. 
 
 Ion. Methinks I breathe more freely, now my lot 
 Is palpable, and mortals gird me round. 
 Though my soul owns no sympathy with theirs. 
 Some one approaches — I must hide this knife — 
 Hide ! I have ne'er till now had aught to hide 
 From any human eye. [He conceals the knife in his rest. 
 
 Enter Clemaxthe. 
 
 Clemanthe here ! 
 
 Cle. Forgive me that I break upon thee thus : 
 I meant to watch thy steps unseen ; but night 
 Is thickening ; thou art haunted .by sad fancies, 
 And 'tis more terrible to think upon thee 
 Wandering with such companions in thy bosom, 
 Than in the peril thou art wont to seek 
 Beside the bed of death. 
 
 Ion. Death, say'st thou ? Death ? 
 
 Is it not righteous when the gods decree it ? 
 And brief its sharpest agony ? Yet, fairest. 
 It is no theme for thee. Go in at once. 
 And think of it no more. 
 
 F 2
 
 68 ION ; A TRAGEDY, [act hi. 
 
 Cle. Not ^\•ithout thee. 
 
 Indeed thou art not well ; thy hands are marble : 
 Thine eyes are fix'd ; let me support thee, love : — 
 Ha ! what is that gleaming within thy vest ? 
 A knife ! Tell me its pui-pose. Ion ! 
 
 Ion. No ; 
 
 My oath forbids. 
 
 Cle, An oath ! gentle Ion, 
 
 What can have link'd thee to a cause which needs 
 A stronger cement than a good man's word ? 
 There 's danger in it. Wilt thou keep it fi-oni me ? 
 
 loii. Alas, I must. Thoa wilt know all full soon — 
 
 [ Voices call, lox ! 
 Hark ! I am call'd. 
 
 Cle. Nay, do not leave me thus. 
 
 Ion. 'Tis very sad [voices again] — I dare not stav — 
 farewell ! [Exit. 
 
 Cle, It must be to Adrastus that he hastes ! 
 If by his hand the fated tyrant die. 
 Austere remembrance of the deed will hang 
 Upon his delicate spirit like a cloud, 
 And tinge its world of happy images 
 With hues of horror. Shall \ to the palace. 
 And, as the price of my disclosure, claim 
 His safety 1 No ! — 'Tis never woman's part 
 Out of her fond misgivings to perplex 
 The fortunes of the man to whom she cleaves ; 
 'Tis hers to weave all that she has of fair 
 And bright in the dark meshes of their web 
 Inseparate from their windings. My poor heart 
 Hath found its refuge in a hero's love, 
 "VMiatever destiny his generous soul 
 Shape for him ; — 'tis its duty to be still 
 And trust him till it bound or break with his. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — A Chamber in the Temple. 
 
 Enter Medon , follotced hy Habra. 
 3fe. My daughter not within the temple, say'st thou '? 
 Abroad at such an hour ? Sure not alone 
 She wandered : tell me truly, did not Phocion
 
 scEVK m.] lOX; A TRAGEDY. 6& 
 
 Or Ion bear her company t 'twas Ion — 
 Confess — was it not he ? I shall not chide, 
 Indeed I shall not. 
 
 • Hob. She went forth alone ; 
 
 But it is true that Ion just before 
 Had taken the same path. 
 
 Me. It was to meet him. 
 
 I would they were retum'd ; the night is grown 
 Of an unusual blackness. Some one comes— 
 Look if it be my daughter. 
 
 Hah. \JooMng out]. No ; young Irus, 
 
 The little slave, whose pretty tale of grief 
 Agenor, with so gracious a respect. 
 This morning told us. 
 
 Me. Let him come ; he bears 
 
 Some message from his master. 
 
 Enter Irus. 
 
 Me. [to Irus.] Thou art pale : 
 
 Has any evil happen'd to Agenor ? 
 
 Iriis. No, my good lord ; I do not come from him ; 
 I bear to thee a scroll from one who now 
 Is number'd "^^ith the dead ; he was my kinsman, 
 But I had never seen him till he lay 
 Upon his death-bed ; for he left these shores 
 Long before I was born, and no one knew 
 His place of exile ; — on this mournful day 
 He landed, was plague-stricken, and expired. 
 My gentle master gave me leave to tend 
 His else unsolaced death-bed ; — when he found 
 The clammy chilness of the grave steal on, 
 He call'd for parchment, and with trembling hand, 
 That seem'd to gather firmness from its task, 
 Wrote earnestly ; conjured me take the scroll 
 Instant to thee ; and died. [Irus gives a scroll to Medon. 
 
 3Ie. \_reading the scroll]. These are high tidings. 
 Habra ! is not Clemanthe come ? I long 
 To tell her all. 
 
 Enter Clemanthe. 
 Me. Sit do\ra; my pensive child.
 
 70 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [alt hi. 
 
 Habra, this boy is faint ; see him refresh'd 
 With food and wine before thou lett'st him pass. 
 
 Irus. I have too long been absent from Agenor, 
 Who needs my slender help. 
 
 Me. Nay, I will use 
 
 Thy master's firmness here, and use it so 
 As he would use it. Keep him prisoner, Habra, 
 Till he has done my bidding. [Exeunt Habra and. Irus. 
 
 Now, Clemanthe, 
 Though thou hast play'd the truant and the rebel, 
 I will not be too strict in my award, 
 By keeping from thee news of one to thee 
 Most dear — nay, do not blush — I say most dear. 
 
 Cle. It is of Ion ; — no — I do not blush, 
 But tremble. my father, what of Ion ? 
 
 Me. How often have we guess 'd his lineage noble ! 
 And now 'tis proved. The kinsman of that youth 
 Was with another hired to murder him 
 A babe ; — they tore him from his mother's breast, 
 And to a sea-girt summit where a rock 
 O'erhung a chasm, by the surge's force 
 Made terrible, rush'd with him. As the gods 
 In mercy order'd it, the foremost ruffian. 
 Who bore no burden, pressing through the gloom 
 In the wild hurry of his guilty purpose. 
 Trod at the extreme verge upon a crag 
 Loosen'd by summer from its granite bed, 
 And suddenly fell with it ; — M'ith his fall 
 Sank the base daring of the man who held 
 The infant ; so he placed the unconscious babe 
 Upon the spot where it was found by me ; 
 Watch 'd till he saw the infant safe ; then fled, 
 Fearful of question ; and return 'd to die. 
 That child is Ion. Whom dost guess his sire ? — 
 The first in Argos. 
 
 Cle. Dost thou mean Adrastus ? 
 
 He cannot — must not — be that tyrant's son ! 
 
 Me. It is most certain. Nay, my thankless girl, 
 He hath no touch of his rash father's pride ; 
 For Nature, from whose genial lap he smiled 
 Upon us first, hath moulded for her own
 
 srENE III.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 71 
 
 The suppliant of her bounty ; — thou art bless'd ; 
 Thus, let me bid thee joy. 
 
 Cle. Joy, sayst thou — joy ! 
 
 Then I must speak — he seeks Adrastus' life ; 
 And at this moment, while we talk may stain 
 His soul with panicide. 
 
 Me. Impossible ! 
 
 Ion, the gentlest 
 
 Cle. It is true, my father ; 
 
 I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest ; 
 I heard him call'd ! 
 
 Me, Shall I alarm the palace ? 
 
 Cle. No ; in the fierce confusion, he would fall * 
 
 Before our tale could be its safeguard. Gods ! 
 Is there no hope, no refuge ? 
 
 Me. Yes, if Heaven 
 
 Assist us. I bethink me of a passage. 
 Which, fashion'd by a king in pious zeal. 
 That he might seek the altar of the god 
 In secret, from the temple's inmost shrine 
 Leads to the royal chamber, I have track'd it 
 In youth for pastime. Could I thread it now, 
 I yet might save him. 
 
 Cle. 0, make haste my father ! 
 
 Shall I attend thee ? 
 
 Me. No ; thou wouldst impede 
 
 My steps ; — thou art fainting ; when I have lodged thee 
 
 safe 
 In thy own chamber, I will light the torch. 
 And instantly set forward. 
 
 Cle. Do not waste 
 
 An instant's space on me ; speed, speed, my father— 
 The fatal moments fly ; I need no aid ; 
 Thou seest I am calm, quite calm. 
 
 Me. The gods protect thee ! 
 
 \Exeunt severally .
 
 72 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act ir. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — The Royal Chamber. Adrastus on a couch, asleep, 
 
 Enter Ion with the knife. 
 
 Ion. Why do I creep thus stealthily along 
 With trembling steps ? Am I not arm'd by Heaven 
 To execute its mandate on a king 
 Whom it hath doom'd ? And shall I falter now, 
 While every moment that he breathes may crush 
 Some life else happy 1 — Can I be deceived 
 By some foul passion, crouching in my soul, 
 Which takes a radiant form to lure me on 1 
 Assure me, gods ! — Yes ; I have heard your voices ; 
 For I dare pray ye now to nerve my arm 
 And see me strike ! [He goes to the couch. 
 
 He 's smiling in his slumber, 
 As if some happy thought of innocent days 
 Play'd at his heart-strings : must I scare it thence 
 With death's sharp agony 1 He lies condemn'd 
 By the high judgment of supernal Powers, 
 And he shall know their sentence. Wake, Adrastus ! 
 Collect thy spirits, and be strong to die ! 
 
 Adras. Who dares disturb my rest ? Guards ! Soldiers ! 
 Recreants ! 
 Where tarry ye ? Why smite ye not to earth 
 This bold intruder 1 — Ha ! no weapon here ! — 
 What wouldst thou with me, ruffian ? [Bmng. 
 
 Ion. I am none. 
 
 But a sad instrument in Jove's great hand 
 To take thy life, long forfeited — Prepare ! 
 Thy hour is come ! 
 
 Adras. Villains ! does no one hear ? 
 
 Ion. Vex not the closing minutes of thy being 
 With torturing hope or idle rage ; thy guards, 
 Paslied \\\i\\ revelry, are scatter'd senseless. 
 While the most valiant of our Argive youths
 
 iCESE I.J ION ; A TRAGEDY. 73 
 
 Hold every passage by which human aid 
 Could reach thee. Present death is the award 
 Of Powers who watch above me while I stand 
 To execute their sentence. 
 
 Adras. Thou ! — 1 know thee — 
 
 The youth I spared this morning ; in whose ear 
 I pour'd the secrets of my bosom. Kill me, 
 If thou darest do it ; but bethink thee first 
 How the grim memory of thy thankless deed 
 Will haunt thee to the grave ! 
 
 Ion. It is most true ; 
 
 Thou sparedst my life, and therefore do the gods 
 Ordain me to this office, lest thy fall 
 Seem the chance forfeit of some single sin, 
 And not the great redress of Argos. Now — 
 Now. while I parley — Spirits that have left, 
 Within this hour, their plague-tormented flesh 
 To rot untomb'd, glide by, and frown on me, 
 Their slow Avenger — and the chamber swarms 
 With looks of Furies — Yet a moment wait, 
 Ye dreadful prompters ! — If there is a friend. 
 Whom dying thou wouldst greet by word or token^ 
 Speak thy last bidding. 
 
 Adras. I have none on earth. 
 
 If thou hast courage, end me ! 
 
 Ion. Not one friend ! 
 
 Most piteous doom ! 
 
 Adras. Art melted ? 
 
 Ion. If I am, 
 
 Hope nothing from my weakness ; mortal arms, 
 And eyes unseen that sleep not, gird us round, 
 And we shall fall together. Be it so ! 
 
 Adras. No ; strike at once ; my hour is come : in thee 
 I recognise the minister of Jove, 
 And, kneeling thus, submit me to his power. 
 
 [Adrastus Icneels. 
 
 Ion. Avert thy face ! 
 
 Adras. No ; let me meet thy gaze ; 
 
 For breathing pity lights thy features up 
 Into more awful likeness of a form 
 \\Tiich once shone on me ; and which now my sense
 
 74 ION ; A TRAGEDY. act iv. 
 
 Shapes palpable — in habit of the grave, 
 
 Inviting me to the sad realm where shades 
 
 Of innocents, whom passionate regard 
 
 Link'd with the guilty, are content to pace 
 
 With them the margin of the inky flood 
 
 Mournful and calm ; — 'tis surely there ; — she waves 
 
 Her pallid hand in circle o'er thy head, 
 
 -A s if to bless thee — and I bless thee too, 
 
 Death's gracious angel ! — Do not turn away. 
 
 Ion, Gods ! to what office have ye doom'd me ! Now ! 
 
 [Ion raises his arm to stab Adrastus, who is kneeVing^ and 
 
 gazes stedfastly upon him. The voice of ]\Iedon is 
 
 heard mthout, calling Ion ! Ion ! — Ion drops his 
 
 arm. 
 
 Adras. Be quick, or thou art lost ! 
 
 \As Ion has again raised his ann to strike, Medon rashes 
 in behind him. 
 Me. Ion, forbear ! 
 
 Behold thy son, Adrastus ! 
 
 [Ion stands for a moment stupified mih horror , drops the 
 knife, and falls senseless on the ground. 
 Adras. What strange words 
 
 Are these which call my senses from the death 
 They were composed to welcome 1 Son ! 'tis false — 
 I had but one — and the deep wave rolls o'er him ! 
 
 Me. That wave received, instead of the fair nurseling, 
 One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight 
 In %^^cked haste to slay ; — I '11 give thee proofs. 
 
 Adras. Great Jove, I thank thee ! — raise him gently — 
 proofs ! 
 Are there not here the lineaments of her 
 Who made me happy once — the voice, now still. 
 That bade the long-seal'd fount of love gush out. 
 While with a prince's constancy he came 
 To lay his noble life down ; and the sure, 
 The dreadful proof, that he whose guileless brow 
 Is instinct with her spirit, stood above me, 
 Arm'd for the traitor's deed ? — It is my child ! 
 
 [Ion reviving, sinks on one knee before Adrastus. 
 Ion. Father! [Noise icithout. 
 
 Me, The clang of arms !
 
 scEN-E 1] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 75 
 
 Ion. {starting up\ They come ! they come ! 
 
 They who are leagued with me against thy life. 
 Here let us fall ! 
 
 Adras. I will confront them yet. 
 
 "NMthin I have a weapon which has drunk 
 A traitor's blood ere now ; — there will I wait them : 
 No power less strong than death shall part us now. 
 
 [Exeunt Adrastus and Ion as to an inner chamber. 
 
 Me. Have mercy on him, gods, for the dear sake 
 Of your most single-hearted worshipper ! 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and others. 
 
 Ctes. What treachery is this — the tyrant fled, 
 And Ion fled too ! — Comrades, stay this dotard, 
 While I search yonder chamber. 
 
 Me. Spare him, friends,— 
 
 Spare him to clasp awhile his new-found son ; 
 Spare him as Ion's father ! 
 
 Ctes. Father ! yes — 
 
 That is indeed a name to bid me spare ; 
 Let me but find him, gods ! [He rushes into the inner chamber. 
 
 Me. [to Cassander and the others]. Had ye but seen 
 Whcii I have seen, ye would have mercy on him. 
 
 Crythes enters icith Soldiers. 
 Ha, soldiers ! hasten to defend your master ; 
 
 That way 
 
 [As Crythes is about to enter the inner chamber, Ctesiphon 
 rushes from it tcith a blovdy dacjger, and stops them. 
 Ctes. it is accomplished ; the foul blot 
 
 Is wiped away. Shade of my murder'd father. 
 Look on thy son, and smile ! 
 
 Crj/. Whose blood is that ? 
 
 It cannot be the king's ! 
 
 Ctes. It cannot be ! 
 
 Think'st thou, foul minion of a tyrant's will, 
 He was to crush, and thou to crawl for ever ? 
 Look there, and tremble ! 
 
 Cry. Wretch ! thy life shall pay 
 
 The forfeit of this deed. 
 
 [Crythes and Soldiers seize Ctesiphon.
 
 76 lOX ; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 Enter Adrastus mortally wounded^ supported by Ion. 
 
 Adras. Here let me rest ; 
 
 In this old chamber did my life begin, 
 And here I '11 end it : Crythes ! thou hast timed 
 Thy visit well, to bring thy soldiers hither 
 To gaze upon my parting. 
 
 Cry. To avenge thee ; — 
 
 Here is the traitor ! 
 
 Adras. Set him free at once : 
 
 Why do ye not obey me ? Ctesiphon, 
 I gave thee cause for this ; — believe me now 
 That thy true steel has made thy vengeance sure ; 
 And as we now stand equal, I will sue 
 For a small boon — let me not see thee more. 
 
 Ctes. Farewell ! [Exit Ctesiphon. 
 
 Adras. [to Crythes and the Soldiers] . Why do ye tarry 
 here ? 
 Begone ! — still do ye hover round my couch ! 
 If the commandment of a dying king 
 Is feeble, as a man who has embraced 
 His child for the first time since infancy, 
 And presently must part with him for ever, 
 I do adjure ye leave us ! [Exeunt all but Ion and Adrastus. 
 
 lofi. O my father ! 
 
 How is it with thee now 1 
 
 Adras. Well ; very well ; — 
 
 Avenging Fate hath spent its utmost force 
 Against me ; and I gaze upon my son 
 With the sweet certainty that nought can part us 
 Till all is quiet here. How like a dream 
 Seems the succession of my regal pomps 
 Since I embraced my newborn child ! To me 
 The interval hath been a weary one : 
 How hath it pass'd with thee ? 
 
 Io?i. But that my heart 
 
 Hath sometimes ached for the sweet sense of kindred, 
 I had enjoy'd a round of happy years 
 As cherish'd youth e'er knew. 
 
 Adras. I bless the gods 
 
 That they have strewn along thy humble path
 
 SCENE I.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 77 
 
 Delights unblamed ; and in this hour I seem 
 Even as I had lived so ; and I feel 
 That I shall live in thee, unless that curse — 
 Oh, if it should survive me ! 
 
 Ion. Think not of it ; 
 
 The gods have shed such sweetness in this moment, 
 That, howsoe'er they deal with me hereafter, 
 I shall not deem them angry. Let me call 
 For help to stanch thy wound : thou art strong yet, 
 And yet may live to bless me. 
 
 Adras. Do not stir ; 
 
 My strength is ebbing fast ; yet as it leaves me, 
 The spirit of my stainless days of love 
 Awakens ; and their images of joy, 
 "V^'hich at thy voice started from blank oblivion, 
 When thou wert strange to me, and then half-shown 
 Look'd sadly through the mist of guilty years. 
 Now glimmer on me in the lovely light 
 Which at thy age they wore. Thou art all thy mother s, 
 Her elements of gentlest virtue cast 
 In mould heroical. 
 
 Ion. Thy speech grows fainter ; 
 
 Can I do nothing for thee ? 
 
 Adras. Yes : — my son. 
 
 Thou art the best, the bravest of a race 
 Of rightful monarchs ; thou must mount the throne 
 Thy ancestors have fill'd, and by great deeds 
 Efface the memory of thy fated sire. 
 And win the blessing of the gods for men 
 Stricken for him. Swear to me thou wilt do this. 
 And I shall die forgiven. 
 
 Ion. I will, 
 
 Adras. Rejoice, 
 
 Sufferers of Argos ! I am growing weak. 
 And my eyes dazzle ; let me rest my hands. 
 Ere they have lost their feeling, on thy head, — 
 So ! So ! — thy hair is glossy to the touch 
 As when I last enwreath'd its tiny curl 
 About my finger ; I did image then 
 Thy reign excelling mine ; it is fulfill'd. 
 And I die happy. Bless thee, Iving of Argos ! [Dies.
 
 73 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 Ion. He 's dead ! and I am fatherless again. — 
 King did he hail me ? shall I make that word 
 A spell to bid old happiness awake 
 Throughout the lovely land that father'd me 
 In my forsaken childhood ? 
 
 [He sees the knife on the ground^ and takes it up. 
 Most vain dream ! 
 This austere monitor had bid thee vanish 
 Ere half-reveal'd. Come back, thou truant steel ; 
 Half of thy work the gods absolved thee from — 
 The rest remains ! Lie there ! 
 
 [He conceals the knife in his rest. Shouts heard icithout. 
 The voice of joy ! 
 Is this thy funeral wailing ? my father ! 
 Mournful and brief will be the heritage 
 Thou leavest me ; yet I promised thee in death 
 To grasp it j — and I will embrace it now. 
 
 Enter Agenor and others. 
 
 Age. Does the king live ? 
 
 Io7i. Alas ! in me. The son 
 
 Of him whose princely spirit is at rest, 
 Claims his ancestral honours. 
 
 Age. That high thought 
 
 Anticipates the prayer of Argos, roused 
 To sudden joy. The sages wait without 
 To greet thee ; wilt confer with them to-night, 
 Or wait the morning ! 
 
 Ion. Now. The city's state 
 
 Allows the past no sorrow. I attend them. Exeunt. 
 
 Scene \l. —Before the Gate of the City. 
 
 Phocion on guard. 
 Pho. Fool that I was to take this idle office 
 At most inglorious distance from the scene 
 Which shall be freedom's birth-place ; to endure 
 The phantasies of danger which the soul 
 Uncheer'd by action coldly dallies with 
 Till it begins to shiver ! Long ere this,
 
 SCENE II.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 79 
 
 If Ion's hand be firm, the deed is past, 
 And yet no shout announces that the bonds 
 Of tyranny are broken. {Shouts at a distance. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis done ! 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon. 
 
 All hail, my brother freeman ! — art not so ? — 
 Thy looks are haggard — is the tyrant slain 1 
 Is liberty achieved ] 
 
 Ctes, The king is dead ; 
 
 This arm — I bless the righteous Furies ! — slew him. 
 
 Pho. Did Ion quail, then ? 
 
 Ctes. Ion ! — clothe thy speech 
 
 In phrase more courtly ; he is king of Argos, 
 Accepted as the tyrant's son, and reigns. 
 
 Pho. It cannot be ; I can believe him born 
 Of such high lineage ; yet he will not change 
 His own rich treasur}^ of unruffled thoughts 
 For all the frigid glories that invest 
 The loveless state in which the monarch dwells 
 A terror and a slave. IShoiits again, 
 
 Ctes. Dost hear that shout ? 
 
 'Tis raised for him ! — the craven-hearted world 
 Is ever eager thus to hail a master, 
 And patriots smite for it in vain. Our Soldiers, 
 In the gay recklessness of men who sport 
 With life as with a plaything ; Citizens 
 On wretched beds gaping for show ; and Sages, 
 Vain of a royal sophist, madly join 
 In humble prayer that he would deign to tread 
 Upon their necks ; and he is pleased to grant it. 
 
 Pho. He shall not grant it ! If my life, my sense, 
 My heart's affections, and my tongue's free scope 
 Wait the dominion of a mortal will, 
 What is the sound to me, whether my soul 
 Bears " Ion " or " Adrastus " burnt within it 
 As my soul's owner 1 Ion tyrant 1 No ! 
 Grant me a moment's pleading with his heart, 
 Which has not known a selfish throb till now, 
 A.nd thou shalt see him smile this gi'eatness from him.
 
 80 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 Ctes. Go teach the eagle when in azure heaven 
 He upward darts to seize his madden'd prey, 
 Shivering through the death-circle of its fear, 
 To pause and let it 'scape, and thou mayst win 
 Man to forego the sparkling round of power, 
 When it floats airily within his grasp ! 
 
 Pho. Why thus severe 1 Our nature's common WTongs 
 Affect thee not ; and that which touch'd thee nearly 
 Is well avenged. 
 
 Cte^. Not while the son of him 
 
 Who smote my father reigns ! I little guess'd 
 Thou wouldst require a prompter to awake 
 The memory of the oath so freshly sworn. 
 Or of the place assign'd to thee by lot. 
 Should our first champion fail to crush the race — 
 Mark me ! — " the race " of him my arm has dealt with. 
 Now is the time, the palace all confused, 
 And Ion dizzy with strange turns of fortune, 
 To do thy part. 
 
 Pho. Have mercy on my weakness ! 
 
 If thou hadst known this comrade of my sports, 
 One of the same small household whom his mirth 
 Unfailing gladden'd ; — if a thousand times 
 Thou hadst, by strong prosperity made thoughtless, 
 Touch'd its unfather'd nature in its nerve 
 Of agony, and felt no chiding glance ; — 
 Hadst tiiou beheld him overtax his strength 
 To serve the wish his genial instinct guess'd. 
 Till his dim smile the weariness betray'd, 
 "Which it would fain dissemble ; hadst thou known 
 In sickness the sweet magic of his care. 
 Thou couldst not ask it. — Hear me, Ctesiphon ! — 
 I had a deadly fever once, and slaves 
 Fled me : he watch'd, and glided to my bed, 
 And sooth'd my dull ear with discourse which grew 
 By nice degi'ees to ravishment, till pain 
 Seem'd an heroic sense, which made me kin 
 To the great deeds he pictured, and the brood 
 Of dizzy weakness flickering through the gloom 
 Of my small curtain'd prison caught the hues 
 Of beauty spangling out in glorious change ;
 
 SCKNE III.] lOX ; A TRAGEDY. 81 
 
 And it became a luxury to lie 
 And faintly listen. Canst thou bid me slay him ? 
 Ctes. The deed be mine. Thou 'It not betray me ? 
 
 \_GoillQ. 
 
 Pho. Hold ! 
 
 If by our dreadful compact he must fall, 
 I will not smite him with my coward thought 
 Winging a distant arm ; I vdW confront him 
 Arm'd with delicious memories of our youth, 
 And pierce him through them all. 
 
 Ctes. Be speedy, then ! 
 
 Pho. Fear not that I shall prove a laggard, charged 
 With weight of such a purpose. — Fate commands, 
 And I live now but to perfonn her bidding. 
 
 \_Exeunt seteralhj. 
 
 Scene III. — A Terrace in the Garden of the Palace^ by 
 Moonlight. 
 
 Enter Ion and Agenor. 
 
 Age. Wilt thon not seek repose ? 
 
 I(yn, jNIy rest is here — 
 
 Beneath the greatness of the heavens, which awes 
 My spirit, toss'd by sudden change, and torn 
 By various passions, to repose. Yet age 
 Requires more genial nourishment — pray seek it— 
 I will but stay thee to inquire once more 
 If any symptom of returning health 
 Bless the wan city ? 
 
 Age. No — the perishing 
 
 Lift up their painful heads to bless thy name, 
 And their eyes kindle as they utter it ; 
 But still they perish. 
 
 Ion. So I — give instant order, 
 
 The rites which shall confirm me in my throne 
 Be solemnised to-morrow. 
 
 Age. How ! so soon, 
 
 While the more sacred duties to the dead 
 Remain unpaid ? 
 
 Ion. Let them abide my time — 
 
 G
 
 82 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 They will not tarry long. I see thee gaze 
 With wonder on me — do my bidding now, 
 And trust me till to-morrow. Pray go in, 
 The night u-ill chill thee else. 
 
 Age. Farewell, my lord ! [Exit. 
 
 Ion. Now all is stillness in my breast — how soon 
 To be displaced by more profound repose, 
 In which no thread of consciousness shall live 
 To feel how calm it is i —0 lamp serene, 
 Do I lift up to thee undazzled eyes 
 For the last time 1 Shall I enjoy no more 
 Thy golden haziness which seem'd akin 
 To my young fortune's dim felicity ? 
 And when it coldly shall embrace the urn 
 That shall contain my ashes, wall no thought 
 Of all the sweet ones cherish'd by thy beams 
 Awake to tremble with them 1 Vain regret ! 
 The pathway of my duty lies in sunlight, 
 And I would tread it with as firm a step, 
 Though it should terminate in cold oblivion, 
 As if Elysian pleasures at its close 
 Flash 'd palpable to sight as things of earth. 
 Who passes there \ 
 
 Enter Phocion behind, icho strikes at Ion with a dagger. 
 
 P/io. This to the king of Argos ! 
 
 [Ion struggles tcith him, seizes the dagger ichich he throics aicay. 
 
 Ion. I will not fall by thee, poor wavering novice 
 In the assassin's trade ! — thy arm is feeble — 
 
 \_He confronts Phocion. 
 Phocion ! — was this well aim'd ] thou didst not mean — 
 
 PJio. I meant to take thy life, urged by remembrance 
 Of yesterday's great vow. 
 
 Io7i. And couldst thou think 
 
 I had forgotten 'i 
 
 Pho. Thou ? 
 
 Ion. Couldst thou believe, 
 
 That one, whose nature had been ann'd to stop 
 The life-blood's current in a fellow's veins. 
 Would hesitate when gentler duty turn'd 
 His steel to nearer use ? To-morrow's dawn 
 Shall see me wield the sceptre of my fathers :
 
 SCENE III. 1 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 83 
 
 Come, watch beside my throne, and, if I fail 
 In sternest duty which my countiy needs. 
 My bosom will be open to thy steel, 
 As now to thy embrace ! 
 
 Pho. ' Thus let me fall 
 
 Low at thy feet, and kneeling here receive 
 Forgiveness ; do not crush me with more love 
 Than lies in the word " pardon." 
 
 I(m. And that word 
 
 I will not speak ; — what have I to forgive ? 
 A devious fancy, and a muscle raised 
 Obedient to its impulse ! Dost thou think 
 The tracings of a thousand kindnesses, 
 Which taught me all I guess'd of brotherhood, 
 And in the rashness of a moment lost % 
 
 Pho. I cannot look upon thee ; let me go. 
 And lose myself in darkness. 
 
 Ion. Nay, old playmate, 
 
 We part not thus — the duties of my state 
 Will shortly end our fellowship ; but spend 
 A few sweet minutes \\-ith me. Dost remember 
 How in a night like this we climb 'd yon walls — 
 Two vagrant urchins, and with tremulous joy 
 Skimm'd through these statue-border'd walks that gleam'd 
 In bright succession ? Let us tread them now ; 
 And think we are but older by a day. 
 And that the pleasant walk of yesteniight 
 We are to-night retracing. Come, my friend I — 
 "Wliat, drooping yet ! thou wert not wont to seem 
 So stubborn — cheerily, my Phocion — come ! [Fxennf. 
 
 G 2
 
 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — Time — The Morning of the Second day. The 
 Terrace of the Palace. 
 
 Tico Soldiers on guard. 
 
 1 Sold. A stirring season, comrade ! our new prince 
 Has leap'd as eagerly into his seat 
 
 As he had languish'd an expectant heir 
 Weary of nature's kindness to old age. 
 He was esteem'd a modest stripling ; — strange 
 That he should, with such reckless huriy, seize 
 The gaudy shows of power ! 
 
 2 Sold. 'Tis honest nature ; 
 The royal instinct was but smouldering in him, 
 And now it blazes forth. I pray the gods 
 
 He may not give us cause to mourn his sire. 
 1 Sold. No more ; he comes. 
 
 Enter lox. 
 
 loii. Why do ye loiter here ; 
 
 Are all the statues deck'd with festal wreaths 
 As I commanded ? 
 
 1 Sold. We have been on guard 
 
 Here by Agenor's order since the nightfall. 
 
 Ion. On guard ! Well, hasten now and see it done ; 
 1 need no guards. [Exeunt Soldiers. 
 
 The awful hour draws near ; 
 1 think that I can meet it. — Phocion comes : 
 He will unman me ; yet he must not go, 
 Thinking his presence painful. 
 
 Enter Phociox. 
 
 Friend, good morrow ! 
 Thou play'st the courtier early. 
 
 -^^0. Canst thou speak 
 
 In that old tone of common cheerfulness,
 
 SCENE I.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 85 
 
 That blithely promises delightful years, 
 And hold thy dreadful purpose 1 
 
 Ion. I have drawn 
 
 From the selectest fountain of repose 
 A blessed calm : — when I lay down to rest, 
 I fear'd lest bright remen.brances of childhood 
 Should with untimely \'isitation mock me ; 
 But deep and dreamless have my slumbers been. 
 If sight of thee renews the thoughts of life 
 Too busily, — I prize the love that wakes them. 
 
 Pho. Oh, cherish them, and let them plead with thee 
 To grant my prayer,— that thou wouldst live for Argos, 
 Not die for her ; — thy gracious life shall win 
 ^lore than thy death the favour of the gods, 
 And charm the marble aspect of grim Fate 
 Into a blessed change : I, who am voVd, 
 And who so late was arm'd Fate's minister, 
 Implore thee ! 
 
 Ion. Speak to me no more of life ! 
 
 There is a dearer name I would recall — 
 Thou understand 'st me — 
 
 Ent^r Agenor. 
 A^e. Thou hast forgot to name 
 
 "WTio shall be bidden to this evening's feast. 
 
 Ion. The feast ! most true ; I had forgotten it. 
 Bid whom thou ^^'ilt ; but let there be large store. 
 If our sad walls contain it, for the wTetched 
 Whom hunger palsies. It may be few else 
 "^\'ill taste it with a relish. [Exit Agenor. 
 
 [Ion resumes his address to Phocion, and continues it 
 broken by the interruptions irhich foUoir. 
 I would speak 
 A word of her who yester-moming rose 
 To her light duties with as blithe a heart 
 As ever yet its equal beating veil'd 
 In moveless alabaster ;— plighted now, 
 In liberal hour, to one whose destiny 
 Shall freeze the sources of enjoyment in it, 
 And make it hea^y with the life-long pang 
 A widow'd spirit bears I —
 
 86 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 
 
 Enter Cleon. 
 
 Cleon. The heralds wait 
 
 To learn the hour at which the solemn games 
 Shall be proclaim'd. 
 
 Ion. The games ! — yes, I remember 
 
 That sorrow's darkest pageantries give place 
 To youth's robustest pastimes — Death and Life 
 Embracing : — at the hour of noon. 
 
 Cleon. The wrestlers 
 
 Pray thee to crown the victor. 
 
 Imi. If I live, 
 
 Their wish shall govern me. [Exit Cleon. 
 
 Could I recall 
 One hour, and bid thy sister think of me 
 With gentle sorrow, as a playmate lost, 
 I should escape the guilt of having stopp'd 
 The pulse of hope in the most innocent soul 
 That ever passion ruffled. Do not talk 
 Of me as I shall seem to thy kind thoughts. 
 But harshly as thou canst ; and if thou steal 
 From thy rich store of popular eloquence 
 Some bitter charge against the faith of kings, 
 'Twill be an honest treason. 
 
 Enter Cassander. 
 Cas. Pardon me, 
 
 If I entreat thee to permit a few 
 Of thy once-cherish'd friends to bid thee joy 
 Of that which swells their pride. 
 
 Ion. They '11 madden me. 
 
 Dost thou not see me circled round with care ? 
 Urge me no more. 
 
 [As Cassander is going, Ion hates Phocion, and comes 
 to Mm. 
 
 Come back, Cassander ! see 
 How greatness frets the temper. Keep this ring — 
 It may remind thee of the pleasant hours 
 That we have spent together, ere our fortunes 
 Grew separate ; and with thy gracious speech 
 Excuse me to our friends. [Exit Cassander.
 
 SCEXE n.] ION ; A TRAGEDY 87 
 
 Pho. 'Tis time we seek 
 
 The temple. 
 
 I(yn. Phocion 1 must I seek the temple ? 
 
 Pho. There sacrificial rites must be perform'd 
 Before thou art enthroned. 
 
 Ion. Then I must gaze 
 
 On things which ^^*ill arouse the struggling thoughts 
 I had subdued — perchance may meet with her 
 Whose name I dare not utter. I am ready. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The Temple. 
 
 Clemanthe, Habra. 
 
 Hah. Be comforted, dear lady; — he must come 
 To sacrifice. 
 
 Cle. Recall that churlish word, 
 
 That stubborn " mmt" that bounds my living hopes, 
 As wiih. an iron circle. He must come ! 
 How piteous is afi^ection's state, that cleaves 
 To such a wretched prop ! I had flown to him 
 Long before this, but that I fear'd my presence 
 ]\Iight prove a burthen, — and he sends no word, 
 No token that he thinks of me ! Art sure 
 That he must come 1 The hope has torture in it ; 
 Yet it is all my bankrupt heart hath left 
 To feed upon. 
 
 Hab. I see him now with Phocion 
 
 Pass through the inner court. 
 
 Cle. He will not come 
 
 This way, then, to the place for sacrifice. 
 I can endure no more : speed to him, Habra ; 
 And bid him, if he holds Clemanthe's life 
 Worthy a minute's loss, to seek me here, 
 
 Hab. Dear lady ! — 
 
 Cle. Do not answer me, but run, 
 
 Or I shall give yon crowd of sycophants 
 To gaze upon my sorrow. [^Exit Habra. 
 
 It is hard ; 
 Yet I must strive to bear it, and find solace 
 In that high fortune which has made him strange.
 
 88 ION ; A TRAGEDY. U 
 
 He bendfi this way — ^but slowly — mournfully. 
 O, he is ill ; how has my slander wrong'd him ! 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 Ion. WTiat wouldst thou with me, lady ? 
 
 Cle. Is it so ? 
 
 Nothing, my lord, save to implore thy pardon, 
 That the departing gleams of a bright dream, 
 From which I scarce had waken 'd, made me bold 
 To crave a word with thee ; — but all are fled — 
 And I have nought to seek. 
 
 Ion. A goodly dream ; 
 
 Rut thou art right to think it was no more. 
 And study to forget it. 
 
 Cle. To forget it ? 
 
 Indeed, my lord, I cannot wish to lose 
 What, being past, is all my future hath, 
 All I shall live for : do not grudge me this. 
 The brief space I shall need it. 
 
 Ion. Speak not, fair one, 
 
 In tone so mournful, for it makes me feel 
 Too sensibly the hapless wretch I am. 
 That troubled the deep quiet of thy soul 
 In that pure fountain which reflected heaven, 
 For a brief taste of rapture. 
 
 Cle. Dost thou yet 
 
 Esteem it rapture, then ? My foolish heart, 
 Be still ! Yet wherefore should a crown di\'ide us ? 
 0, my dear Ion ! — let me call thee so 
 This once at least — it could not in my thoughts 
 Increase the distance that there was between us, 
 When, rich in spirit, thou to strangers' eyes 
 Seem'd a poor foundling. 
 
 Ion. It must separate us ! 
 
 Think it no harmless bauble, but a curse 
 Will freeze the current in the veins of youth. 
 And from familiar touch of genial hand, 
 From household pleasures, from sweet daily tasks. 
 From airy thought, free wanderer of the heavens, 
 For ever banish me ! 
 
 Cle. Thou dost accuse
 
 STENE u.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Thy state too hardly. It may give some room, 
 Some little space, amidst its radiant folds, 
 For love to make its nest in I 
 
 Irm . Not for me : 
 
 My pomp must be most lonesome, far removed 
 From that sweet fellowship of human kind 
 The slave rejoices in : my solemn robes 
 Shall wrap me as a panoply of ice, 
 And the attendants who may throng around me 
 Shall want the flatteries which may basely waiTa 
 The sceptred thing they circle. Dark and cold 
 Stretches the path, which when I wear the crown, 
 I needs must enter : — the great gods forbid 
 That thou shouldst follow in it ! 
 
 Cle. unkind I 
 
 And shall we never see each other ? 
 
 Ion [after a pause]. Yes ! 
 
 I have ask'd that dreadful question of the hills 
 That look eternal ; of the flowing streams 
 That lucid flow for ever ; of the stars, 
 Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit 
 Hath trod in glory : all were dumb ; but now, 
 While I thus gaze upon thy living face, 
 I feel the love that kindles through its beauty 
 Can never wholly perish ; we shall meet 
 Again, Clemanthe ! 
 
 Cle. Bless thee for that name ; 
 
 Call me that name again ; thy words sound strangely, 
 Yet they breathe kindness. Shall we meet indeed ? 
 Think not I would intrude upon thy cares, 
 Thy councils, or thy pomps ; — to sit at distance, 
 To weave, with the nice labour which preserves 
 The rebel pulses even from gay threads 
 Faint records of thy deeds, and sometimes catch 
 The falling music of a gracious word, 
 Or the stray sunshine of a smile, will be 
 Comfort enough :— do not deny me this ; 
 Or if stern fate compel thee to deny, 
 Kill me at once ! 
 
 Ion. No ; thou must live, my fair one : 
 
 There are a thousand joyous things in life,
 
 c)0 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act v 
 
 Which pass unheeded in a life of joy 
 
 As thine hath been, till breezy sorrow comes 
 
 To ruffle it ; and daily duties paid 
 
 Hardly at first, at length will bring repose 
 
 To the sad mind that studies to perform them. 
 
 Thou dost not mark me. 
 
 Cle. Oh, I do ! I do ! 
 
 Ion. If for thy brother's and thy father's sake 
 Thou art content to live, the healer. Time, 
 Will reconcile thee to the lovely things 
 Of this delightful world, — and if another, 
 A happier — no, I cannot bid thee love 
 Another ! — I did think I could have said it, 
 But 'tis in vain. 
 
 Cle. Thou art mine own then still 1 
 
 Ion. I am thine own ! thus let me clasp thee ; nearer 
 
 joy too thrilling and too short ! 
 
 Enter Agenor. 
 
 Age. My lord, 
 
 The sacrificial rites await tliy presence. 
 
 Ion. I come. — One more embrace — the last, the last 
 In this world ! Now, farewell ! \^Exit 
 
 Cle. The last embrace ! 
 
 Then he has cast me off ! — No, 'tis not so ; 
 Some mournful secret of his fate divides us : 
 
 1 '11 struggle to bear that, and snatch a comfort 
 From seeing him uplifted. I will look 
 Upon him in his state ; Minerva's shrine 
 Will shelter me fi'om vulgar gaze ; I '11 hasten. 
 
 And feast my sad eyes with his greatness there ! [Exit, 
 
 Scene III. — TJie Great Square of the City — on one side a 
 Throne of state prepared^ — on the other an Altar, — the Statues 
 decorated with garlands. 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon and Cassander. 
 Ctes. "Vex me no more by telling me, Cassander, 
 Of his fair speech : I prize it at its worth ; 
 Thou 'It see how he will act when seated firm
 
 SCENE HI.': ION ; A TRAGEDY. 91 
 
 Upon the throne the craven tyrant fill'd, 
 Whose blood he boasts, unless some honest arm 
 Should shed it first. 
 
 Cas. Hast thoa forgot the time 
 
 When thou thyself v^^ert eager to foretell 
 His manhood's gloiy from his childish virtues? 
 Let me not think thee one of those fond prophets, 
 Who are well pleased still to foretell success, 
 So it remain their dream. 
 
 Ctes. Thou dost forget 
 
 W^hat has chill'd fancy and delight wdthin me— 
 
 [Music at a distance. 
 Hark !— servile trumpets speak his coming — watch 
 How power will change him. [They stand aside. 
 
 [The Procession. Enter Medon, Agenor, Phocion, 
 TiMOCLES, Cleon, Sages and People ; Ion last, in 
 royal robes. He advances amidst shouts, and sj^eaks. 
 
 Ion. I thank you for your greeting — Shout no more. 
 But in deep silence raise your hearts to Heaven, 
 That it may strengthen one so young and frail 
 As I am, for the business of this hour. 
 Must I sit here '? 
 
 Me. Permit thy earliest friend, 
 
 Who propp'd in infancy thy tottering steps. 
 To lead thee to thy throne, — and thus fulfil 
 His fondest ^^sion. 
 
 Ion. Thou art still most kind — 
 
 3Ie. Nay, do not think of me, my son ! my son ! 
 What ails thee ? W^hen thou shouldst reflect the joy 
 Of Argos, the strange paleness of the gi'ave 
 Marbles thy face. 
 
 Ion. Am I indeed so pale ? 
 
 It is a solemn office I assume ; 
 Yet thus, with Phcebus' blessing I embrace it. 
 
 [Sits on the throne. 
 Stand forth, Agenor ! 
 
 Age. I await thy will. 
 
 Ion. To thee I look as to the wisest friend 
 Of this afflicted people ; — thou must leave 
 Awhile the quiet which thy life hath earn'd,
 
 92 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 To rule our councils ; fill the seats of justice 
 With good men not so absolute in goodness, 
 As to forget what human frailty is ; 
 And order my sad country. 
 
 Age. Pardon me — 
 
 Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request ; 
 Thou never couldst deny me what I sought 
 In boyish wantonness, and shalt not grudge 
 Thy wisdom to me, till our state re\'ive 
 From its long anguish ; — it will not be long 
 If Heaven approve me here. Thou hast all power 
 Whether I live or die. 
 
 Age. Die ! I am old — 
 
 Ion. Death is not jealous of thy mild decay, 
 Which gently wins thee his : exulting Youth 
 Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride, 
 And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp 
 His shivering prey at noontide. Let me see 
 The captain of the guard. 
 
 Cty. I kneel to crave 
 
 Humbly the favour which thy sire bestow'd 
 On one who loved him well. 
 
 Ion. I cannot thank thee, 
 
 That wakest the memoiy of my father's weakness 
 But I will not forget that thou hast shared 
 The light enjoyments of a noble spirit. 
 And learn'd the need of luxury. I grant 
 For thee and thy brave comrades, ample share 
 Of such rich treasure as my stores contain. 
 To grace thy passage to some distant land, 
 Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword, 
 May glorious laurels wreath it ! In our realm 
 We shall not need it longer. 
 
 Cri/. Dost intend 
 
 To banish the firm troops before \\hose valour 
 Barbarian millions shrink appall'd, and leave 
 Our city naked to the first assault 
 Of reckless foes ! 
 
 Ion. No, Crythes ! — in ourselves, 
 
 In our own honest hearts and chainless hands 
 Will be our safeguard : — while we seek no use
 
 SCENE tn.] ION ; A TKAGEDY. c 
 
 Of anns, we would not have our children blend 
 
 With their first innocent wishes ; while the love 
 
 Of Argos and of justice shall be one 
 
 To their young reason ; while their sinews grow 
 
 Firm 'midst the gladness of heroic sports : 
 
 We shall not ask to guard our countr^^'s peace 
 
 One selfish passion, or one venal sword. 
 
 I would not grieve thee ; — but thy valiant troop — 
 
 For I esteem them valiant — must no more 
 
 With luxury which suits a desperate camp 
 
 Infect us. See that they embai^, Agenor, 
 
 Ere night. 
 
 Cry. ]\Iy lord— 
 
 Ion. No more — my word hath pass'd. 
 
 j\Iedon, there is no office I can add 
 To those thou hast grown old in ; thou wilt guard 
 The shiine ot Phoebus, and within thy home — 
 Thy too delightful home — befriend the stranger 
 As thou didst me ; — there sometimes waste a thought 
 On thy spoil'd inmate ! 
 
 Me. Think of thee, my lord ? 
 
 Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign — 
 
 Ion. Prithee no more, Argives ! I have a boon 
 To crave of you ; — whene'er I shall rejoin 
 In death the father from whose heart in life 
 Stern Fate divided me, think gently of him ! 
 For ye, who saw him in his full-blown pride, 
 Knew little of affections crush'd within. 
 And wrongs which frenzied him ; yet never more 
 Let the g^eat interests of the state depend 
 Upon the thousand chances that may sway 
 A piece of human frailty ! Swear to me 
 That ye "udil seek hereafter in yourselves 
 The means of sovereign rule : — our narrow space, 
 So happy in its confines, so compact, 
 Needs not the magic of a single name 
 '^^'hich wider regions may require to draw 
 Their interests into one ; but circled thus, 
 Like a bless'd family by simple laws, 
 May tenderly be govern'd ; all degrees 
 Moulded together as a single form
 
 94 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [.act v. 
 
 Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords 
 
 Of sympathy pervading shall suffuse 
 
 In times of quiet with one bloom, and fill 
 
 With one resistless impulse, if the hosts 
 
 Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me 
 
 That ye will do this ! 
 
 Me. Wherefore ask this now ? 
 
 Thou shalt live long ; — the paleness of thy face 
 Which late appall'd me wears a glory now, 
 And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy 
 Of lustrous years. 
 
 Ion. The gods approve me then ! 
 
 Yet I will use the function of a king, 
 And claim obedience. Promise if I leave 
 No issue, that the sovereign power shall live 
 In the affections of the general heart, 
 And in the wisdom of the best. 
 
 Medon^ and others. We swear it ! 
 
 Ion. Hear and record the oath, immortal powers ! 
 Now give me leave a moment to approach 
 That altar unattended. {lie goes to the altar. 
 
 Gracious gods ! 
 In whose mild semce my glad youth was spent, 
 Look on me now ; — and if there is a Power, 
 As at this solemn time I feel there is. 
 Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes 
 The Spirit of the Beautiful that lives 
 In earth and heaven ; to ye I offer up 
 This conscious being, full of life and love. 
 For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow 
 End all her sorrows ! 
 [Stabs himself, and falls. Ctesiphon rushes to supiwrt him. 
 
 Ctesiphon, thou art 
 Avenged and wilt forgive me. 
 
 Ct-es. _ Thou hast pluck'd 
 
 The poor disguise of hatred from my soul, 
 And made me feel how e^^l is the wish 
 Of vengeance. Could I die to save thee ! 
 Clemaxthe rushes forward. 
 
 Cle. Hold ! 
 
 Let me support him — stand away — indeed. —
 
 6' EVE in.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 95 
 
 I have best right, although ye know it not, 
 To cling to him in death. 
 
 Ion. This is a joy 
 
 I did not hope for — this is sweet indeed. — 
 Bend thine eyes on me ! 
 
 Cle. And for this it was 
 
 Thou wouldst have wean'd me from thee \ Couldst thou 
 
 think 
 I would be so divorced ? 
 
 Ion. Thou art right, Clemanthe, — 
 
 It was a shallow and an idle thought ; 
 'Tis past ; no show of coldness frets us now ; 
 No vain disguise, my love. Yet thou wilt think 
 On that which, when I feign'd I truly said — 
 "\^'ilt thou not, sweet one ? 
 
 Clc. I will treasure all. 
 
 Enter Irus. 
 
 Irus. I bring you glorious tidings Ha ! no joy 
 
 Can enter here. 
 
 Ion. Yes — is it as I hope ? 
 
 Irus- The pestilence abates. 
 
 Ion {springs on Ms feet]. Do ye not hear ! 
 
 '\y\iy shout ye not ? — ye are strong — think not of me ; 
 Hearken ! the curse my ancestry has spread 
 O'er Argos is dispell'd — Agenor, give 
 This gentle youth his freedom, who hath brought 
 Sweet tidings that I shall not die in vain — 
 And ]Medon ! cherish him as thou hast one 
 Who dying blesses thee ; — my own Clemanthe ! 
 Let this console thee also — Argos lives — 
 The offering is accepted — all is well ! \I)i<;s. 
 
 The curtain falls.
 
 ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
 
 THE RIGHT HON. THOMAS LORD DENMAN, 
 
 LOBD CHIEy Jl'STICB OF HER MAJESTY'S COJRT OF QUEEN'S BB.NCH, 
 
 IN' TESTIMONY OF WARM ADMIRATION 
 
 OF THOSE QUALITIES WHICH WERE THE GRACE AND DELIGHT 
 OF THE BAR, 
 
 AND WHICH HAPPILY ADORN THE BENCH ; 
 AND IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF MANY CHEERING KINDNESSES ; 
 
 ?r{)is iffrageUi? 
 
 IS, WITH HIS PERMISSION, 
 
 RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following notice was prefixed to the first edition 
 of this drama, which was prepared in the expectation 
 that it would be performed on the eve of its publication : — 
 
 " The existence of the following scenes is entirely to 
 be attributed to the earnest desire which I felt, to assist, 
 even in the slightest degree, the endeavour which Mr. 
 Macready has made this season in the cause of the acted 
 Drama. INIore than contented with the unhoped for asso- 
 ciation I had obtained with the li^'ing influences of scenic 
 representation, in the indulgence accorded to ' Ion,' I 
 should have postponed all thought of again venturing 
 before the public, until years had brought leisure, which 
 might enable me to supply, by labour and by care, what 
 I knew to be wanting in the higher requisites of tragic 
 style. But I could not perceive a gentleman, whose 
 friendship I had long enjoyed, forsaking the certain 
 rewards of his art, and the tranquil pleasures of domestic 
 life, to engage in the chivalrous endeavour to support a 
 cause, which I believe to be that of humanity and of 
 goodness, and which seemed almost desperate, without a 
 feverish anxiety to render him assistance, and perhaps a 
 
 tendency to mistake the \s-ill for the power. The position 
 H 2
 
 100 PREFACE. 
 
 of the two great theatres — with a legal monopoly, which 
 has been frittered away piecemeal without recompense, 
 until nothing remains but the debts which were con- 
 tracted on the faith of its continuance, and the odium of 
 its name ; — opposed to a competition with numerous 
 establishments, dividing the dramatic talent and dissi- 
 pating the dramatic interest of the town, — rendered the 
 determination of Mr. Macready to risk his property, his 
 time and his energies, in the management of one of them, 
 a subject of an interest almost painful. Impressed with 
 this sentiment, at a time when it was unforeseen that one 
 of the most distinguished of our authors would lend his 
 aid — when no tragic creation of Knowles ' cast its shadow 
 before,' with its assurance of power and of beauty, — when 
 the noble revivals of Lear and of Coriolanus were only to 
 be guessed at from those of Hamlet and Macbeth, — I 
 determined to make an attempt, marked, I fear, with 
 more zeal than wisdom. Ha\'ing submitted the outline 
 of this Drama to the friend and artist most interested in 
 the result, and having received his encouragement to 
 proceed, I devoted my little vacation of Christmas to its 
 composition ; — and succeeded so far as to finish it before 
 the renewal of other (I can hardly say) severer labours. 
 Whether I may succeed in doing more than thus grati- 
 fying my own feelings, and testifying their strength by the 
 effort, is, at this time, doubtful ; — but, in no event, shall 
 I regret having made it. 
 
 " At this period I can only, of course, imperfectly 
 estimate the extent of the o]jligation I shall owe to the
 
 PREFACE. 101 
 
 performers ; but, as no other opportunity may occur, I 
 cannot refrain from thanking them for the zeal and cor- 
 diality \\-ith which they have thus far supported me. 
 Among them I am happy to find my old and constant 
 friend, Mr. Serle, — who should rather be engaged in 
 embodying his own conceptions than in lending strength 
 to mine. And I cannot refrain from mentioning the 
 sacrifice made to the common cause by Miss Helen Faucit, 
 in consenting to perform a character far beneath the 
 sphere in which she is entitled to move ; and which, even 
 when elevated and graced by her, will, I fear, be chiefly 
 noted for her good-nature in accepting it." 
 
 The representation of this play at Covent Garden 
 Theatre was prevented by the occuiTence of an event 
 " untoward " as regarded the hopes of the Author, — an 
 addition to the family of ]Mrs. Warner, who had prepared 
 to represent Ismene. It was subsequently produced at 
 the Haymarket Theatre, under the management of Mr. 
 Webster ; and, notwithstanding the diminution of interest 
 caused by its previous publication, was rendered more 
 successful, by the powers of ^Ir. ^Macready and Mrs. 
 Warner, than I had ventured to anticipate, even when I 
 expected that they would be supported by Miss Helen 
 Faucit and Mr. Anderson. It has since been repeatedly 
 represented in the country at the instance of ^Mr. Henry 
 Betty, who has illustrated the part of Thoas with energy 
 and grace, which all who recollect the brilliant passages 
 of his father's youth, or who are acquainted with his own 
 modest worth, will rejoice to find ensuring the best
 
 102 PREFACE. 
 
 rewards which the present condition of the stage allows 
 to its professors. 
 
 The catastrophe of this Drama, as originally written, 
 differs from that with which it now closes, — the death of 
 Thoas by his own hand in the scene of trial. According 
 to the first design, after Ismene has retired from the 
 Temple on the refusal of her son to acquiesce in the 
 condemnation of Hyllus, Thoas, by the aid of the 
 Athenian troops, awes and compels the Corinthians to 
 leave the prisoner with him, and then implores his death 
 from Hyllus, whom he urges to revenge his father ; — 
 Hyllus yields ; — and accompanying Thoas to the tomb of 
 Creon, there accomplishes the wish of his repentant friend 
 and the revenge of his father. This scheme, involving 
 scenic difficulties, and perhaps more serious danger, was 
 objected to by ]\Ir. Macready, with good reason, and 
 supplied by the present termination. While I have no 
 doubt that, for theatrical purposes, the alteration was 
 judicious, I retain the opinion that the original scheme was 
 more in accordance with the severe spirit of the Grecian 
 Drama of which this Play is a faint shadow ; and, there- 
 fore, I have placed in the Appendix the closing scenes as 
 first written.
 
 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 
 
 AS REHEARSED AT THE HAYMARKET THEATRE. 
 
 Creon, King of Corintli Mr. Waldron. 
 
 Hyllus, Son of Creon . . . . . . Mr. E. Glover. 
 
 Iphitxjs, Priest of the temple of Jupiter the 1 
 
 Avenger, at Corinth ... J ^^^^ BrindaU 
 
 Calchas, an Athenian, living at Corinth . . Mr. Gough. 
 
 Thoas, an Athenian Warrior . . . Mr. Macreadt/. 
 
 Pentheus, an Athenian Warrior, his Friend . . Mr. SaviUe. 
 
 Lvcrs, Master of the Slaves to the King of 
 
 O.rinth r ^^'-- "^"^' 
 
 Athenian and Corinthian Soldiers, Sfc. 
 
 > Mrs. )f'arr(n 
 
 Creusa, Daughter of Creon; twin-bom of his "1 
 
 first wife with H>llus . . • •! Miss Taylor. 
 
 IsMENK, Queen of Corinth ; second wife of 
 Creon ... . . 
 
 J 
 
 ScEyE—Corinth, and its immediate neighbourhood. 
 T.ME OK ACTION'— Two dai/s.
 
 ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The Acropolis of Corinth. 
 
 Creon reclining on a bench, beneath open columns — Iphitus a 
 little behind him, in the dress of Augury, xcatching the flight of 
 birds. The Sea seen far beloic, in the distance. 
 Tph . Wheel through the ambient air, ye sacred birds, 
 
 In circles still contracting, that aspire 
 
 To share the radiance of yon dazzling beams, 
 
 And 'midst them float from mortal gaze ; ye speak 
 
 In no uncertain language to the sons 
 
 Of Corinth, that the shames they bear from Athens 
 
 Shall speedily be lost in glories won 
 
 From insolent battalions, that have borne 
 
 Their triumphs to our gates. Rejoice, my king ! 
 
 Leave mournful contemplation of the dust. 
 
 To hail the omen ! 
 
 Creon. I am so perplex'd 
 
 With the faint tracings age's weakness shapes. 
 
 That I distinguish not the winged foiTas 
 
 Thou speakest of from the mists that flicker quick 
 
 On eyes which soon must be all dark. To me 
 
 No omen can be other^vise than sad ! 
 
 Tph . Surely, my king — for I will answer thee 
 
 Untrembling, as Jove's minister — these signs
 
 106 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. At 
 
 Should make thy heart beat proudly ; hast not felt 
 
 Upon our loftiest eminence the blight 
 
 Of that dishonour which alone can slay 
 
 The spirit of a people : — seen our fanes 
 
 Crowded with suppliants from our wasted fields, 
 
 Shrieking for help in vain, and mourn'd the power 
 
 Of Athens to convert our cloudless sky, 
 
 And the bright sea w-hich circles us, to bounds 
 
 Of a great prison ? If thy kingly soul 
 
 Hath shrunk — as well I know it hath — from shame 
 
 Without example in our story, now 
 
 Bid it expand, as our beleaguer'd gates 
 
 Shall open wide to let our heroes pass, 
 
 With brows which glisten to receive the laurel 
 
 From their king's hand. 
 
 Creon. Perchance to see him die. 
 
 0, Iphitus ! thy king hath well nigh spent 
 His store of wealth, of glory, and of power. 
 Which made him master of the hopes and strengths 
 Of others ! While the haggard Fury waits 
 To cut the knot which binds his thousand threads 
 Of lustrous life, and the sad ghost forsakes 
 The palace of its regal clay, to shrink, 
 Thin as a beggar's, sceptreless, uncrow^n'd. 
 Unheeded, to the throng'd and silent shore 
 Where flattery soothes not, think'st thou it can draw 
 A parting comfort from surrounding looks 
 Of lusty youth, prepared, with beaming joy, 
 To hail a young successor ? 
 
 fyh. Still thine age 
 
 Is green and hopeful ; there is nought about thee 
 To speak of mortal sickness, and unnerve 
 A soul of noble essence. 
 
 Creon. Priest, forbear ! 
 
 The life that lingers in me is the witness 
 With w^hich I may not palter. I may s eem 
 To-day to wear the look of yesterday, — 
 A shriveird, doting, peevish, weak old man, 
 Who may endure some winters more to strip 
 A leaflet daily from him, till he stands 
 So bare of happiness, that Death hath scarce
 
 SCENE i-l THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 107 
 
 An art to make him nakeder. My soul 
 
 Begins its solemn whispers of adieu 
 
 To earth's too sweet companionship. Yet, hark ! 
 
 It is Creusa's footstep ; is't not, priest 1 
 
 Is not my child approaching us '] 
 
 Iph. Afar 
 
 I see the snowy foldings of a robe 
 Wave through the column'd avenue ; thy sense 
 Is finer than the impatient ear of youth. 
 That it should catch the music of a step 
 So distant and so gentle. 
 
 Or eon. If thou wert 
 
 A father, thon wouldst know a father's love 
 '^lid nature's weakness, for one failing sense 
 Still finds another sharpen'd to attend 
 Its finest ministries. Unlike the pomps 
 That make the dregs of life more bitter, this 
 Can sweeten even a king's. 
 
 [Crevsa passes across the stage behind Creon, hearing offerings. 
 She passes on ; 
 So ! So ! all leave me. Call her, Iphitus, 
 Though that her duty own no touch of fondness, 
 I will command her. Am I not her king ? 
 Why dost not call 1 
 
 Re-enter Creusa, icho kneels in front to Creon. 
 Ah ! thou art there, my child ; 
 Methinks my waning sight grows clear, to drink 
 The perfect picture of thy beauty in ; 
 And I grow gentle — Ah ! too gentle, girl — 
 Wherefore didst pass me by without regard. 
 Who have scant blessing left save thus to gaze 
 And listen to thee 1 
 
 Creusa. Pardon me, my father, 
 
 If, bearing offerings to the shrine of Jove 
 For my sweet brother's safety, anxious thoughts 
 Clove to him in the battle with a force 
 Which made its strangest shapes of horror live 
 As present things ; and, lost in their pursuit, 
 I heeded not my father. 
 
 Creon. In the battle ?
 
 108 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 Is Hyllus in the combat 'mid those ranks 
 
 Of iron ? He who hath not rounded yet 
 
 His course of generous exercise 1 I'm weak ; 
 
 Is that the cause ? Is he impatient grown 
 
 To put the royal armour on, his sire 
 
 Must never w^ear again 1 Oh, no ! his youth, 
 
 In its obedient gentleness, hath been 
 
 An infancy prolong'd ! It is the Power 
 
 Which strikes me with the portents of the grave, 
 
 That by the sight of his ensanguined corpse 
 
 Would hasten their fulfilment ; 'tis well aim'd, 
 
 I shall fall cold before it. 
 
 Creusa. 'Twas a word, 
 
 Dropp'd by the queen in answer to some speech 
 In which she fancied slight to Athens, roused 
 His spirit to an ecstacy ; he spurn'd 
 The light accoutrements of mimic war ; 
 Borrow'd a soldier's sword, and, with the troops 
 Who sallied forth at day-break, sought the field — 
 Where Jupiter protect him ! 
 
 Creon. Bid the queen 
 
 Here answer to us. {Exit Iphitus. 
 
 Rarely will she speak, 
 And calmly, yet her sad and solemn words 
 Have power to thrill and madden. my child, 
 Had not my wayward fancy been enthrall'd 
 By that Athenian loveliness which shone 
 From basest vestments, in a form whose grace 
 Made the cold beauty of Olympus earth's. 
 And drew me to be traitor to the urn 
 Which holds thy mother's ashes, I had spent 
 My age in sweet renewal of my youth 
 With thought of her who gladden 'd it, nor known 
 The vain endeavour to enforce regard 
 From one whose heart lies dead amidst the living. 
 
 Re-enter Iphitus. 
 Creon. Comes the queen hither % Does she mock our 
 
 bidding % 
 Iph. At stern Minerva's inmost shrine she kneels, 
 And with an arm as rigid and as pale
 
 PCKXE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 109 
 
 As is the giant statue, clasps the foot 
 
 That seems as it would spurn her, yet were stay'd 
 
 By the firm suppliant's will. She looks attent 
 
 As one who caught fine hint of distant sounds, 
 
 Yet none from living intercourse of man 
 
 Can pierce that marble solitude. Her face 
 
 Upraised, is motionless, — yet while I mark'd it — 
 
 As from its fathomless abode a spring 
 
 Breaks on the bosom of a sullen lake 
 
 And in an instant grows as still, — a hue 
 
 Of blackness trembled o'er it ; her large eye 
 
 Kindled with frightful lustre ; — but the shade 
 
 Pass'd instant thence ; her face resumed its look 
 
 Of stone, as deathlike as the aspect pure 
 
 Of the gi-eat face divine to which it answered. 
 
 I durst not speak to her. 
 
 Creon. I see it plain ; 
 
 Her thoughts are with our foes, the blood of Athens 
 ^lantles or freezes in her alien veins ; 
 Let her alone. [Shouts idthout. 
 
 Creusa. Hark I — They would never shout 
 
 If Hyllus were in peril. 
 
 Creon. Were he slain 
 
 In dashing back the dusky wall of shields, 
 Beneath which Athens masks her pride of war, 
 They would exult and mock the slaughter'd boy 
 With Peeans. 
 
 Creusa. So my brother would have chosen ! 
 
 [Shouts renewed. 
 
 Enter Corinthian Soldier. 
 
 Soldier. Our foes are driven to their tents, the field 
 Is ours — 
 
 Creon. [Hastily interrupting him'\. What of the prince — 
 my son ? 
 Thou dost avoid his name ; — have ye achieved 
 This noisy triumph with his blood ? 
 
 Soldier. A wound, 
 
 Slight, as we hope, hath graced his early valour, 
 And though it draws some colour from his cheek, 
 Leaves the heart fearless
 
 110 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. Iaot r 
 
 Creon. I will well avenge 
 
 The faintest breath of sorrow which hath dimm'd 
 The mirror of his youth. Will he not come ? 
 Why does he linger if his wound is slight, 
 From the fond arms of him who will avenge it ? 
 
 Soldier. He comes, my lord. 
 
 Creon. Make way there ! Let me clasp him ! 
 
 Enter Hyllus, pale, as slightly itounded. 
 "V^Tiy does he not embrace me ? 
 
 [Creusa ru?is to Hyllus, and supports him as he moves 
 towards Creon. 
 Creusa. He is faint, 
 
 Exhausted, breathless, — bleeding. Lean on me, 
 
 [To Hyllus. 
 And let me lead thee to the king, who pants 
 To bid his youngest soldier welcome. 
 
 Hyl. ^ Nay 
 
 'Tis nothing. Silly trembler ! — See, my limbs 
 Are pliant and my sinews docile still. \_Kneels to Creon. 
 Kneel with me ; pray our father to forgive 
 The disobedience of his truant son. 
 His first — oh, may it prove the last ! 
 
 [Creusa kneels icith Hyllus to Creon. 
 Creon. My son ! 
 
 Who fancied I was angry ? 
 
 Enter Ismene. 
 
 [To Ismene]. Art thou come, 
 
 To gaze upon the perill'd youth, who owes 
 
 His wound to thee ? 
 Ism. He utter 'd shallow scorn 
 
 Of Athens ; — which he ne'er will speak again. 
 Creon. Wouldst dare to curb his speech 1 
 Hyl. Forbear, mv father ; 
 
 The queen says rightly. In that idle mood. 
 
 Which youth's excess of happiness makes wanton, 
 
 I slighted our illustrious foes, whose arms 
 
 Have, wdth this mild correction, taught my tongue 
 
 An apter phrase of modesty, and shown
 
 SCENE r.J THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. Ill 
 
 What generous courage is, which till ttiis day 
 I dimly guess'd at. 
 
 Creon. Canst thou tell kis name, 
 
 Who impious drew the blood of him who soon — 
 Too soon, alas ! — shall reign in Corinth ? 
 
 Hi/L One 
 
 I'm proud to claim my master in great war ; 
 With whom contesting, I have tasted first 
 The joy which animates the glorious game 
 Where fiercest opposition of brave hearts 
 Makes them to feel their kindred ; one who spared me 
 To grace another fight, — the sudden smart 
 His sword inflicted, made me vainly rush 
 To grapple \Wth him ; from his fearful grasp 
 I sank to earth ; as I lay prone in dust, 
 The broad steel shiv'ring in my eyes, that strove 
 To keep their steady gaze, I met his glance, 
 Where pity triumph'd ; quickly he retum'd 
 His falchion to its sheath, and with a hand 
 Frank and sustaining as a brother's palm, 
 Upraised me ; — while he whisper'd in mine ear, 
 " Thou hast dared well, young soldier ! " our hot troops 
 Environ'd him and bore him from the field, 
 Our army's noblest captive. 
 
 Creon. He shall die ; 
 
 The gen'rous falsehood of thy speech is vain. 
 
 Creiisa. no ! my brother's words were never false ; 
 The heroic picture proves his truth ; — they bring 
 A gallant prisoner towards us. It is he. 
 
 Enter Thoas, in armour, guarded hy Corinthian Soldiers, and 
 Lycus, Master of the Slaves. 
 
 Soldier. My lord, we bring the captive, whom we found 
 In combat with the prince. 
 
 H^l. Say rather, found 
 
 Raising that prince whose rashness he chastised 
 And whom he taught to treat a noble foe. 
 
 Creon. [To the Soldiers]. Answer to me ! ^\^ly have 
 ye brought this man, 
 Whom the just gods have yielded to atone
 
 112 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 For princely blood he shed, in pride of arms ? 
 Remove that helmet. 
 
 Thoas. He who stirs to touch 
 My arms, shall feel a dying warrior's grasp. 
 I will not doff my helmet till I yield 
 My neck to your slave's butchery ; how soon 
 That stroke may fall, I care not. 
 
 Creusa. [Tb Hyllus]. Hyllus, speak ! 
 
 Why thus transfixed 1 Wilt thou not speak for him 
 Who spared a life, which, light perchance to thee, 
 Is the most precious thing to me on earth ? 
 
 Thoas. [To Creusa]. Ere I descend to that eternal gloom 
 Which opens to enfold me, let me bless 
 The vision that hath crossed it ! 
 
 Hi/l. [To Creoxx]. If thou slay him, 
 
 I will implore the mercy of the sword 
 To end me too ; and, that sad grace withheld, 
 Will kneel beside his corpse till nature give 
 Her own dismissal to me. 
 
 Ism. [Speakhuj floicly to Creon.] Let him breathe 
 A slave's ignoble life out here ; 'twill prove 
 The sterner fortune. 
 
 Creon. Hearken to me, prisoner ! 
 
 My boy hath won his choice — immediate death, 
 Or life-long portion with my slaves. 
 
 Thoas. Dost dare 
 
 Insult a son of Athens by the doubt 
 Thy words imply % Wert thou in manhood's prime, 
 Amidst thy trembling slaves would I avenge 
 The foul suggestion, with the desperate strength 
 Of fated valour ; but thou art in years, 
 And I should blush to harm thee ; — let me die. 
 
 Creusa. do not fling away thy noble life. 
 For it is rich in treasures of its own. 
 Which Fortune cannot touch, and vision'd glories 
 Shall stream around its bondage. 
 
 Thoas. I have dream'd 
 
 Indeed of greatness, lovely one, and felt 
 The veiy dream worth living for, while hope, 
 To make it real, survived ; and I have loved 
 To image thought, the mirror of great deeds,
 
 SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 1J3 
 
 Fed by the past to might which should impel 
 And vivify the future ; blending thus 
 The aims and triumphs of a hero's life. 
 But to cheat hopeless infamy with shows 
 Of nobleness, and filch a feeble joy 
 In the vain spasms of the slavish soul, 
 Were foulest treacheiy to the god within me. 
 No, lady ; from the fissure of a rock, 
 Scath'd and alone, my brief existence gush'd, 
 A passion'd torrent ; — let it not be lost 
 In miry sands, but having caught one gleam 
 Of loveliness to grace it, dash from light 
 To darkness and to silence. Lead me forth — 
 [To Creusa]. The Gods requite thee ! 
 
 Creon. Hath the captive chosen ? 
 
 I will not grant another moment ; — speak ! 
 Wilt serve or perish ? 
 
 Hyl. [Throicing himself before Thoas]. Do not answer yet ! 
 Grant him a few short minutes to decide, 
 And let me spend them with him. 
 
 Creon. [Rising]. Be it so, then ; 
 
 Kneel, prisoner, to the prince who won thee grace 
 No other mortal could have gain'd : — remember 
 The master of my slaves attends the word 
 Thou presently shalt utter ; tame thy pride 
 To own his government, or he must bind. 
 And slay thee. Daughter, come ! The queen attends us. 
 [Exeunt Creox and Soldiers. 
 
 Creusa. [To Hyllus, as slie passes Jdm.'\ Thou wilt not 
 leave him till he softens. 
 [IsMENE /o//ojfs ,• as she passes Thoas, she speaks in a low 
 and solemn tone. 
 
 Ism. Live ! 
 
 Thoas. Who gave that shameful counsel ? 
 
 Ism. [Passing on}. One of Athens. [Exit. 
 
 [Exeunt all hut Lycus the Master of the Slates. — Thoas, 
 and Hyllus. 
 
 TTioas. [Abstracted I xj']. What words are these, which 
 bid my wayward blood. 
 That centred at my heart with icy firmness, 
 Come tingling back through all my veins 1 I seem
 
 ]14 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 Once more to drink Athenian ether in, 
 And the fair city's column'd glories flash 
 Upon my soul ! 
 
 Lycus. My lord, I dare not wait. 
 
 Hyl. \_Eagerly to Lycus] . He yields ; — I read it in his 
 softening gaze ; 
 It speaks of life, 
 
 Thoas. Yes I will owe life to thee. 
 
 Hyl. Thou hear'st him, Lycus. Let me know the name 
 Of him whom I could deem my friend. 
 
 Thoas. My name ? 
 
 I have none worthy of thy ear ; I thought 
 To arm a common sound with deathless power ; 
 'Tis past ; thou only mark'st me from the crowd 
 Of crawling earth-worms ; — thou may'st call me Thoas. 
 
 Lycus. [Coming foncard']. My prince, forgive me; I must 
 take his armour, 
 And lead him hence. 
 
 Thoas. Great Jupiter look down \ 
 
 Hyl. Thoas, thy faith is pledged. [To Lycus]. Stand 
 back a while, 
 If thou hast nature. Thoas will to me 
 Resign his arms. 
 
 Thoas. [Taking off his helmet.'] To a most noble hand 
 1 yield the glories of existence up, 
 And bid them long adieu ! This plume, which now 
 Hangs motionless, as if it felt the shame 
 Its owner bears, wav'd in my boyish thoughts 
 Ere I was free to wear it, as the sign. 
 The dancing image of my bounding hopes, 
 That imaged it above a throng of battles. 
 Waving where blows were fiercest. Take it hence — 
 Companion of brave fancies, vanish'd now 
 For ever, follow them ! 
 [Ryllvs takes the helmet from Thoas, and passes it to Lycus. 
 
 Hyl. 'Tis nobly done ; 
 
 No doubt that it again shall clasp thy brow. 
 And the plume wave in victoiy. Thv sword ? 
 Forgive me ; I must filch it for a while : 
 Hide it — deem it so — in idle sport, 
 And keep thy chidings till I give it back 
 Again to smite and spare.
 
 SCENE T.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 115 
 
 Thoa^. Too generous youth, 
 
 Pennit my depth of sorrow to be calm, 
 Unruffled by vain hope. {Takes off his sicord. 
 
 Farewell, old sword, 
 Thou wert the sole inheritance which grac'd 
 My finish'd years of boyhood — all that time 
 And fortune spared of those from whom I drew 
 The thirst of greatness. In how proud an hour 
 Did I first clasp thee with untrembling hand. 
 Fit thee, with fond exactness, to my side. 
 And in the quaint adornments of thy sheath 
 Guess deeds of valour, acted in old time 
 By some forgotten chief, whose generous blood 
 I felt within my swelling veins ! Farewell ! 
 
 [Thoas gires his sword to Hyllus, who delivers it to Lycus. 
 
 Bj/l. [Diffidently-]. Thy buckler ? 
 
 Thoas. [TakesoffhishucUer eagerly, and delivers it to Hyllus]. 
 I rejoice to part with that ; 
 My bosom needs no bulwark save its own. 
 For I am only man now. If my heart 
 Should in its throbbing burst, \\\\\\ beat against 
 An unapparell'd casing, and be still. [Going. 
 
 Hyl. [hesitatingly']. Hold! — one thing more — thy girdle 
 I grieve that I must ask it. [holds a knife ; 
 
 Thoas. By the sense 
 
 Which 'mid delights I feel thou hast not lost, 
 Of what, in dread extremity, the brave, 
 Stripped of all other refuge, would embrace, — 
 I do adjure thee, — rob me not of this ! 
 
 Hi/l. Conceal it in thy vest. 
 
 [Thoas hastily places his dagger in his bosom, and takes the 
 hand of Hyllus. 
 
 Thoas. We understand 
 
 Each other's spirit ; — thou hast call'd me friend, 
 And though in bonds I answer to the name. 
 And give it thee again. 
 
 Lycu3. \adTancing\ The time is spent 
 Beyond the king's allowance : I must lead 
 The captive to the court, where he may meet 
 His fellows, find his station, and put on 
 The habit he must wear.
 
 Ur, THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 T/ioas. Do I hear rightly ? 
 
 Must an Athenian warrior's free-born limbs 
 Be clad in withering symbols of the power 
 By which man marks his property in flesh, 
 Bones, sinews, feelings, Ipng Nature framed 
 For human ? They shall rend me piecemeal first ! 
 
 Hj/l. Thoas — friend — comrade, — recollect thy word, 
 Which now to break were worse disgrace than power 
 Can fix upon thee, bids thee bear awhile 
 This idle shame. I shall be proud to walk 
 A listener at thy side, while generous thoughts 
 And arts of valour, which may make them deeds, 
 Enrich my youth. Soon shall we 'scape the court; 
 Ply the small bark upon the summer sea, 
 Gay careless voyagers, who leave the shore 
 ^^'ith all its vain distinctions, for a world 
 Of dancing foam and light ; till eve invites 
 To some tall cavern, where the sea-nymphs raise 
 Sweet melodies ; there shalt thou play the prince, 
 And I will put thy slavish vestments on, 
 And yield thee duteous service ; — in our sport 
 Almost as potent as light Fortune is, 
 Who in her wildest freaks but shifts the robe 
 Of circumstance, and leaves the hearts it cloth'd 
 Unchanged and free as ours. 
 
 Thoas. I cannot speak. 
 
 Come — or mine eyes will witness me a slave 
 To my own frailty's masterdom. — Come on ! yTo Lycus. 
 Thou hast done thy office gently. Lead the way. [Exeunt.
 
 THE ATHEXIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 ScEXE I. — A Court in th< PahK< of CREoy. 
 
 EnUr QKLoy and Lycus. 
 
 Creon. How does the proud Athenian bear his part 
 In servile duty ? 
 
 Lycus. I have never seen 
 
 So brave a patience. The severest toils 
 Look graceful in him, from the facile skill 
 ^^'ith which his strength subdues them. Few his words 
 By question drawn, yet gentle as a child's ; 
 And if, in pauses of his work, his eye 
 "N^'ill glisten, and his bosom heave : anon 
 He starts as from a dream, submissive bows, 
 And plies his work again. 
 
 Creon. Thou dost espouse 
 
 His cause. Beware I he hurl'd defiance on me, 
 Disdain "d my age. as if his pride of strength 
 Made him in bondage greater than a king 
 Sick and infirm as I am : he shall feel 
 "^Miat yet an old man can inflict. He comes ; 
 "^Miy does he leave his duty ? 
 
 Lycus. "Tis the hour 
 
 Of rest — of food, if he would take it ; here 
 He 's privileged to walk. 
 
 Creon. Let 's stand aside. 
 
 [Creon and Lycus retire from sijht. 
 
 Enter Thoas, in the dress of a slave. 
 TTioas. Had I been bom to greatness, or achieved 
 My fame, methinks that I could smile at this ; 
 Taste a remember'd sweetness in the thought 
 Of pleasure snatch'd from fate ; or feed my soul 
 With the high prospect of serene renown 
 Beetling above this transitory shame 
 In distant years. But to be wither'd thus — 
 In the first budding of my fortune, doom'd
 
 118 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 
 
 To bear the death of hope, and to outlive it ! 
 
 Gods, keep me patience ! I will to my task. [Going. 
 
 Re-enter Creon and Lycus. 
 
 Lycm. Wilt thou not join thy fellows at the feast. 
 And taste a cup of wine the king vouchsafes 
 For merriment to-day ? 
 
 Thoas. What ! are they merry ? 
 
 Lycus. Dost thou not hear them 1 
 
 TJioas. They are slaves, indeed ! 
 
 Forgive me, I would rather seek the quarry. [Goiiig. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Messenger [addressing Creon.] My lord, the games in 
 honour of our triumph 
 Await thee, — first the chariot race, in which 
 Thy son prepares to strive. The wrestlers next — 
 
 Creon. Let them begin. [Exit Messenger. 
 
 Methinks yon captive's strength. 
 No longer rebel, might afford us sport. 
 Thoas ! 
 
 Thoas. I wait thy pleasure. 
 
 Creon. Thou wert train'd. 
 
 Doubtless, at home, to manly exercise, 
 And I would have thee show the youth of Corinth 
 How the Athenians throw the quoit and wrestle. 
 
 Thoas. My lord, I cannot do it ! 
 
 Creon. One so fram'd 
 
 As thou, had he been native here, would revel 
 In sports like these. 
 
 Thoas. 0, have I not enjoy 'd them ! 
 
 My lord, I am content to toil and mourn — 
 'Tis the slave's part ; these limbs are thine to use 
 In vilest service till their sinews fail ; 
 But not a nerve shall bend in sports I loved 
 When freeman to indulge in, for the gaze 
 Of those who were my foes and are my masters. 
 
 Enter Messenger, in haste. 
 Mess. My lord — the prince — 
 
 Thoas. Is he in peril ?
 
 scEXE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVT:. I!9 
 
 Mess, As his chariot, far 
 
 Before all rivals, glitter'd nigh the goal, 
 The coursers plung'd as if some fearful thing 
 Unseen by human eyes had glared on theirs ; 
 Then, with a spe€d like lightning, flash'd along 
 The verge of the dark precipice which girds 
 The rock-supported plain, and round it s-till 
 In frightful circles whirl the youth ; no power 
 Of man can stay them. 
 
 Thoas. Friend, I come ! I come! 
 
 Lycus. [Attempting to sto2)hm.'] Thou must not go. 
 
 Thoas. Away ! I 'm master now. \^Ru<hes out. 
 
 Creon. My son ! my son ! I shall embrace thy corpse. 
 And lie beside it. Yet I cannot bear 
 This anguish ; dead or li\'ing, I will seek thee ! {^Exit. 
 
 Lj/cus. [looking out.] How the slave spurns the dust ; 
 with what a power 
 He cleaves the wondering throng, — they hide him now, — 
 Speed him, ye gods of Corinth ! 
 
 Enter Creusa. 
 
 Creusa. Whence that cry 
 
 Of horror mingled ^^'ith my brother's name ! 
 Is he in danger ? Wherefore dost thou stand 
 Thus silently, and gaze on empty air ? 
 Speak ! 
 
 Enter Iphitus. [Creusa addressing him. 
 
 From thy sacred lips the truth 
 Must flow. 
 
 Iph. Be calm ; thy brother is preserv'd ; 
 
 Urged by his furious steeds, his chariot hung 
 Scarce poised on the rock's margin, where the vale 
 Lies deepest under it ; an instant more. 
 And Hyllus, who serenely stood with eyes 
 Fix'd on the heavens, had perish'd ; when a form 
 With god-like swiftness clove the astonish'd crowd ; 
 Appear'd before the coursers, scarce upheld 
 By tottering marl ; — strain'd forward o'er the gulf 
 Of vacant ether ; caught the floating reins, 
 And drew them into safety with a touch
 
 120 THE ATHENIAN CAPTrV'E. [act u. 
 
 So fine, that sight scarce witness'd it. The prince 
 Is in his father's arms. 
 
 Creusa. Thou dost not speak 
 
 The hero's name ; — yet can I guess it well. 
 
 fyh. Thoas. — He comes. 
 
 Creusa. Let me have leave to thank him. 
 
 [Exeunt Iphitus and Lycus. 
 
 Enter Thoas. 
 Hero ! accept a maiden's fervent thanks, 
 All that she has to offer, for a life 
 Most precious to her. 
 
 Thoas. Speak not of it, fair one ! 
 
 Life, in my estimate, 's too poor a boon 
 To merit thanks so rich. 
 
 Creusa. Not such a life 
 
 As his to me. We both together drew 
 Our earliest breath, and one unconscious crime 
 Shared ; for the hour that yielded us to day 
 Snatch'd her who bore us. Thence attach'd we grew, 
 As if some portion of that mother's love 
 Each for the other cherish 'd ; t\\-in-born joys, 
 Hopes, fancies, and affections, each hath watch'd 
 In the clear mirror of the other's soul. 
 By that sweet union doubled. Thou hast saved 
 Two lives in saving Hyllus. 
 
 Thoas. 'Tis not meet 
 
 That such a wretch as I, in garb like this, 
 
 [Looking at his dress, and shuddering. 
 Should listen to the speech of one so fair ; 
 It will unfit me for my tasks. 
 
 Creusa. Thy tasks ? 
 
 hard injustice ! 
 
 Enter Hyllus, Creusa meeting him. 
 Brother, join thy thanks 
 To mine. [Hyllus and Creusa embrace. 
 
 TJioas. No more. [Eetiring. 
 
 Grant, ye immortal gods, 
 So beautiful a bond be never broken ! [Exit Thoas. 
 
 Creusa, He speaks of tasks. :My brother, can'st endure
 
 6CBXE n.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 121 
 
 To see a hero who hath twice preserv'd 
 Thy life — upon whose forehead virtue sits 
 Enthroned in regal majesty — thus held 
 In vilest thraldom ? 
 
 Hyl. Ah ! my sweet Creusa, 
 
 Thy words breathe more than gratitude. 
 
 Creusa. My brother, 
 
 I pray thee, do not look into my face. 
 
 Hyl. Xay, raise thy head, and let thine eye meet mine ; 
 It reads no anger there. Thy love is pure 
 And noble as thyself, and nobly placed ; 
 And one da shall be honour 'd. 
 
 Creusa. Spare me ! 
 
 Hyl. Come, 
 
 The banquet hath begun : the king expects us. {^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Banqueting-Hall in Creon^s Palace. 
 
 Creox, Ismexe, Iphitus, Calchas, and Corinthians, seated 
 at the Banquet. 
 
 Creon. \i-ising]. 1 thank ye for my son ; — he is un- 
 harm'd, 
 And soon will join our revelry. 
 
 Ism. We lack 
 
 Attendance. 'V\'Tiere is Thoas ] It were fit 
 In Corinth's day of triumph, he should wait 
 On his victorious enemies. Go seek him. 
 
 [Exit an Attendant. 
 
 Creon. I would have spared his sendees to-day ; 
 He is but young in service, and hath done 
 A glorious deed. Diink round, my friends, and pledge 
 My son once more. 
 
 Ism. IMy sovereign, I should deem 
 
 So great a master in the skill to tame 
 The nature struggling in a free-born soul, 
 Would think it wisdom to begin betimes, 
 When an Athenian spirit should be stifled. 
 If thou would'st bend him to the yoke, 'twere best 
 Commence to-day ; to-morrow 't may be vain.
 
 122 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 
 
 Enter Thoas. 
 
 Athenian ! — slave ! — 'tis well that thou hast come ; 
 Else might we fear thou didst not feel so proud 
 As such a man as thou should feel, to wait 
 Upon his victor. Carry round the cup, 
 And bear it to the king, with .duteous looks. 
 
 Thoas. I will endeavour, lady. 
 
 [Takes the cup, and speaking aside. 
 They will join 
 In very openness of heart, to cast 
 This shame upon me ; take the mantling cup 
 With thoughtless pleasure from a warrior's hand. 
 And smile to see it quiver ; bless the wine 
 With household names, sweet thoughts of friends afar, 
 Or love which death hath hallowed ; and while springs 
 Of cordial joy are quicken' d by the draught, 
 Will bid aifections, generous as their own, 
 Shrink, agonize, and wither ! 
 
 Ism. Slave ! attend ! 
 
 Enter Hyllus and Creusa. 
 Creon. Hyllus, our friends have pledged thee ; take thy 
 place, 
 And thank them. 
 
 Bj/l. [Admncing]. I am grateful. — Thoas, thus ? 
 Creon. We blamed thy absence, daughter. Sit beside 
 The queen. 
 
 Creusa. A humbler place befits me, father. 
 
 [&!its at the end of the circle. 
 [Thoas attempts to hand the cup. 
 Creusa \to Hyllus]. Brother, dost see ? 
 H;i/l. [aside to Thoas, taking the cup from him\ Thoas, I 
 blush at this ; 
 Give me the cup — Corinthian citizens. 
 This is a moment when I cannot trust 
 The grace of serving you to any hand 
 Except mine own. The wine will send a glow 
 Of rare delight when minister'd by one 
 Who hath this day touch'd life's extremest verge, 
 And been most bravely rescued. [Hyllus hands the cup.
 
 sczsB ir.] TOE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 123 
 
 Ism. Will the king 
 
 Permit this mockeiy ? 
 
 Creon. Foolish stripling, cease ! 
 
 Let the slave hand the cup : and having pass'd 
 Another round, fill high, for I will pour 
 A great libation out, with such a prayer 
 As every heart shall echo while the dust 
 Of Corinth drinks it in. 
 
 [Thoas takes the cup, and approaches Creusa. 
 
 Creusa. Nay, tremble not. 
 
 Think thou dost pay free courtesy to one 
 Who in the fulness of a grateful heart, 
 Implores the gods to cherish thee with hope 
 For liberty and honour. 
 
 Thoas. Words so sweet 
 
 Reward and o'erpay all. 
 
 Creon. Corinthians, rise ! 
 
 Before the gods, who have this day espoused 
 The cause of Corinth, I this votive cup 
 Pour with one glorious prayer — Ruin to Athens ! 
 
 [Thoas dashes down the cup he is about to hand to the King. 
 
 Thoas. Ruin to Athens ! who dares echo that ? 
 Who first repeats it dies. These limbs are arm'd 
 With vigour from the gods that watch above 
 Their own immortal offspring. Do ye dream, 
 Because chance lends ye one insulting hour. 
 That ye can quench the purest flame the gods 
 Have lit from heaven's own fire ? 
 
 Hj/I. [trying to appease the gtiests']. 'Tis ecstacy — 
 Some frenzy shakes him. 
 
 Thoas. No ! I call the gods, 
 
 Who bend attentive from their azure thrones, 
 To ^^•itness to the truth of that which throbs 
 Within me now. 'Tis not a city cro\^^l'd 
 With olive and enrich 'd with peerless fanes 
 Ye would dishonour, but an opening world 
 Diviner than the soul of man hath yet 
 Been gifted to imagine — truths serene, 
 Made \dsible in beauty, that shall glow 
 In everlasting freshness ; unapproach'd 
 By mortal passion ; pure amidst the blood
 
 124 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 
 
 And dust of conquests ; never waxing old ; 
 
 But on the stream of time, from age to age, 
 
 Casting bright images of heavenly youth 
 
 To make the world less mournful. I behold them ! 
 
 And ye, frail insects of a day, would quaff 
 
 " Ruin to Athens ! " 
 
 Creon. Are ye stricken all 
 
 To statues, that ye hear these scornful boasts. 
 And do not seize the traitor 1 Bear him hence. 
 And let the executioner's keen steel 
 Prevent renewal of this outrage. 
 
 Tph. Hold ! 
 
 Some god hath spoken through him. 
 
 Ism. Priest ! we need 
 
 No counsel from thee. 
 
 Hi/L Father, he will bend — 
 
 'Twas madness — was 't not, Thoas 1 — answer me : 
 Retract thy words ! 
 
 Thoas. I 've spoken, and I '11 die. 
 
 Ism. 'Twere foolish clemency to end so soon 
 The death-pangs of a slave who thus insults 
 The king of Corinth. I can point a cell 
 Deep in the rock, where he may wait thy leisure 
 To frame his tortures. 
 
 Hi/l. [to Creon]. If thou wilt not spare, 
 Deal with him in the light of day, and gaze 
 Thyself on what thou dost, but yield him not 
 A victim to that cold and cruel heart. 
 
 Ism. \aside\. Cold ! I must bear that too. \^Aloud\ 
 Thou hear'st him, king ; 
 Thou hear'st the insolence, which waxes bolder 
 Each day, as he expects thy lingering age 
 Will yield him Corinth's throne. 
 
 Creon. Ungrateful boy ! 
 
 Go, wander alien from my love ; avoid 
 The city's bounds ; and if thou dare return 
 Till I proclaim thy pardon, fear to share 
 The fate of the rash slave for whom thou plead 'st. 
 
 TJioas. King, I will grovel in the dust before thee ; 
 Will give these limbs to torture ; nay, will strain 
 Their free-born sinews for thy courtiers' sport. 
 So thou recall the sentence on thy son.
 
 scE.vE ir.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 125 
 
 Creon. Thou wilt prolong his exile. To thy cell ! 
 
 [To Thoas. 
 There wait thy time of death ; — my heart is sick — 
 But I have spoken. 
 
 Hi/l. Come with me, sweet sister, 
 
 And take a dearer parting than this scene 
 Admits. Look cheerily ; — I leave thy soul 
 A duty which shall lift it from the sphere 
 Of sighs and tremblings. Father, may the gods 
 So cherish thee that thou may'st never mourn, 
 With more than fond regret, the loss of one 
 Whose love stays with thee ever ! 
 
 [Exeunt Hyllus and Creusa. 
 
 Iph. [offering to support Creon]. Hold ! he faints ! 
 
 Creon. No ; — I can walk unaided — rest will soothe me. 
 
 [Exit Creon. 
 
 Ism. Good night, my friends ! 
 
 [Exeunt all hut Ismene, Thoas, and Calchas. 
 Thou, Calchas, wait and guard 
 The prisoner to his cell. Thou know'st the place. 
 
 Thoas. Lead on. 
 
 Ism. [coming to the front to Thoas]. Thou wilt not sleep ? 
 
 Thoas. I wish no sleep 
 
 To reach these eyes, till the last sleep of all. 
 
 Ism. Others may watch as well as thou. 
 
 Tlioas. Strange words 
 
 Thou speakest, fearful woman ! are they mockeries 1 
 Methinks they sound too solemn. 
 
 Ism. Said I not, 
 
 I am of Athens ? Hush ! These walls have echoes ! 
 Thy gaoler is of Athens, too ; at midnight 
 He shall conduct thee where we may discourse 
 In safety. Wilt thou follow him 1 
 
 Thoas. I will. 
 
 Ism. 'Tis well. Conduct the prisoner to his dungeon. 
 Remember, thou hast promised me. 
 
 Tlioas. My blood 
 
 Is cold as ice ; yet will I keep the faith 
 I plight to thee. [Exeunt Thoas and Calchas. 
 
 Ism. [alone.] It is the heroic form 
 Which I have seen in watching, and in sleep
 
 126 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ift. 
 
 Frightfully broken, through the long, long, years 
 
 Which I have wasted here in chains, more sad 
 
 Than those which bind the death-devoted slave 
 
 To his last stony pillow. Fiery shapes, 
 
 That have glared in upon my bed to mock 
 
 My soul with hopes of vengeance, keep your gaze 
 
 Fix'd stedfast on me now ! My hour is nigh ! [Emt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Tlie Dungeon in the RocTc. 
 
 Thoas discovered, alone. 
 Thoas. Ye walls of living rock, whose time-shed stains 
 Attest that ages have revolved since hands 
 Of man were arm'd to pierce your solid frame, 
 And, from your heart of adamant, hew out 
 Space for his fellow's wretchedness, I hail 
 A refuge in your stillness ; tyranny 
 Will not stretch forth its palsied arm to fret 
 Its captive here. Ye cannot clasp me round 
 With darkness so substantial, as can shut 
 The airy visions from me which foreshow 
 The glories Athens will achieve, when I 
 Am passionless as ye. I hear a step ! 
 It is that mournful lady's minister. 
 Who comes to waken feelings I would bid 
 For ever sleep. A light, as of a star, 
 Gleams in the narrow cavern's steep descent ; 
 And now a form, as of a goddess, glides 
 To illuminate its blackness. 'Tis Creusa ! 
 My heart is not yet stone. 
 
 Enter Creusa. 
 
 I venture hither 
 Thus boldly to perform a holy office. 
 Which should have been my brother's. — When he fled 
 The city of his nurture, his last thoughts
 
 SCENE T.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 127 
 
 Were bent on his presei-ver ; he bequeathed 
 
 His strong injunction never to forsake 
 
 The aim of thy deliverance. I exult 
 
 That Heaven thus far has prospered it ; be quick, 
 
 And follow me to freedom. 
 
 Thoas. Didst thou say 
 
 To freedom, lovely one ? 
 
 Creusa. If thou wilt haste ; 
 
 The path is clear ; the city wrapt in sleep ; 
 I know the pass- word at the gates — how learn 'd 
 By quaint device, I '11 tell thee when we meet 
 In safety, — if we ever meet again ! 
 Tl\oas. And dost thou wish it ? 
 
 Creusa. Do I wish it ? Yes I 
 
 And on the swift fulfilment of that v/ish 
 iVIy life is wager'd. 
 
 Thoas. There is more than life 
 
 To me in these sweet words — speak them again — 
 But no ; once heard they linger on the ear 
 Which drank them in, for ever. Shapeless rocks 
 That ^\'itness to the sound, rejoice ! No fane 
 Of alabaster while the breeze has slept 
 In circling myrtles, and the moon disclos'd 
 Young love's first blush to the rapt eyes of him 
 Whose happy boldness raised it, rivals you 
 In sanctity which rich aifection lends 
 To things of earthly mould. Methinks ye spring 
 Rounded to columns ; your dank mists are curl'd 
 Upwards in heavenly shapes, and breathe perfume, 
 ^\'hile every niche which caught the music speeds 
 Delicious echoes to the soul. 'Twere bliss 
 To dwell for ever here. 
 
 Creusa. linger not ; 
 
 The watch will change at midnight. 
 
 Tlioas. i\Iidnight — Jove I — 
 
 I cannot go. 
 
 Creusa. Not go ! I ask no thanks — 
 No recompense — no boon, — save the delight 
 Of saving thee ; for this I 've peril I'd all — 
 Life, freedom, fame, and now thou tell'st me, proud one, 
 That I have perill'd all in vain. 
 
 Thoas. Forbear,
 
 128 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act in 
 
 In mercy ; I have pledg'd my word to wait 
 A messenger the Queen will send at midnight. 
 To bring me to her presence. 
 
 Creiisa, To the Queen ? 
 
 "What would she with thee 1 She is steel'd 'gainst nature 
 I never knew her shed a tear, nor heard 
 A sigh break from her, — oft she seeks a glen 
 Hard by the temple of avenging Jove, 
 Which sinks 'mid blasted rocks, whose narrow gorge 
 Scarce gives the bold explorer space ; its sides, 
 Glistening in marble blackness, rise aloft 
 From the scant margin of a pool, whose face 
 No breeze e'er dimpled ; in its furthest shade 
 A cavern yawns where vapours rise so deadly 
 That none may enter it and live ; they spread 
 Their rolling films of ashy white like shrouds 
 Around the fearful orifice, and kill 
 The very lichens which the earthless stone 
 Would nurture ; — whether evil men, or things 
 More tenible, meet this sad lady there, 
 I know not — she will lead thee thither ! 
 
 Thoas. No— 
 
 Not if guilt point the way, if it be sorrow 
 I must endure it rather than the curse 
 ^^^hich lies upon the faithless heart of him 
 Who breaks a promise plighted to the WTetched ; 
 For she is wretched. 
 
 Creusa. So am I. Methinks 
 
 I am growTi selfish ; for it is not suffering 
 I dread should fall upon thee, but I tremble 
 Lest witchery of that awful woman's grief 
 Lead thee to some rash deed. Thou art a soldier, 
 A rash proficient in the game of death, 
 And may'st be wrought on, 
 
 Thoas. Do not fear for me ; 
 
 Where shows of glory beckon I '11 not wait 
 To pluck away the radiant masks and find 
 Death under them ; but at the thought of blood 
 Shed save in hottest fight, my spirit shrinks 
 As from some guilt not aim'd at human things 
 But at the majesty of gods. 
 
 Creusa. Forgive me ;
 
 scKXE ii.l THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 199 
 
 It \vas a foolish terror SAvept across 
 
 My soul — I should not have forgot 'twas mercy 
 
 That made thee captive. 
 
 Voice without. Thoas ! 
 
 Thoas. I am call'd. 
 
 The voice came that way — still thy upward path 
 Is open — haste — he must not find thee here. 
 
 Creiisa . My prayers — all that the weak can give— are thine. 
 Farewell ! [Exit. 
 
 Thoas. The gods for ever guard thee ! 
 She glides away — she gains the topmost ridge — 
 She 's safe. Now can I welcome fate with bosom 
 Steel'd to endure the worst. 
 
 Voice without. Thoas ! 
 
 Thoas. I come ! [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — The Hall of Statues in Creox's Palace. 
 Enter Ismene. 
 Ism. Why tarries Calchas ? It is past the hour 
 Of deepest night, when he should hither guide 
 The avenger of my sorrows. Gods of Athens ! 
 Whom strong expostulation hath compeU'd 
 To look upon my shames one little hour 
 I ask your aid ; that granted, never more 
 Shall the constraining force of passion break 
 Your dread repose ! I hear a warrior's step — 
 Ye answer, and ye bless me. 
 
 Enter Calchas and Thoas. 
 
 It is well. [To Calchas. 
 Withdraw, and wait without. I must confer 
 With this unyielding man, alone. [Exit Calchas. 
 
 Tlioas. I wait 
 
 To learn thy will ; — why hast thou bid me leave 
 The stubborn rock, where I had grown as dull, 
 As painless as the cell to which thy breath 
 Consign'd me ? — thou, who urged the king to WTeak 
 His most inglorious spleen on one too low 
 To be mark'd out for anger, too resolved 
 To heed it !
 
 13C THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 
 
 Ism. I beheld in thee a soldier, 
 
 Born of that glorious soil whose meanest son 
 
 Is nobler than barbarian kings, with arm 
 
 Worthy to serve a daughter who has claim 
 
 On its best blood. But there is softness in thee, 
 
 Weakening thy gallant nature, which may need 
 
 The discipline of agony and shame 
 
 To master it. Hast thou already learn'd 
 
 Enough to steel thee for a generous deed ; 
 
 Or shall I wait till thou hast linger'd long 
 
 In sorrow's mighty school 1 I 'm mistress in it. 
 
 And know its lessons well. 
 
 Thoas. If thou hast aught 
 
 Of honour to suggest, I need no more 
 
 To fit me fov thy purpose ; if thy aim 
 
 Hath taint of treachery or meanness in it, 
 
 I think no pain will bend me to thy will ; 
 At least, I pray the gods so ! 
 
 Ism. Hadst thou borne 
 
 Long years of lingering wretchedness like mine, 
 Thou wouldst not play the casuist thus. 'Tis well 
 For lusty youth, that casts no glance beyond 
 To-morrow's fight or game, which values life 
 A gewgaw, to be perill'd at a plunge 
 From some tall rock into an eddying gulf, 
 For the next revel's glory, to collect 
 The blood into the cheek, and bravely march 
 Amidst admiring people to swift death, 
 And call its heedlessness of what it yields — 
 A sacrifice heroic. But who knows. 
 Who guesses, save the woman that endures, 
 What 'tis to pine each weary day in forms 
 All counterfeit ; — each night to seek a couch 
 Tnrong'd by the phantoms of revenge, till age 
 Find her in all things weaken'd save the wish, 
 The longing of the spirit which laughs out 
 In mockery of the withering frame ! Thoas, 
 I have endured all this — I, who am sprung 
 From the great race of Theseus ! 
 
 Thoas. From the race 
 
 Of Theseus ! — of the godlike man whose name
 
 SCK.VK Ti.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 131 
 
 Hath shone upon my childhood as a star 
 With magic power ? 
 
 Ism. Reduced to basest needs 
 
 By slow decay in Attica, array 'd 
 In hateful splendour here, I bear small trace 
 Of w^hence I sprang. No matter — spurn'd — disowned 
 By living kindred, I have converse held 
 With those of my great family whom Death 
 Hath stripp'd of all but glory ; and they wait 
 The triumph of this hour to hail me theirs. 
 
 Thoas. Shame to our city, who allow'd a matron 
 Of that great race to languish ! 
 
 Ism. Let it pass ; 
 
 A single grief — a short and casual wrong — 
 Which — in that sense of ages past and hopes 
 Resplendent for the future, which are centred 
 In the gi-eat thought of countiy, and make rich 
 The poorest citizen who feels a share 
 In her— is nothing. Had she sought my blood, 
 To mingle with the dust before the rush 
 Of some triumphant entiy, I had shed it ; 
 And while my life gush'd forth had tasted joy 
 Akin to her rapt hero's. 'Tis thy lot — 
 Thy glorious lot — to give me all I live for, — 
 Freedom and vengeance. 
 
 Thoas. What wouldst have me do ] 
 
 Ism. I have not wasted all the shows of power 
 Which mock'd my grief, but used them to conceal 
 The sparks which tyrant fickleness had lit. 
 And sloth had left to smoulder. In the depths 
 Of neighbouring caverns, foes of Creon meet 
 Who will obey thee ; lead them thence to-night — 
 Surprise the palace — slay this hated king,— 
 Or bear him as a slave to Athens. 
 
 Thoas. Never ! 
 
 I am a foe to Corinth — not a traitor, 
 Nor will I league with treason. In the love 
 Of my own land, I honour his who cleaves 
 To the scant graces of the wildest soil, 
 As I do to the loveliness, the might, 
 K 2
 
 132 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act in. 
 
 The hope of Athens. Aught else man can do, 
 In honour, shall be thine. 
 
 Ism. I thought I knew 
 
 Athenians well ; and yet, thy speech is strange. 
 Whence drew thou these affections,— whence these thoughts 
 Which reach beyond a soldier's sphere ? 
 
 Thoas. From Athens ; 
 
 Her groves ; her halls ; her temples ; nay, her streets 
 Have been my teachers. I had else been rude, 
 For I was left an orphan, in the charge 
 Of an old citizen, who gave my youth 
 Rough though kind nurture. Fatherless, I made 
 The city and her skies my home ; have watch'd 
 Her various aspects with a child's fond love ; 
 Hung -in chill morning o'er the mountain's brow. 
 And, as the dawn broke slowly, seen her grow 
 Majestic from the darkness, till she fiU'd 
 The sight and soul alike ; enjoy 'd the storm 
 Which wrapt her in the mantle of its cloud, 
 While every flash that shivered it revealed 
 Some exquisite proportion, pictured once 
 And ever to the gazer ; — stood entranc'd 
 In rainy moonshine, as, one side, uprose 
 A column'd shadow, ponderous as the rock 
 Which held the Titan groaning with the sense 
 Of Jove's injustice ; on the other, shapes 
 Of dreamlike softness drew the fancy far 
 Into the glistening air ; but most I felt 
 Her loveliness, when summer-evening tints 
 Gave to my lonely childhood sense of home. 
 
 Ism. And was no spot amidst that radiant waste 
 A home to thee indeed 1 
 
 Thoas. The hut which held 
 
 My foster-father had for me no charms. 
 Save those his virtues shed upon its rudeness. 
 I lived abroad : — and yet there is a spot 
 "^Vhere I felt that faintness of the heart 
 Which traces of oblivious childhood bring 
 Upon ripe manhood ; where small heaps of stones, 
 Blacken'd by fire, bear witness to a tale
 
 SCENE 11] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 133 
 
 Of rapine which destroyed my mother's cot, 
 And bore her thence to exile. 
 
 Ism. Mighty gods ! 
 
 "VVTiere stand these ruins ? 
 
 Thoas. On a gentle slope. 
 
 Broken by workings of an ancient quany, 
 About a furlong from the western gate, 
 Stand these remains of penury ; one olive, 
 Projecting o'er the cot'age site which fire 
 Had blighted, with two melancholy stems, 
 Stream'd o'er its meagre vestiges. 
 
 Ism. 'Tis plain ! 
 
 Hold ! Hold ! my courage. Let the work be done. 
 And then I shall aspire. I must not wait 
 Another hour for vengeance. Dreadful powers ! 
 Who on the precipice's side at eve 
 Have bid gigantic shadows gi'eyly pass 
 Before my mortal vision, — dismal forms 
 Of a fate-stricken race — I see him now, 
 Whom ye led follower of your ghastly train — 
 nerve him for his office ! 
 
 Thoas. Fearful woman ! 
 
 Speak thy command, if thou would have it reach 
 A conscious ear ; for while thou gazest thus, 
 My flesh seems hardening into stone ; my soul 
 Is tainted ; thought of hon-or courses thought, 
 Like thunder-clouds swept wildly ; — yet I feel 
 That I must do thy bidding. 
 
 Ism. It is well ; — 
 
 Hast thou a weapon ? 
 
 TJioas. Yes ; the generous prince. 
 
 When I resign 'd my arms, left me a dagger. 
 
 Ism. The prince ! The furies sent it by his hand. 
 For justice on his father. 
 
 Thoas. On thy husband ? 
 
 Ism. Husband ! Beware ! — my husband moulders yet 
 Within his rusting armour ; such a word 
 From thee may pierce the rock beneath whose shade 
 He fell, and curse him with a moment's life 
 To blast thee where we stand. If this slight king.
 
 134 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act rii. 
 
 In the caprice of tyranny was pleased 
 
 To deck me out in regal robes, dost think 
 
 That in his wayward smiles, or household taunts, 
 
 I can forget the wretchedness and shame 
 
 He hurl'd upon me once ? 
 
 Tlioas. What shame ? 
 
 Ism. What shame ! 
 
 Thou hast not heard it. Listen ! I was pluck'd 
 From the small pressure of an only balje, 
 And in my frenzy sought the hall where Creon 
 Drain'd the frank goblet ; fell upon my knees ; 
 Embraced his foot-stool with my hungry arms, 
 And shriek'd aloud for liberty to seek 
 My infant's ashes, or to hear some news 
 Of how it perish'd ; — Creon did not deign 
 To look upon me, but with reckless haste 
 Dash'd me to earth ; — yes ! this disgrace he cast 
 On the proud daughter of a line which traced 
 Its skiey lineage to the gods, and bore 
 The impress of its origin, — on me, 
 A woman, and a mother ! 
 
 Thoas. Let me fly 
 
 And whet Athenian anger with thy wrongs — 
 My thoughts are strange and slaughterous. 
 
 Ism. [After a pause,'] P'ly then ! Yes ! — 
 
 [Aside.] 'Twill be as certain. — I will point a way 
 Will lead thee through a chamber to the terrace. 
 Whence thou may'st reach the wall. Thy only peril 
 Lies in that chamber. Mark me well ; — if there 
 An arm be raised to stay thee — if a voice 
 Be heard — or if aught mortal meet thy sight, 
 Whate'er the form, thy knife is pledged to quench 
 The life that breathes there. 
 
 Thoas. I obey. Farewell ! 
 
 [/Je takes her hand ; she shiters ; and drops it. 
 
 Ism. Hold off thy hand — it thrills me. — Swear ! 
 
 Thoas. By those 
 
 Who hover o'er us now, I swear ! 
 
 Ism. Be firm. 
 
 That is the door ; thou canst not miss the path. 
 Is thy steel ready 1
 
 SCENE II.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 135 
 
 Thoas. Yes ; — my breast is cold 
 
 As is that steel. 
 
 Ism. Haste — the thick darkness wanes. 
 
 \_Exit Thoas. 
 Infernal powers ! I thank ye — all is paid — 
 By thousand ecstacies in which my soul 
 Grows wanton. Calchas ! 
 
 Enter Calchas. 
 
 Wish me joy, old servant ! 
 What dost thou think of him who left me now 1 
 
 Cal. A gallant soldier. 
 
 Is7n. 'Tis my son — my own I 
 
 The very child for whom I knelt to Creon, 
 Is sent to give me justice. He is gone, 
 Arm'd with a dagger, thro' the royal chamber, 
 Sworn to strike any that may meet him there 
 A corpse before him. Dost thou think the king 
 Will see to-morrow 1 
 
 Cal. He may slumber. 
 
 Ism. No — 
 
 He hath sent his son to exile — he will wake — 
 I'm sure he will. There ! listen ! — 'twas a groan ! 
 'T\^dll be but low — again ! 'Tis finish'd ! Shades 
 Of my immortal ancestry, look down, 
 And o-^Ti me of your kindred ! — Calchas, haste ; 
 Secure possession of the towers that guard 
 The city gates : — entrust them to our friends. 
 Who, when I give the word, will set them wide. 
 Haste ! 'tis thy final labour. I shall soon 
 Be potent to reward the friends who clove 
 To me in my sad bondage. 
 
 Cal. AVhither go'st thou ? 
 
 Ism. To the pale shrine of her whose withering shield 
 Is dedicate to Athens. I have pray'd 
 At coldest midnight there, without a hope 
 Which might shoot life along my freezing veins. 
 I ask her to allay my raptures now. 
 By touch of marble— I require its chillness. 
 There Til await the issue. It is sure ! 
 
 ^Exeunt Ismsne and Calchas.
 
 136 TITE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 
 
 Scene III. — The outskirts of a Wood on one side ; the Athenian 
 Camp on the other, A Watch-fire at a little distance^ lighting 
 the Scene. 
 
 Pentheus walking backwards and foi'icards as a guard. 
 
 Pen. The cold gi'ey dawn begins to glimmer ; speed it 
 Ye powers that favour Athens ! From the sea, 
 Her everlasting guardian, Phoebus, rise, 
 To pour auspicious radiance o'er the field, 
 In which she may efface the foul dishonour 
 Her arms own'd yesterday ! Not shame alone, 
 But loss no morrow can repair, is hers ! 
 Archas, our army's noble leader, sleeps 
 Beneath the pressure of a thousand shields ; 
 And Thoas, bravest of our youth, a slave — 
 Perchance, ere this a corpse. Friend whom I loved, 
 In whose advancing glories I gi-ew proud 
 As though they had been mine — if yet thou breathest, 
 I will deliver, and if dead avenge thee ! 
 0, Thoas ! 
 
 Enter Thoas tcildly, from the trood. 
 
 Thoas. Who pronounced that wretched name,— 
 That name no honest tongue may utter more 1 
 Pentheus ! 
 
 Pe?i. Thoas ! most welcome. Thou art come in time 
 To share a glorious conflict. Ha ! thine eyes 
 Glare with a frightful light ; — be calm, — thou art safe ; — 
 This is the camp of those who will reward 
 Thy great emprise of yesterday, with place 
 Among the foremost in the battle. Come 
 To my exulting heart. [Offering to embrace Thoas. 
 
 Thoas. No ! — ^hold me from thee ! — 
 
 My heart can ne'er know fellowship again 
 With such as thine ; for I have paid a price 
 For this vile liberty to roam abroad. 
 And cry to woods and rocks that answer me 
 With fearful echoes : — such a price, my Pentheus — 
 My own unspotted conscience. Dost not see 
 Foul spots of blood upon this slave's apparel, 
 Polluting e'en that dress ?
 
 scBNE in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 13? 
 
 Pen. If thou hast struck 
 
 Some soldier down to vindicate thy freedom, 
 Who shall accuse thee ] 
 
 Thoas. 'Twas no soldier, Pentheus ; 
 
 No stout opponent that my fatal knife 
 Dismiss'd to Erebus. A Avither'd hand, 
 As from an old man, in the gloom stretch'd forth, 
 Scarce met my touch, — which could not have delay'd 
 My course an instant : — 'twas no thought of fear, 
 No haste for freedom, urged me, — but an oath 
 Glared on my soul in characters of flame. 
 And madden'd me to strike. I raised my arm, 
 And wildly hurl'd my dagger ; — nought but air 
 It seem'd to meet ; — but a sharp feeble sigh 
 Such as death urges when it stops the gasp 
 Of wastijig age, assured me it had done 
 A murderer's office. 
 
 Pen. Think not of it thus : — 
 
 Thy lips are parch'd, — let me fetch water. 
 
 Thoas. No ! 
 
 I have drank fiercely at a mountain spring, 
 And left the stain of blood in its pure waters ; 
 It quench'd my mortal thirst, and I rejoiced, 
 For I seem'd gro^^Tl to demon, till the stream 
 Cool'd my hot throat, and then I laughed aloud, 
 To find that I had something human still. 
 
 Pen. Fret not thy noble heart with what is past. 
 
 Thoas. No ! — 'tis not past ! — the murderer has no past ; 
 But one eternal present. 
 
 Hi/l. [icithin the icood.'] Help me ! — answer ! — 
 
 Thoas. The voice of Hyllus ! — of that noble youth. 
 Who, for my sake, is outcast from his home, 
 So near the camp of Athens ! Should our guards 
 Arrest him, he will perish. Friend ! That voice 
 Comes on my ear like that of one who served me, 
 In yonder city ; leave thy watch to me 
 A moment. 
 
 Pen, No — thy passion's dangerous ; 
 
 I dare not trust it. 
 
 Thoas. See — I have subdued 
 
 The pang which wrung me. By our ancient loves 
 Grant me this boon — ^perhaps the last.
 
 13B THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act mi. 
 
 Pen. Be quick, 
 
 For the watch presently will be removed, 
 And the trump call to battle. [^Exit Pentkeus. 
 
 Thoas. [calluHj tuWw.i.vs.'] Here! The hope 
 Of saving Hyllus wafts into my soul 
 A breath of comfort. 
 
 Enter Hyllus. 
 
 Ht/L I have lost my path, 
 
 Wandering the dismal night in this old wood ; 
 I'd seek the coast ; canst thou point out the way ? 
 
 Thoas. Avoid it — on each side the Isthmus, ships 
 Of Athens ride at anchor. 
 
 Hyl. [recognising lihn.^ Thoas ! free — 
 Then I am bless'd, and I can bear my lot, 
 However hard ; — I guess the hand that drew 
 The dungeon bolts ; — how didst thou quit the palace ? 
 
 Thoas. Why dost thou ask me that ? Through a large 
 chamber 
 That open'd on a teiTace — 'twas all dark ; — 
 Tell me who lay there ? 
 
 Ifyl. 'Tis my father's chamber. 
 
 Did he awake ? 
 
 Thoas. Thy father ?— gods ! The king ! 
 
 The feeble old man with the reverend hair ? 
 Art sure he rested there ? 
 
 H^l. Sure. No one else 
 
 May enter after sunset, save the queen. 
 
 TJioas. The queen ! all 's clear ! — Jove strike me into 
 marble ! 
 
 Hyl. Why dost thou tremble so 'i as if a fit 
 Of ague shook thee ? 
 
 Thoas. Nothing — only thought 
 
 Of my past danger came upon my soul 
 And shook it strangely, AVas the old man there ? 
 
 [Stands abstractedly as stupefied. 
 
 Pen. Thoas ! [Without. 
 
 T'hoas. Haste ! — Do not lose a moment — fly ! 
 
 The watch-fire that is waning now is fed 
 By hands which, madden'd by the foul defeat 
 Of yesterday, will slay thee. 
 
 H^^l. Whither fly ?
 
 scEKF III.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE 13 
 
 The camp of Athens is before me ; — ships 
 Of Athens line the coasts, — and Corinth's king 
 Hath driven me forth an exile. I '11 return 
 And crave my father's pardon. 
 
 TJioas. No — not there — 
 
 Yet, "where should the poor stripling go 1 Jove I 
 When he shall learn — 
 
 IIi/l. Farewell — yet hold an instant !— 
 
 "VVilt thou not send some message to Creusa, 
 That she may greet her brother with a smile 1 
 
 Thoas. Creusa smile ! — ^Methinks 1 see her now — 
 Pier form expands — her delicate features grow 
 To giant stone ; her hairs escape their band, 
 And stream aloft in air ; — and now they take 
 The forms of fiery serpents — how they hiss — 
 And point their tongues at Thoas ! 
 
 Hj/l. This is frenzy ; 
 
 I cannot leave thee thus : — whate'er my fate, 
 I will attend and soothe thee. 
 
 TJioas, Soothe me ! — Boy, 
 
 "Wouldst haunt me with that face which now I see 
 Is like thy father's. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Thou soothe me — 
 Look not upon me ; by this lurid light 
 Thou glarest a spectre. Hence, or 1 will rend thee ! 
 
 Hj/l. I rather would die here. 
 
 Thoas. Fool ! fool ! away ! 
 
 [^Exlt Hyllus. 
 He 's gone — yet she is with me still, — -v^ith looks 
 More terrible than anger ; — take away 
 That patient face, — I cannot bear its sweetness ; — 
 Earth, cover me ! \_Falls on the ground. 
 
 Enter Pentheus. 
 Pen. The troops are arming fast ; 
 
 They call on thee to lead them. — Hark, the trump — 
 
 \_Hie trunij\'t sounds. 
 Thoas. \Leai)s 2<p.] Yes ; I will answer to its call. 
 Again 
 Thou shalt behold me strike. In yonder field 
 I '11 win that which I hunger for. 
 Pen.- A crown
 
 140 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [activ. 
 
 Of laurel which hath floated in tliy dreams 
 From thy brave infancy— 
 
 Thoas. A grave ! a grave ! {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. The interior of tlie Funereal Grove at Corinth. The 
 Urn of Creon. 
 
 Creusa discovered, bending over it. 
 Creusa. 'Tis strange ! — I cannot weep for him ; I 've 
 tried 
 To reckon every artifice of love 
 Which 'mid my father's waywardness proclaim'd 
 His tenderness unalter'd ; — felt again 
 The sweet caresses infancy received, 
 And read the prideful look that made them sweeter ; 
 Have run the old familiar round of things 
 Indiiferent, on which affection hangs 
 In delicate remembrances which make 
 Each household custom sacred ; — I 've recail'd 
 From Memory's never-failing book of pain, 
 My own neglects of dutiful regard 
 Too frequent — all that should provoke a tear — 
 And all in vain. My feelings are as dull, 
 Mine eyes are rigid, as when first they met 
 The horrid vision of his thin wliite hairs 
 Matted with blood ! Gods, let me know again 
 A touch of natural grief, or I shall go 
 Distract, and think the bloody form is here. 
 
 Enter Hyllus. 
 Hyllus ! my brother ! thou wilt make me weep. 
 For we shall mourn as we were loved together. 
 Dost thou know all % 
 
 Hyl. Yes, all. — Alas ! Creusa, 
 
 He died in anger with me. 
 
 Creusa. Do not dwell
 
 scEXE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. U 
 
 On that sad thought ; — but recollect the cause 
 Was noble — the defence of one whose soul 
 Claims kindred with thine own. 
 
 H^l. Unhappy sister, 
 
 What sorrow stranger than thy present grief 
 Awaits thee yet ! 1 cannot utter it. 
 ' Creusa. Speak ; — any words of thine vdW comfort me. 
 Hj/l. I fear thou must no longer link the thoughts 
 Of nobleness and Thoas. 
 
 Creusa, Then my soul 
 
 jVIust cease all thinkings ; for I 've blended them 
 Till they have gi'own inseparate. "What is this ? 
 H^l. That he hath made us orphans. 
 Creusa. He is free 
 
 From such ignoble guiltiness as thou. 
 What fury shed this thought into a soul 
 Once proud to be his debtor 1 
 
 Hi/l. Poor believer 
 
 In virtue's dazzling counterfeit, 'tis sad 
 To undeceive thee. At the break of day 
 I met the murderer, frantic from his crime, 
 In anguish which explain'd by after proofs 
 Attests his guilt. 
 
 Creusa. And is this all 1 Hast said 
 
 All thou canst urge against the nobleness 
 Which breathes in every word ? Against thy life 
 Preserv'd at liberal hazard of his own ? 
 Against the love which I was proud to bear 
 For him, and that with which he more than paid me ? 
 He in some frenzy utter'd aimless words, 
 And thou at once believed'st him guilty. Go ! 
 Haste and accuse him. Henceforth we are twain. 
 Hyl. Sister, I never will accuse him. 
 Creusa. Take 
 
 ]\ly thanks for that small promise, though our souls 
 While thine is tainted with this foul belief. 
 Can ne'er be mingled as they have been. Now 
 I see why I was passionless. Ismene 
 Bend her steps hither ; thou hadst best retire ; 
 She rules the city, for her secret friends 
 Cast off their masks, and own themselves the foes 
 Of Coiinth's prince.
 
 142 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 Hpl. Beside my father's urn 
 
 I shall await her, 
 
 Greusa. I will not expose 
 
 My anguish to her cold and scornful gaze ; — 
 Brother, farewell awhile ; we are divided, 
 But I will bless thee. \Exit. 
 
 Enter Ismene and Guards. 
 
 Ism. Wherefore art thou here, 
 
 Despite the sentence which the king pronounced 
 Of exile ? 
 
 Hj/l. I have come to mourn a father. 
 Whose words of passion had been long unsaid, 
 Had his kind heart still throbb'd ; and next, to claim 
 My heritage. 
 
 Ism. Thine ! — win it, if thou canst 
 
 Enter Calchas. 
 How stands the battle ? 
 
 Cal. Corinth's soldiers fly. 
 
 Routed in wild disorder. Thoas leads 
 The troops of Athens, and will soon appear 
 In triumph at our gates. 
 
 Ism. Leads, say'st thou ? — leads ? 
 
 Let Corinth's gates stand open to admit 
 The hero, — give him conduct to the hall, 
 Where sculptured glories of Corinthian kings 
 Shall circle him who sham'd them, — there, alone, 
 I would crave speech with him. [Exit Calchas. 
 
 Hi/l. [To the Soldiers]. My countrymen. 
 
 Will ye endure this shame ? I am a youth 
 Unskill'd in war ; but I have learn'd to die 
 When life is infamy. If ye will join me. 
 We '11 close the gates with ramparts of the slain. 
 Does no heart answer mine ? 
 
 Ism. Their swords shall curb 
 
 Thy idle ravings. Athens triumphs now ! — 
 Attend him to his chamber, and beware 
 He leaves it not. 
 
 Hpl For this I ought to thank thee : 
 
 I would not see my country's foul disgrace ; 
 But thou shalt tremble yet. [^Exitj guarded.
 
 scsvE ff] THE ATHENIAN CAPTITE. 143 
 
 Is7n. Now shall I clasp him — 
 
 Clasp him a victor o'er my country's foes ; — 
 The slayer of him most hated. Double transport ! 
 The dream of great revenge I lived upon 
 Was never bright with image of such joy, 
 And now comes link'd with vengeance ! Thoas, haste ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — Before the Gates of Corinth. 
 
 Slwuts mthout. Thoas in armour, with his sword draicn and 
 Athenian Soldiers, as in pursuit. 
 
 Thoas. Here we may breathe awhile from conquest ; 
 'twas 
 A noble chase, we scarce may call it battle ; 
 Success so quick hath followed on success, 
 That we shall want more time to count our glories 
 Than we have spent in winning them. The foe 
 Is niggard, and will not allow our arms 
 One day of conflict. We have won too soon. 
 Grant me, great gods ! instead of years of life, 
 Another such an hour. 
 
 Soldier. ]\Iy lord, here 's wine ; 
 
 'Tis from the tents of Corinth. 
 
 Thoas. Xot a drop. 
 
 ]\Iy heart 's too light — too jocund to allow 
 Another touch of ecstacy, derived 
 From mortal fruitage ; nay, were it Jove's nectar, 
 I 'd set the untasted cup of crj'stal down. 
 And wait till all our glorious work were finish'd ! 
 Soldiers ! we sup in Corinth ! You '11 not wait 
 Past time of hunger, if ye are not faint 
 With rapid conquest. 
 
 Enter Pentheus and Soldiers, 
 Pen. Noble leader, hail ! 
 
 Thy country's heroes bless thee with the sense 
 Of their delighted wonder ! With one voice 
 They greet thee as the winner of this fight, 
 To which thou led'st them. Never was a scheme
 
 144 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 Of battle, plann'd in council of the sage, 
 Form'd with a skill more exquisite than that 
 Which in the instant thou wert call'd to lead us, 
 Flash'd on thy spirit, and in lines of fire 
 From thine was manifest to ours ! Art wounded 1 
 
 T/ioas. A very scratch ; I blush to think no more : 
 Some frolic blood let in the strife had served 
 To moderate my fervours. 
 
 Pen. See ! our comrades 
 
 Have snatched a branch from the Corinthian laurels 
 To wreathe thy brow ! Soldiers, 'tis much I ask ; 
 But when I tell ye I have watch'd your chief 
 From the first flash that dazzled in his eye 
 At tale of glory, ye may yield to me 
 The pride and joy of offering him this honour. 
 
 [Soldier gives the wreath to Pentheus, who gixes it to Thoas. 
 I thank ye, comrades. 
 
 Thoas. The immortal gods 
 
 Grant me a double blessing in the friend 
 From whom I take this happiness. Pentheus ! 
 I have mused fondly — proudly — on the fate 
 Which waits upon my country ; when the brow 
 Which thou wouldst deck, was bared to mist and storm ; 
 When every moonlit fountain which displaced 
 The blackness of the moss-grown hillock told 
 Of the pure beauty which her name should keep, 
 Empearling starless ages ; when each wave 
 That rippled in her harbour, to my ear 
 Spoke glad submission to the Queen of Cities ; 
 But never, 'mid my burning hopes for Athens, 
 Did I believe that / should stand thus crown'd, 
 Her laurell'd soldier ! Friends, the sun-light wanes, 
 And we must sup in Corinth ! 
 
 Pen. See, the gates 
 
 Open to welcome us ! IThe gates open. 
 
 Thoas. Without a blow ? 
 
 We shall not earn our banquet. So expands 
 Before the vision of my soul, the east 
 To the small cluster of our godlike sons. 
 Let Asia break the mirror of our seas 
 With thousand sterns of ivory, and cast
 
 SCENE II.] THE ATHEXIAX CAPTIVE. 145 
 
 The glare of gold upon them to disturb 
 The azure hue of heaven, they shall be swept 
 As glittering clouds before the sun-like face 
 Of unapplianced -virtue ! Friends, forgive me ; 
 I have been used to idle thought, nor yet 
 Have learn 'd to marry it to action. Blest 
 To-day in both. 
 Pen. A herald from the city. 
 
 Enter Calchas. 
 
 CaL I am commission'd by the queen to speak 
 With Thoas. 
 
 Thoas. I am here. 
 
 \_TremhleSj and supports himself, as paralysed, on Pen. 
 Thou art commission'd 
 From the infernal powers to cross my path 
 Of glorious triumph, with a shape that brings 
 Before me terrible remembrance, which 
 Had strangely vanish'd from me. 
 
 Pen. [To the Soldiers.'] He is ill, — 
 
 Retire. 
 
 Thoas. No — should the herald fade in air 
 He would not leave his office unfulfill'd, 
 One look hath smit my soul. 
 
 Pen. Is this a dream ? 
 
 Thoas. No — 'tis a dreadful waking — I have dreamt 
 Of honour, and have struggled in that dream 
 For Athens, as if I deserved to fight 
 Unsullied in her cause. The joy of battle 
 In eddies as a whirlpool had engoilf 'd 
 The thought of one sad moment, when my soul 
 Was blasted ; but it rises in the calm, 
 Like form of slaughter'd seaman, that pursues 
 The murderous vessel which swept proudly on, 
 When his death-gurgle ended. Hence, vain wreath ! — 
 Thou wouldst entwine my brow with serpent coldness, 
 And \\^lther instant there. [Tears the icreath. 
 
 So vanish all 
 My hopes ; they are gone — I 'm fit to answer thee. 
 Who sent thee here ? [To Calchas. 
 
 Cal. The queen.
 
 146 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 Thoas. A worthy mistress 
 
 Of such a slave — thy errand ? 
 
 Cal. She who rules 
 
 Jn Corinth now, admits the victor's power, 
 And bids the gates thus open : she requires 
 A conference with Thoas in the hall 
 Next to the royal chamber — thou hast been 
 There, as I think, my lord. 
 
 Thoas. I know full well ; 
 
 Lead, dreadful herald, on ! 
 
 Pen. The troops attend 
 
 The order of their general. 
 
 Thoas. [To C ALOHAS.] Why dost wait ? 
 Thou see'st that 1 obey thy call. 
 
 Pen. My friend, 
 
 Thy blood is fever'd — thou may'st choose thy time — 
 Postpone this meeting. 
 
 Thoas. \To Calchas.] Why dost tarry ? turn 
 Thy face away — it maddens me — go on ! 
 
 \^Exit after Calchas, 
 
 Soldier. [To Pentheus.] My lord, we wait for orders ; 
 this strange man, 
 Half warrior and half rhapsodist, may bring 
 Our army into peril. 
 
 Pe7i. Fear it not ; 
 
 He has all elements of greatness in him. 
 Although as yet not perfectly commingled, 
 Which is sole privilege of gods. They cast 
 Such piteous weakness on the noblest men 
 That we may feel all mortal. 'Tis a cloud 
 Which speedily will pass, and thou shalt see 
 The hero shine as clearly forth in council 
 As he has done in victory. Meanwhile 
 He leaves us pleasant duty — form your lines- 
 Sound trumpets — march triumphant into Corinth ! 
 
 [The Athenians enter Corinth.
 
 scE>fB iir.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 147 
 
 Scene III. — The Hall of Statues in the Palace, same as b 
 Third Act. 
 
 TJioas. \_Ahne.'\ Again I stand within this awful hall ; 
 I found the entrance here, without the sense 
 Of vision ; for a foul and clinging mist, 
 Like the damp vapour of a long-closed vault, 
 Is round me. Now its objects start to sight 
 With terrible distinctness ! Crimson stains 
 Break sudden on the walls ! The fretted roof 
 Grows living ! Let me hear a human voice, 
 Or I shall play the madman I 
 
 Enter Ismene, riclilij dressed. 
 
 Ism. Noble soldier, 
 
 I bid thee welcome, with the rapturous heart 
 Of one, for whom thy patriot arm hath wrought 
 Deliverance and revenge — but more for Athens 
 Than for myself, I hail thee : why dost droop ] 
 Art thou oppressed with honours, as a weight 
 Thou wert not born to carry ? I will tell 
 That which shall show thee native to the load. 
 And shall requite thee with a joy as great 
 As that thou hast conferr'd. Thy life was hid 
 Beneath inglorious accident, till force 
 Of its strong current urged it forth to day. 
 To glisten and expand in sun-light. Know 
 That it has issued from a fountain bright 
 As is its destiny. — Thou sharest \^-ith me 
 The blood of Theseus. 
 
 Thoas. If thy speech is true, 
 
 And I have something in me which responds 
 To its high tidings, I am doom'd to bear 
 A heavier woe than I believed the gods 
 Would ever lay on mortal ; I have stood 
 Unwittingly upon a skiey height. 
 By ponderous gloom encircled, — thou hast sho\vn 
 The mountain-summit mournfully reversed 
 In the black mirror of a lurid lake. 
 Whose waters soon shall cover me, — I 've stain'd 
 L 2
 
 148 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act rr. 
 
 A freeman's nature ; thou hast shown it sprung 
 From gods and heroes, and wouldst have me proud 
 Of the foul sacrilege. 
 
 Ism. If that just deed, 
 
 Which thus disturbs thy fancy, were a crime, 
 What is it in the range of glorious acts, 
 Past and to come, to which thou art allied, 
 But a faint speck, an atom, which no eye 
 But thine would dwell on 1 
 
 Thoas. It infects them all ; 
 
 Spreads out funereal blackness as they pass 
 In sad review before me. Hadst thou pour'd 
 This greatness on my unpolluted heart. 
 How had it bounded ! now it tortures me, 
 From thee, fell sorceress, who snared my soul 
 Here — in this very hall ! — May the strong curse 
 Which breathes from out the ruins of a nature 
 Blasted by guilt — 
 
 Ism. Hold ! Parricide — forbear ! 
 
 She whom thou hast avenged, she whom the death 
 Of Creon hath set free, whom thou wouldst curse. 
 Is she who bore thee ! 
 
 Thoas. Thou ! 
 
 Ism. Dost doubt my word ! 
 
 Is there no witness in thy mantling blood 
 Which tells thee whence 'twas drawn % Is nature silent ? 
 If, from the mists of infancy, no form 
 Of her who, sunk in poverty, forgat 
 Its ills in tending thee, and made the hopes 
 Which glimmer'd in thy smiles her comfort, — gleams 
 Upon thee yet ; — hast thou forgot the night 
 When foragers from Corinth toss'd a brand 
 Upon the roof that shelter'd thee ; dragg'd out 
 The mother from the hearth where she had sat 
 Resign'd to perish, shrieking for the babe 
 Whom from her bosom they had rent % That child 
 Now listens. As in rapid flight, I gazed 
 Backward upon the blazing ruin, shapes 
 Of furies, from amid the fire, look'd out 
 And giinn'd upon me. Every weary night 
 While I have lain upon my wretched bed.
 
 6CENR ill.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE, 149 
 
 They have been with me, pointing to the hour 
 Of veageance. Thou hast wrought it for me, son ! 
 Embrace thy mother ! 
 
 Thoas. "\\'ould the solid earth 
 
 Would open, and enfold me in its strong 
 And stifling grasp, that I might be as though 
 I ne'er was born. 
 
 Ism. Dost mock me ? I have clasp'd 
 
 Sorrow and shame as if they were my sons, 
 To keep my heart from hardening into stone ; 
 The promised hour arrived ; and when it came, 
 The furies, in repayment, sent an arm. 
 Moulded from mine, to strike the oppressor dead. 
 I triumph 'd, — and I sent thee ! 
 
 Thoas. Dost confess 
 
 That, conscious who I was, thou urged my knife 
 Against the king 1 
 
 Ism. Confess ! — I glory in it ! — 
 
 Thy arm hath done the purpose of my ^^-ill ; 
 For which I bless it. Now I am thy suitor. 
 Victorious hero ! Pay me for those cares 
 Long past, which man ne'er guesses at ; — for years 
 Of daily, silent suffering, which young soldiers 
 Have not a word to body forth ; for all, — 
 By filling for a moment these fond arms. 
 Which held thee first. 
 
 Thoas. [Shrinklnq from her.'] I cannot. I will kneel 
 To thank thee for thy love, ere thou didst kill 
 Honour and hope ; — then grovel at thy feet, 
 And pray thee trample out the wretched life 
 Thou gav'st me. 
 
 Ism. Ha ! Beware, unfeeling man : — 
 
 I had opposed, had cmsh'd all human loves, 
 And they were wither'd ; thou hast call'd them forth, 
 Rushing in crowds from memory's thousand cells, 
 To scoff at them. Beware ! They will not slumber, 
 But sting like scorpions. 
 
 Enter Iphitus. 
 
 Wherefore dost intrude 
 On this high conference ?
 
 ISO THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ir. 
 
 Iph. The people cry- 
 
 That solemn inquisition should be held 
 For Creon's blood ! — else do they fear the gods 
 Will visit it on them. 
 
 Ism. They need not fear. 
 
 It will be well avenged. 
 
 Iph. To thee, Ismene, 
 
 That which I next must speak, is of dear impoit ; — 
 Wilt hear it in this noble stranger's presence ? 
 
 Ism. Say on, old man. 
 
 Iph. From the old crumbling altar, 
 
 Just as the gates were open'd, breathed a voice 
 In whisper low, yet heard through each recess 
 Of Jove's vast temple, bidding us to seek 
 Of thee, Ismene, who the murderer is. 
 And summon thee to the same fearful spot, 
 To speak it there. 
 
 Ism. \_To Thoas.] Athenian ! dost thou hear ? 
 
 Thoas. I hear, 
 
 Iph. The hostile nations lay aside 
 
 Their quarrel, till this justice to the dead 
 Be render'd. Chiefs of each will guard the fane, 
 And wait the solemn issue. — In their name 
 And in the mightier name of him whose shrine 
 Hath burst long silence, I command thee, queen, 
 Thou presently be there. 
 
 Ism. I shall obey — 
 
 Beside the altar place the regal seat ; 
 And there, in state befitting Corinth's queen, 
 I'll take my place. [To Thoas. 
 
 Farewell ! Thou wilt be there ! 
 
 Thoas. Be sure I will not fail. 
 
 Ism. 'Tis well ! 'Tis well ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Iph. Thou saidst thou shouldst attend ? 
 
 Thoas. I shall. "\Miat more 
 
 Would'st thou have with me ? 
 
 Iph. I would ask a band 
 
 Of the most noble of Athenian youth, 
 To witness this procedure ; and to lend 
 Their conduct, should the murderer stand reveal 'd,
 
 SCENE lu.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 151 
 
 To keep the coui*se of justice unassail'd, 
 And line the path of death. 
 
 Thoas. All that can make 
 
 The wretch accurs'd^ shall wait him. Let me breathe 
 Alone a moment. [Exit Iphitcs, 
 
 How they'll start to see 
 The guilty one descend the solemn steps, 
 And hang their heads for shame, and turn their eyes 
 In mercy from him. [Goiiig. 
 
 Enter Creusa. 
 
 Creiisa. For a moment hear me — 
 
 I would not break on thy triumphant hours, 
 But for my brother's sake. Do not refuse. 
 For if he wrong'd thee by a frantic thought. 
 There was one ready to defend thy honour 
 From slightest taint ! 
 
 Thoas. What taint 1 the breath of infamy 
 
 Spreads o'er my name already ! 
 
 Creusa. Do not ask — 
 
 'Twas a wild thought ; — but there are tongues which make 
 As false a charge ; tongues which have power to crush 
 The guiltless ! — They have murmur'd that this crime 
 Is that of Hyllus ! 
 
 Thoas. Hyllus the unsullied ! 
 
 Creusa. I knew that thou would'st say so — that no force 
 Of circumstance would weigh in thy pure thought 
 Against the beauty of his life. They found him 
 Just after day-break, suddenly return'd 
 From exile, in the chamber of the king. 
 Gazing with bloodless aspect on a sight 
 Of bloodshed ; — yet thou dost not think 'twas he 
 That with a craven hand — 
 
 Thoas. no ! 
 
 Creusa. And thou 
 
 Wilt plead his cause — wilt save him from the fate 
 That threatens his young life ? 
 
 Thoas. My own shall first 
 
 Be quench'd ! 
 
 Creusa. The gods repay thee for the word ! 
 
 brother, brother ! could'st thou ^^Tong this heart
 
 152 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act vi. 
 
 With foul suspicion 1 Why dost turn away, 
 
 And shrink and shudder in the warrior's dress, 
 
 As when I thank'd thee for that brother's life, 
 
 At the slave's vest which then, in thy proud thought. 
 
 Debased the wearer 1 
 
 Thoas. 0, I thought so then ! 
 
 Now I would give the treasures of the deep, 
 Nay more — the hope of glory — to resume 
 Those servile garments with the spotless thoughts 
 Of yesterday. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Mess. My general, Pentheus, asks 
 
 If, by thy sanction, Iphitus requires 
 His presence in the temple ? 
 
 Thoas. Pentheus ?— Yes. 
 
 Creusa. [Thoas turns av:ay.'\ Why in the temple 1 wilt 
 not speak 1 
 
 Mess. The priest 
 
 There summons all to some high trial. 
 
 Creusa. I see it ! — 
 
 They meet to judge my brother. I will fly — 
 
 Thoas. Thou must not, lady — in that fearful place 
 Horrors unguess'd at by thy gentle nature 
 Will freeze thy youthful blood, that thou shalt pass 
 No happy moment more. 
 
 Creusa. And what have I 
 
 To do with happiness ? I am not young. 
 For I grew old in moments fraught with love 
 And anguish. Now I feel that I could point 
 The murderer out with dreadful skill — could mark 
 The livid paleness, read the shrinking eye. 
 Detect the empty grasping of the hand 
 Renewing fancied slaughter ; — why dost turn 
 Thus coldly from me ? Ah ! thou hast forgot 
 The vows which, when in slavery, thou offer'd, 
 And I was proud to answer — if not, Thoas, 
 Once press my hand ; gods ! he lets it fall ! — 
 So withers my last hope — so my poor heai't 
 Is broken. \FainXs.
 
 SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. ]o3 
 
 Thoas. {To Messenger.] Take her gently in. 
 
 [Messenger supports her ovt. 
 One glance. [Looks at her and shwlders. 
 that the beauty I have loved and worshipp'd 
 Should be a thing to shiver me ! — 'Tis just. [Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — The Interior of the Temple of Jupiter the Avenger — 
 IsMENE seated in the midst, in a Chair of State — Corinthian? 
 on the right, and Athenians on the left, side of the Temp'le — 
 At the extremity on the right side, Hyllus standing — At the 
 extremity of the left, Thoas seated. 
 
 Tph. Corinthians and Athenians ! late opposed 
 In mortal conflict, dedicated tlqvj 
 To solemn work of Justice, hear the will 
 Of the Avenging Power, beneath whose roof 
 Ye stand thus marshall'd. Royal blood hath stain'd 
 A palace floor : — not shed in blazing war, 
 But in night's peace ; not some hot soldier's blood, 
 But the thin current of a frame made sacred 
 To Orcus' gentlest arrow. Heaven requires 
 Both nations to unite in dealing death 
 Upon the slayer, who, unslain, will draw 
 Its withering curse on both. In yonder shrine 
 Which dim tradition's fearful whispers made 
 A terror to my infancy, a voice. 
 Which breathed fell murmurs to ancestral ears. 
 Breaks centuries of silence to pronounce 
 The Queen as gifted to direct the shaft 
 To the cursed head ; — and every sign around us 
 By which the world invisible, when charged 
 With bloody secret, struggles to subdue 
 Things visible to organs which may send 
 Its meaning to the startled soul, attest 
 The duty I assume. — Ismene ! 
 
 Ism. Priest
 
 154 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act r. 
 
 Of Jove, I am attendant to thy summons ; — 
 What is thy wish ? 
 
 Iph. Sad widow of a king 
 
 Whose feeble life some cruel hand hath stopp'd, 
 I do adjure thee, by those hoary hairs, 
 That changed their hue from raven whilst thou shared 
 His mansion ; — by celestial powers, who watch 
 Our firmness now ; — and by those fearful gods, 
 Whom 'tis unblest to mention, lay aside 
 All teiTor, all affection, all remorse, — 
 If cause of penitence thou hast, — to rend 
 The veil of darkness which the murderer wears, 
 And give him to his destiny. Begin 
 The solemn strain which shall attune our souls 
 To hearken and to execute ! {^Solemn music. 
 
 Iph. Ismene, 
 
 Speak : Dost thou know the slayer ? 
 
 Ism. Yes ! 
 
 Iph. Dost thou 
 
 Behold him now ? 
 
 Ism. {Looking xnldly round.'\ I do not see the faces 
 Or know the names of all. Wlio is the man 
 That at the right side of the circle stands ? 
 
 Iph. The youth with head erect and cloudless brow ? 
 That is the orphan'd Hyllus. 
 
 Ism. WTio is he 
 
 That sits upon the other side, apart, 
 W^ith face averted ? 
 
 [Thoas turns Ids head suddenly, and looks upon her. 
 I behold him now. 
 It is a dreadful duty you exact 
 From me — a woman. If I speak the name, 
 \\"hat sentence follows ? 
 
 Iph. Death ! 
 
 Ism. And soon performed ? 
 
 Iph. The Fates require that he thou shalt denounce 
 As guilty, must be led in silence hence. 
 And none behold him after, save his slayers. 
 Attend once more ! Thou hast declared thou know'st 
 The guilty one ! I ask thee — is he here ? 
 
 Ism. 6 Gods ! He is.
 
 SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTITE. 155 
 
 Iph. Name him ! 
 
 Cal. She shudders ! See, — 
 
 I think she cannot speak ! 
 
 Iph. If quivering tongue 
 
 Refuse its office, point the victim out. 
 
 [IsMENE rises; turns toicards Thoas, icho rises, and cori' 
 fronts her ; she trembles, pauses, and sinks into her seat. 
 
 Iph. Thou hast confess'd the guilty one is here ; 
 "Where stands he ] 
 
 [IsMENE rises ; points to Hyllus, shrieks " There ! " and 
 falls back senseless in her chair. 
 
 Thoas. 'Tis false ! 
 
 [Creusa rushes fortcard and embraces Hyllus. 
 
 Creusa. Most false ! murderess. 
 
 Protect him, noble Thoas ! 
 
 Hyl. Peace, my sister : — 
 
 Implore no mortal aid ; let us be patient, 
 And suffer calmly what the gods decree. 
 IVIy life may satisfy. 
 
 Iph. It cannot be ! 
 
 Hold — stir not — breathe not — from that shrine the voice 
 Of heaven will answer hers. Do ye not hear ? {_A pause. 
 Hark ! — It is voiceless, and the youth is doom'd . 
 
 Thoas. Forbear, ye murderous judges ; look upon him ! 
 See on his forehead Nature's glorious seal 
 Of innocence, outspeaking thousand voices, 
 Which shining in the presence of the gods, 
 Still shows him guiltless. 
 
 Iph. Prove it. 
 
 TJioas. "With my life-blood ! 
 
 could ye place me in some dizzy cleft 
 Of inmost Thracian hills, when ribb'd with ice, 
 To hear from every rocky shelf a howl 
 Of wolves aroused to famine, — I would stand — 
 Calm, — far calmer than I stand, — to wait 
 Their fangs, and let my tortured sinews' strength 
 Attest his cause ; — 'twere nothing — 'twere no pain — 
 To what the spirit feels. Thou talk'st of curses : 
 Beware ! There is no curse with such a power 
 As that of guiltless blood pour'd out by mortals 
 In the mock'd name of justice.
 
 156 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 
 
 Hyl. \To Thoas, aside.\ Thou wilt tell 
 
 Thy secret ; — keep it. Leave me to my doom. 
 
 TJioas. Never ! Corinthians, hear me 
 
 Ism. [recovering.'] What is this ? 
 
 Why waits the parricide still there 1 Who dares 
 Dispute my sentence 1 
 
 Thoas. I ! 
 
 Ism. Be silent. She 
 
 Who most in all the world should have command 
 O'er thee, requires thy silence. 
 
 Pen. [stepping foricard from the Athenian rank.] By what 
 right 
 Dost thou — Queen of the vanquish'd — dare command 
 The leader of the conquerors 1 
 
 Ism. By a mother's ! 
 
 [Thoas sinks into his seat — Ismene descends and stands 
 beside him. 
 
 Ism. Athenians — victors ! — 'tis your fitting name, 
 By which I gladly hail you. Ye behold 
 One whom ye left to suifer, but who boasts 
 Your noblest blood. See ! I command my son 
 To quit this roof, and leave me to the work 
 The gods have destined for me. 
 
 Thoas. Stand aside ! 
 
 I have a suit I would prefer alone. 
 Which may save guilt and sorrow. 
 
 Iph. \to Hyllus.] Lean on me. 
 
 [To Thoas.] Be brief. 
 
 Hi/l. I have no need ; yet I will take 
 
 This thy last kindness ; for I can accept it 
 Without a blush or shudder. 
 
 [All retire^ leaving Thoas and Ismene in front. 
 
 Thoas. Why hast heap'd 
 
 Foul crime on crime 1 
 
 Ism. Son ! there has been no crime 
 
 Except for thee. The love that thou hast scorn'd 
 From the heart's long-closed shrine, outwhisper'd fate 
 And saved thee. 
 
 Thoas. Saved me ! Thou may'st save me yet ; 
 
 Recall thy sentence. Give me truth and death ! 
 
 Ism. And own my falsehood ? No ! Let us go hence 
 Together.
 
 sce?:e I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 157 
 
 Thoas. And permit this youth to die ! 
 that some god would mirror to thy soul 
 Our mortal passage, while the arid sand 
 We pace ; the yellow, sunless, sky above us ; 
 And forms distort with, anguish, which shall meet 
 Each vain attempt to be alone, enclose 
 The conscious blasters of the earth, till forced 
 To gaze upon each other, we behold, 
 As in eternal registry, the curse 
 Writ in the face of each ! No ; let us pray 
 For torture and for peace ! 
 
 Ism. If thou remain. 
 
 And risk dishonour to our house and me, 
 The poisonous cave below shall be my home, 
 And shelter me for ever ! 
 
 Thoas. Bravely thought — 
 
 As fits a matron of heroic line ; 
 Be great in penitence, and we shall meet 
 Absolved, where I may join my hand to thine, 
 And walk in duteous silence by thy side. 
 
 Ism. And couldst thou love me then ? 
 
 Thoas. Love thee ! My mother. 
 
 When thou didst speak that word, the gloom of years 
 Was parted, — and I knew again the face 
 Which linger'd o'er my infancy, — so pale, 
 So proud, so beautiful ! I kneel again, 
 A child, and plead to that unharden'd heart, 
 By all the long past hours of priceless love, 
 To let my gushing soul pass forth in grace, 
 And bless thee in its parting ! 
 
 Ism. Never ! 
 
 Thoas. {rising.'] Yes ! 
 
 Haste ere the roof shall fall, and crush the germ 
 Of sweet repentance in us : take thy seat, 
 And speak as thy heart dictates — 
 
 [Draxcing Ismene toicards her seat. 
 Hear again ! 
 
 Ism. Unhand me — rebel son ! Assembled Chiefs, 
 Ye called me — I have spoken once — I speak 
 No more ; make way there 1 — I must pass alone ! 
 
 [Exit ISMENE.
 
 158 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 
 
 TJioas. [Calling to Ismene.] ! mother, stay ! She's 
 gone. [Sinks into his chair. 
 
 Iph. Her word decides, 
 
 Unless the gods disown it. Peace ! the altar 
 Is silent ; the last moment presses on us — 
 Hyllus, the doom'd, stand forth ! 
 
 Creusa. pause ; to thee 
 
 Thoas, I call ; thou know'st him guiltless. 
 
 Iph. Hold ! 
 
 No mortal passion can have utterance here, 
 When Fate is audible. To yield is ours : 
 Be calm as Hyllus, or forego his hand. 
 
 [Creusa sinlcs on her knees beside Hyllus ; Iphitus lays 
 one hand on the head of Hyllus, and raises the other 
 towards heaven. 
 Iph. Dread Power, that bade us to this fane, accept 
 The expiation that we offer now, 
 And let this blood pour'd forth avert thy vengeance ! 
 
 [TiiOAS suddenly falls from his seat to the ground. 
 Creusa rushes to him, and all surround him. 
 Cretisa. Gods ! what is this new horror ? 
 
 [Opening the rest of Thoas, the dagger , with ichich he has 
 secretly stabbed himself , falls from it. 
 Thoas. There ! 'Tis done ! 
 
 'Tis well accomplish'd. 
 
 Creusa. Hyllus, go ! 
 
 Brother, no more — for thee he perishes. 
 
 Thoas. I will not purchase a last thrill of joy. 
 By such estrangement. That steel bears the blood 
 Of Creon and his slayer ! 
 
 — Raise me ! So — 
 That I may press your generous monarch's hand. 
 Nay, turn not from me, Hyllus ! Speak one word 
 Of sweet forgiveness. 
 
 II;i/l. Had it pleased the Gods, 
 
 Instead of thine, to take a stripling's life. 
 How had that giddy sharpness been repaid 
 By mighty deeds thou wouldst have acted ! 
 
 Thoas. No — 
 
 If I were framed by nature for dishonour,
 
 scEVE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 159 
 
 I might have lived and conquer'd, and enjoy 'd, 
 
 And won a glorious name ; — my soul was noble — 
 
 And shiver'd at the shadow of its crime, 
 
 And closed on this worid ; — in another sphere 
 
 It may expand unsoil'd — it opens now — 
 
 And guilt is passing from me with my life-blood. 
 
 Enter C alohas. 
 
 Cal. The Queen ! 
 
 Thoas. Hold life a moment — Speak ! — The Queen ? 
 
 Cal. She rush'd, 
 
 With looks none dared to question, to the cave ; 
 Paused at its horrid portal ; toss'd her arms 
 Wildly abroad ; then drew them to her breast, 
 As if she clasp'd a vision'd infant there ; 
 And as her eye, uplifted to the crag, 
 Met those who might prevent her course, withdrew 
 Her backward step amidst the deadly clouds 
 ^^'hich veil'd her — till the spectral shape was lost, 
 "\^'here none dare ever tread to seek for that 
 Which was Ismene. 
 
 Thoas. Peace be vdih her ! Pentheus, 
 
 Thy hand ; — let Hyllus reign in honour here ; — ■ 
 Convey me to the city of my love ; 
 Her future years of glory stream more clear 
 Than ever on my soul. Athens ! Athens ! [B'm. 
 
 Hyh Sister ! 
 
 Creusa. Forgive me, brother. 
 
 [Fa/lson the neck of Hyllus. 
 
 IIj/I. Weep there ; 'tis thy home. 
 
 Fate that has smitten us so young, leaves this — 
 That we shall cleave together to the grave. 
 
 The curtain falls.
 
 GLENCOE; 
 
 THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 FIRST REPRE&KNTEUj iUJY 23, IS-iO.
 
 LORD JEFFREY, 
 
 GRATEFUL SENSE OF HIS KINDNESS, AND PRIDE IN KIS ESTEEM, 
 
 ?rf)ts iCragcUp, 
 
 EMBODYING THE FEELINGS OF HAPPY DAY 
 
 SPENT IN THAT RO.MANTIC LAND WHICH HIS DELIGHTFUL SOCIETY HAS 
 ENDEARED, 
 
 IS (WITH HIS PERMISSION) RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 
 
 T. N. TALFOURD.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 SiNCB this Play was prepared for the press, it has un- 
 dergone the ordeal of representation ; and, having avowed 
 myself its author, I feel it right to state the circumstances 
 under which it was written and '^commended to the stage." 
 It was composed in the vacation of 1839 at Glandwr, in the 
 most beautiful part of North Wales, chiefly for the purpose 
 of embodying the feelings which the grandest scenery in the 
 Highlands of Scotland had awakened, when I %-isited them 
 in the preceding autumn. I had no distinct intention at that 
 time of seeking for it a trial on the stage ; but, having almost 
 unconsciously blended -^"ith the image of its hero the figure, 
 the attitudes, and the tones of the great actor, whom I had 
 associated for manyyears with every form of tragedy, I could 
 not altogether repress the hope that I might one day enjoy 
 the delight of seeing him give life and reality to my imper- 
 fect conceptions. After my return to London the Play was 
 printed, merely for the purpose of being presented to my 
 friends ; but when only two or three copies had been pre- 
 sented, I was encouraged to believe that it would one 
 day be acted, and I suppressed the edition. I found 
 M 2
 
 Iu4 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE 
 
 that my friend, Mr. Charles Dickens, — whose generous 
 devotion to my interests amidst his owti triumphant 
 labours I am most happy thus to boast, — had shown it to 
 Mr. Macready as the work of a stranger ; that it had been 
 read by him with deep interest ; and that he had deter- 
 mined to recommend its production as the first novelty of 
 the present Haymarket season. Having been charged, on 
 the representation of " Ion," wdth obtaining an unfair 
 advantage over other dramatic authors, by the previous 
 distribution of the Play, (although, at the time of that 
 distribution, I had not the slightest idea that it would 
 ever be acted,) I resolved wholly to abstain from a course 
 which might justly involve me in such a censure ; and 
 the only use made of any of the printed copies, was to 
 facilitate the rehearsals. I also determined, if possible, to 
 avoid another charge — that I was indebted for such success 
 as I had obtained to the partial applause of friends ; and, 
 as the Play had been accepted ^^'ithout any name to aid it, 
 so I ^^•ished that it should take its fair chance for success 
 or failure, at the hands of an audience wholly without 
 bias. This wish was accomplished ; for, with the excep- 
 tion of two or three friends who happened to have received 
 copies before the occasion for secrecy arose, my most in- 
 timate friends and relations were wholly unacquainted 
 mth my connection of the announcement of the even- 
 ing. When the name of the author was communicated 
 to ]Mr. Macready, he was enjoined to keep it secret ; and 
 it was only a day or two before the performance that an 
 accident caused it even to be suspected at the theatre. 
 Whatever, therefore, may have been the degi'ee of success
 
 SECOND EDITION OF GLENCOE 165 
 
 which attended its first representation, it was attained — 
 not only ^^'ithout the issue of orders, but without the aid 
 of those genial influences which friendship delights to 
 exert on such an occasion. 
 
 As Mr. Macready has regarded this play in two aspects 
 — at the time when he first approved it as the work of a 
 stranger, and during its preparation for the Stage as the 
 production of one of his oldest friends — so I have to thank 
 him in each character. The suggestions which he made to 
 render it better fitted for representation were so important, 
 that it was found necessary to reprint the whole ; and the 
 few who have seen the original will perceive that they have 
 essentially improved the work as a dramatic poem, as well 
 as advanced its interest on the Stage. Of his representation 
 of the principal character, I cannot speak in adequate terms 
 of gratitude ; — but those who know the pleasure which an 
 author feels in finding the images of his solitary walks 
 among rocks and streams rendered palpable to the senses 
 and affections of others by the power of a great artist, may 
 guess the feelings with which I w-itnessed his performance. 
 To all the Ladies and Gentlemen engaged in the represen- 
 tation, I also beg to offer my cordial thanks for the zeal 
 with which they did more than justice to parts which, in 
 several instances, were unworthy of their powers ; and to 
 IVIr. Webster, as ^lanager as well as Actor. 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances, I should have felt it im- 
 pertinent to intrude on the public the statement I have 
 made of personal details and motives ; but as I am conscious 
 that this Play has been produced at a time when dramatic 
 productions superior to it in many of the essentials of that
 
 166 ADVERTISEMENT TO GLENCOE. 
 
 species of composition have recently issued from the press, 
 I think it due to the management of the Haymarket 
 Theatre, and to Mr. Macready, to state the exact truth 
 respecting it. The authors of some of these dramas can- 
 not reasonably complain, as they have not chosen to adapt 
 their works to the purposes of acting, that they have not 
 been acted; but there are others who naturally and 
 earnestly desire to participate in the fascinations of the 
 acted drama, whose wishes I should rejoice to see fulfilled. 
 Two obstacles, however, subsist, which, while they con- 
 tinue, must confine the opportunities of doing justice to 
 dramatic authors within narrow limits — the dearth of 
 competent actors to represent their works, and the mono- 
 poly which restricts the number of theatres entitled to 
 give them scope. Whether the removal of the last diffi- 
 culty would tend speedily to obviate the first, is matter of 
 conjecture ; but the experiment ought to be, and must 
 be tried. The claims of our dramatic literature to a 
 Free Stage are becoming every day more urgent with the 
 development of its rich resources ; and they cannot long 
 be so advanced and so supported in vain.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 It seems strange that the terrible incident, which deepens 
 the impression made on all tourists by the most awful 
 Pass of the Highlands, should not have been long ago 
 made the subject of poetry or romance. Although the 
 massacre which casts so deep a stain on the government 
 of King William the Third, may well have been regarded 
 as too shocking for dramatic effect, unless presented 
 merely in the remote back-ground of scenic action, it is 
 surely matter of surprise that it should not have been 
 selected as a subject for Scottish romance, by the great 
 Novelist who has held up its authors to just execration in 
 his " History of Scotland." A deed so atrocious, perpe- 
 trated towards the close of the seventeenth century, under 
 the sanction of a warrant, both superscribed and subscribed 
 by the king, is an instance of that projection of the savage 
 state into a period of growing civilisation which enables 
 the novelist to blend the familiar with the fearful — " new 
 manners" with " the pomp of elder days" — the fading 
 superstition of dim antiquity with the realities which 
 history verifies. To him, the treachery by which it was 
 preceded — the mixture of ferocity and craft by which it 
 was planned and executed — the fearful contrast between 
 the gay reciprocation of social kindness, and the deadly 
 purpose of the guests marking out their hosts for slaughter 
 — present opportunities for the most picturesque contrasts,
 
 168 PREFACE TO 
 
 the most vivid details, the most thrilling suggestions, 
 which are not within the province of the dramatist. The 
 catastrophe has also a far-reaching interest, as showing 
 the extermination of one of the most sturdy and austere, 
 although one of the smallest, of the Highland clans ; for, 
 being the most fearful of the series of measures by which 
 the little sovereignties of the Highland Chiefs were abo- 
 lished, it may well represent their general extinction, and 
 the transfer of the virtues and the violence they sheltered 
 from action to memory. It occurred in a scene, too, 
 which, for gloomy grandeur, is not only unequalled, but 
 unapproached — perhaps, unresembled — by any other Pass 
 in Britain ; and its solemn features, especially when con- 
 templated beneath hea^7■ clouds and amidst rolling mists, 
 harmonise ^^^th the story of the horrors which were WTOught 
 among them. Considering, therefore, the delight which 
 Sir Walter Scott felt in animating the noblest sceneiy of his 
 country with its most romantic traditions, it is difficult to 
 account for his abstinence from a theme which, if adopted 
 by him, would have been for ever sacred from the touch 
 of others.* 
 
 * Two passages only, as far as the Author is aware, in the poetry and 
 fiction of Sir Walter Scott, contain allusions to the massacre at Glencoe ; 
 but they show how intensely he felt the atrocities committed under the 
 apparent sanction at least of the government of King William. The 
 following stanzas are quoted by himself from his own poems, in a note 
 to his History : 
 
 <' The hand that mingled in the meal, 
 At midnight drew the felon steel. 
 And gave the host's kind breast to feel 
 
 Meed for his hospitality ! 
 The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand, 
 At midnight arm'd it with the brand 
 That bade destruction's flames expand 
 Their red and fearful blazonrj. 
 " Then woman's shriek was heard in vain ; 
 Nor infancy's unpitied pain, 
 More than the warrior's groan, could gain 
 Respite from ruthless butchery !
 
 GLENCOE. 169 
 
 In endeavouring to present, in a dramatic form, the 
 feelings which the scene and its history have engendered, 
 it has been found necessary to place in the foreground 
 domestic incidents and fictitious characters ; only to ex- 
 hibit the chief agents of the treachery, so far as essential 
 to the progress of the action ; and to allow the catastrophe 
 itself rather to be felt as affecting the fortunes of an 
 individual family, than exhibited in its extended horrors. 
 The subject presents strong temptations to mere melo- 
 dramatic efi"ect : it has been the wish of the Author to 
 resist these as much as possible ; but he can scarcely 
 hope with entire success. 
 
 In the outline of those incidents which are historical, 
 the Author has not ventured on any material deviation 
 from the story, as related in the Fifty-eighth Chapter of 
 Sir Walter Scott's " History of Scotland," where it will be 
 found developed with all the vividness of that master-spirit 
 of narrative.* The rash irresolution of Mac Ian, in 
 
 The winter wind that whistled shrill, 
 The snows that night that cloak'd the hill, 
 Though wild and pitiless, had still 
 
 Far more than Southron clemency." 
 
 The following passage occurs in the tale of the " Highland Widow," in 
 Elspat's remonstrance to her son on his enlistment : — "Go, put your 
 head under the belt of one of the race of Dermid, whose children mur- 
 dered — yes," she added with a wild shriek, " murdered your mother's 
 fathers in their peaceful dwellings in Glencoe ! Yes,'' she again exclaimed 
 with a wilder and shriller scream, " I was then unborn, but my mother 
 has told me ; and I attended to the voice of my mother ; — well I re- 
 member her words ! — They came in peace, and were received in friend- 
 ship ; and blood and fire arose, and screams and murder !" 
 
 " Mother," answered Hamish, mournfully, but with a decided tone, 
 " all that I have thought over— there is not a drop of the blood of 
 Glencoe on the noble hand of Barcaldine ; — with the unhappy house of 
 Glenlyon the curse remains, and on them God hath avenged it." 
 
 * By the obliging permission of Mr. Cadell, expressing the feelings of 
 Sir Walter Scott's family, I have enriched the Appendix to this volume 
 with the chief part of this stirring tale.
 
 170 PREFACE TO 
 
 defemng his submission till the last moment ; his journey 
 to Fort- William in the snow-storm ; his disappointment in 
 finding he had sought the wrong officer ; his turning thence, 
 and passing near his own house, to Inverary, where he 
 arrived after the appointed day ; the acceptance of his 
 oath by the sheriff of Argyle, and his return to enforce the 
 allegiance of his clan to King William ; the amval of 
 Glenlj/on and his soldiers in the glen ; their entertainment 
 for fifteen days hy the 3facdonaIds ; the cold hypocrisy 
 by which they veiled their purpose when urged to its 
 execution by Major Duncanson ; and the partial execution 
 of the murderous orders ; are all real features of " an ower 
 true tale." The only deviations of which the Author is 
 conscious are, the representing Alaster Macdonald, the 
 younger son of 3Iac Ian, as a lad, instead of the husband 
 of GUnly oil's niece ; and that niece as fostered by the 
 widow and son of a chief of the clan, once the rival of 
 Mac Ian; and in substituting, for the foul traits of 
 treachery which Sir Walter Scott imputes to Glenlyon, 
 the incident of his procuring a young officer in his own 
 regiment, but of the clan of the Macdonalds, to place 
 the soldiers in the tracks leading from the valley they 
 were commanded to surround. The character of Halberi 
 Macdonald, and the incidents of his story and conduct, 
 are entirely fictitious. 
 
 As the chief interest which the Author can hope that 
 any will find in perusing this drama, will consist in its 
 bringing to their minds the features of the stupendous glen 
 to which it refers, he may be permitted to state, that the 
 spot where the tower and chapel of Halbert are supposed 
 to be placed, is beneath the summit of the great mountain 
 Bedin ; towards which a huge gully leads, or seems to lead, 
 from the bed of the river, and where, enclosed amidst the
 
 GLEXCOE. 171 
 
 black rocks, in the darkness of which that gully is lost, far 
 above the glen mau be the site of such a rude dwelling. 
 The house of Mac Ian is supposed to be — where, no doubt, 
 it was — in the lower and wider part of the glen, where, by 
 the side of the Cona, the wild myrtle grows in great pro- 
 fusion, about two miles to the south-east of Loch Leven. 
 In other respects, as far as vivid impressions, not verified 
 for some time, enabled the Author, he has endeavoured 
 to recall to the recollection of those who have visited 
 Glencoe the subsisting features of its scener}" ; although he 
 cannot place implicit confidence in those impressions, 
 when he finds a writer like Pennant asserting of the glen, 
 that " its mountains rise on each side perpendicularly to a 
 great height from a flat narrow bottom ; so that, in manv 
 places, they seem to hang over, and make approaches as 
 they aspire towards each other." To his memory, Glencoe 
 seems not a narrow defile, as this description would im- 
 port, but a huge valley between mountains of rock, receding 
 from each other till a field of air of several miles' breadth 
 lies between their summits : of which, the last time he 
 saw it, three young eagles, rising from the coarse heather 
 at the head of the pass, near King's-house, took and kept 
 delighted possession.
 
 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 
 
 AS REPRESENTED AT THE HAYMARKET THEATRE. 
 
 Mac Ian, Chief of the Clan of the Macdonalds of ) ,, t,^ x . 
 Glencoe \ Mr. \Febster. 
 
 JoHv Macdonald, eldest Son of Mac Ian . . Mr. J. Webster. 
 
 Alaster Macdonald, youngest Son of Mac Iak — ) ir- p tt *„„ 
 a youth ....... | 
 
 IIalbert Macbonald, nephew of Mac Ian — Son ) 
 
 of a deceased Chief '^ Mr. Mucready. 
 
 Henry Macdonald, younger brother of Haxbert Mr. Howe. 
 Angus, t old Men of the Clan of the ^liw- J *Ir. Satiter. 
 Donald, J donalds of Glencoe . . .\ ji/^. Callot. 
 
 Capt. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, commonly -v 
 
 called Glenlyon, Captain of a detachment of J. Mr. Phelps. 
 the Earl of Argyle's Regiment . . .J 
 
 Lindsay, an Olficer imder Glenlyon's command Mr. IV. Lacy. 
 
 Drl-m.mond, a Serjeant in the Regiment . . Mr. Worrell. 
 
 Kenneth, an Old Servant of Mac Ian . . . Mr. Waldrun. 
 
 A Catholic Priest Mr. Gough. 
 
 Lady Macdonald, Mother of Halbert and Henry Mrs- Warner. 
 
 Helen Campbell, an Orphan protected by Lady ),. „, 
 
 lyiACDONALD, Niece to Glenlyon . . } ^^''' "'^"' ^''"''^- 
 
 Clansmen, Officers, Soldiers, &c. 
 
 Scene — Glencoe, and the neighbouring banks of Loch Leven. 
 
 Time— January, 1689. 
 
 The first Two Acts occupy one night and the follfming morning. 
 There is an interval of a fortnight between the action of the Second mul 
 Third Acts; — the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Acts comprise the acciou of 
 the three succeeding days.
 
 GLENCOE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The Hall in the House o/Mac Ian in Glencoe. 
 
 Midnight. — A turf fire burning. — Storm heard without. — John 
 
 Macdonald discovered sitting pensively at a table ; Alaster 
 
 pacing the room. 
 
 John. Let me entreat you, Alaster, to sleep ; 
 Three nights of feverish waking, at your age, 
 May spoil you for a watchman ; for your nerves, 
 Undisciplined by care, throb many hours, 
 "While those of elder and sedater spirits, 
 Ruled by the time, count one. Rest those slight limbs 
 On yonder couch of heather ; — I would pledge 
 My word to rouse you at the first faint tread 
 WhiQh may announce your father, but 'twere needless ; 
 In deepest slumber it will stir your heart, 
 And rouse you to his arms. 
 
 Alas. How can I sleep ? 
 
 How can you wish that I should sleep, when night 
 Succeeds to night, and still the unconquer'd wind. 
 Laden with snow and hailstones, dashes round us, 
 As if in scorn of Highlanders, content 
 To yield the fastnesses in which it held 
 Joint empire v>-ith our sires ; and still the fear 
 That it hath dealt its vengeance on the head
 
 176 GLENCOE ; OR, f.ici l. 
 
 We love increases, — with the time o'erpast 
 For sad and shameful travel ? 
 
 John. Alaster, 
 
 I must not hear you blend those words x^-ith aught 
 Our sire resolved. You did not guess the war 
 Of fierce emotions that, within his frame 
 Unshaken, raged, as time brought nigh the hour 
 When he must plight his faith to England's King, 
 Or to the power of unrelenting foes 
 Yield up his clansmen. While the sky was clear. 
 With wavering purpose he inclined to wait 
 His doom at home ; but when the snow-storm hurl'd 
 Its icy arrows through the hills, the woes 
 Of roofless desolation all would share 
 Shriek'd at his heart, and peril lent a show 
 Of honour to the journey, which had else 
 Seem'd shameful ; — so he girt him to the task 
 As to a doom'd man's office. If we lose 
 All else, we will presei-ve our household laws ; 
 Nor let the licence of these fickle times 
 Subvert the holy shelter which command 
 Of fathers, and undoubting faith of sons, 
 Rear'd for our shivering virtues. You o'erstep 
 The province of a Highland chieftain's son ; 
 You must not judge your father. 
 
 AJas. It is true, 
 
 And 1 submit me to your chiding : still 
 'Tis hard to own new tyranny ; to shrink 
 Before its threats ; to feel the Highland heart 
 Shrivel and die within its case, nor strike 
 One blow for ancient sovereignty and honour. 
 
 John. I gi'ant that it is hard ; but if the blow 
 Be without hope, 'tis nobler to forbear. 
 Nor buy a glorious moment \\\i\\ the blood 
 Of trusting clansmen. Would you know what virtue 
 Endurance may possess, when action fails, 
 Look at our cousin Halbert ! — To your eye, 
 Whose memory reaches not his fiery boyhood, 
 He seems distinguish'd only by that charm 
 Of courtesy which hearted kindness sheds 
 Through simplest manners, and an aspect grave
 
 scEXE I.] THE FATE OP THE MACDONALDS. 177 
 
 Which these huge rocks impress upon the port 
 
 Of him who loves them. You have often seen 
 
 Our father to his greeting make return 
 
 Of scoff or withering silence, which he beai's 
 
 In gentlest mood ; — yet once his soul was passion'd 
 
 With wilder rage than even your ardent youth 
 
 Can guess ; but I err now ; for I o'erstep 
 
 An old injunction not to tell his story, 
 
 Till manhood fitted you to hear it. 
 
 Aias. Manhood! 
 
 Jolin. I did not mean to ruffle you. Your years, 
 Though few, have been instructed by distress, 
 And I admit your title to the cares 
 And knowledge happier fortunes had defeiT'd. 
 Sit, then, and listen. Halbert's father once 
 With ours contested who might claim descent 
 From eldest line of ancestry, and right 
 To chieftainship and lands. Fierce conflicts held 
 The claim in doubt, till old Macdonald fell 
 Stricken for death ; — then, conscious that his sons, 
 Halbert, the eldest-born, about your age. 
 And Henry, a slight stripling, scarcely twelve, 
 Could ill sustain the quarrel, or protect 
 Their mother in her sorrow, sent the priest 
 Who shrived him, to entreat his rival's hand 
 In peace, — with offer to resign his claims : 
 So that the blacken'd tower in which he lay, 
 Its ruin'd chapel, the small niche of rock 
 In which they are embraced as in a chasm 
 Rent 'neath our loftiest peak by ancient stonn, 
 And some scant pastures on Loch Leven's side, 
 Were ratified as Halbert's. To this pact 
 I was a witness, and the scene lives now 
 Before me. — In a room where flickering light 
 Strove through the narrow openings of huge walls, 
 On a low couch, jMacdonald's massive form 
 Lay stretch'd ; — with folded arms our father stood 
 Awed by the weakness of the foe so late 
 His equal ; the expiring warrior raised 
 His head, and catching from the eager looks 
 Of the wan lady who had wiped the dew
 
 178 GLENCOE; OR, [act 
 
 Of anguish from his forehead, argument 
 To quell all scruple, solemnly rehearsed 
 The terms, and, as his dying prayer, implored 
 Halbert to keep them. 
 Alas. So he yielded 1 
 
 John. No ; 
 
 One flush of crimson from the hair which curl'd 
 Crisply around his brows, suffus'd his face 
 And throat outspread with rage ; — he slowly raised 
 His dirk ; and, though the agony which swell'd 
 His heaving breast prevented speech, we read 
 In his dilated nostril, eyes that flash'd 
 With fire that answer'd to the uplifted steel, 
 And lips wide-parted for the sounds which strove 
 In vain to reach their avenue, a vow 
 Of never-resting warfare ; — so he stood 
 Rigid as marble, of his mother's face 
 Turn'd on him from her knees — of the wild fear 
 Which struck his gamesome brother sad, — of all 
 Unconscious. While we waited for his words. 
 Another voice, from the deep shade that gloom'd 
 Beyond the death-bed, came ; — and midst it, stood 
 The squalid figure of a woman, wrought 
 Beyond the natural stature as she stretch'd 
 Her wither'd finger towards the youth, and spoke — 
 " Halbert, obey ! The hour ichich sees thee rule 
 O'er the Macdonalds of Glencoe shall bring 
 Terror and death." — Then glided from the room. 
 He did not stai-t, but as his ears drank in 
 The sounds, his colour vanish'd from his face ; 
 The light forsook his eyes ; his nerveless hand 
 Released the dirk ; he sank on trembling knees, 
 Beside the couch, and with a child's soft voice 
 Said, " I obey" — and bow'd his head to take 
 His father's blessing, who fell back and died 
 When he had murmur'd it. The youth arose 
 Sedate, and, turning to his mother, said, 
 " I live for you." Since then he has remain'd 
 What you have known him. 
 
 Alas. What was she who wrought 
 
 This awful change ?
 
 scEXB I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDOXALDS. 
 
 John. Have you not heard of Moina \ 
 
 Although she has not since that day been seen 
 Within our vale, her awful figure glared 
 On the remotest infancy of men 
 Who now are reckon'd old. Her age alone 
 Would make the obscurest thread of human life 
 Drawn out, though many births and deaths of Hope, 
 A thing to tremble at ; — 'tis said she gazed 
 On that best piece of heavenly workmanship — 
 Our Mar)''s beauty, when the shrivell'd Queen 
 Of England foully shattered it ; some crime 
 Or mighty sorrow now forgotten drew 
 Her steps into deep solitude. Presei'ved 
 By her majestic bearing from the grasp 
 Of law, she o^^^ls the power to pierce the veil 
 Of mortal vision ; — the sole tie she knows 
 To this world is a kindred with our race. 
 From which she sprung ; — yet only giant griefs 
 Borne or foreshadowed have the power to stir 
 Her dull affections, or to invite her steps 
 From the rude hovel where she dwells alone 
 Far on the mountain plain, \Wthin the round 
 Of stones which point Death's ancient %'ictories 
 O'er nameless heroes. Whether earnest though: 
 And long communion with the hills whose moan 
 Foretells the tempest, taught her first to break 
 The bondage of the Present, or worse aid 
 Hath given her might, I cannot tell ; pray Heaven 
 That you may never cross her ! 
 
 Alas. Her strange words 
 
 Fell lightly on the younger son, whose acts 
 Of boyish prowess \\TOught in frolic mood 
 I once admired ; — has anything been heard 
 Of that gay scapegrace % 
 
 John. No ; — he could not brook 
 
 The dulness of his home, though not uncheer'd 
 By female grace ; for there the lovely child 
 Of brave Hugh Campbell, whom ]Macdonald loved, 
 Spite of the hatred that he bore his clan, 
 Has, from the opening of her youth's first blossom 
 Found shelter ; — and no fairer Scotland boasts 
 N 2
 
 180 GLENCOE ; OR, [act i. 
 
 Than Helen Campbell. If young Henry lives, 
 Be sure you '11 find him on the sunny side 
 Of Fortune's favour. — Hark ! The "Cona's roar ! 
 It bursts the icy chains which long have held it, 
 And riots in its freedom. 
 
 Alas. 'Twill destroy 
 
 The slender bridge below us. Should our Father 
 Approach that way ! — I will not linger thus. 
 
 John. He bade me wait him here. Ho ! Kenneth ! 
 (calling.) Run ! 
 
 Enter Kenneth. 
 Swift to the bridge, it may be yours to save 
 Your chief. [Exit Kenneth. 
 
 His journey will not lie that way, 
 Yet horrors thicken round us. 'Mid the roar 
 Methinks I hear a step — it comes — alas ! 
 'Tis not Mac lan's. 
 
 Enter H albert Macdonald. 
 H albert, I have scarce 
 The power to bid you welcome as I ought ; 
 We are sad watchers for our sire's return, 
 And almost blame the footsteps of a friend 
 Which might be his. 
 
 Hal. I came to ask of him ; — 
 
 For ha'S'ing cross'd him on Loch Leven's shore 
 Three nights ago, scarce two miles hence, I heard 
 With wonder the report which found its way 
 To our lone dwelling but to-night, that still 
 He was abroad. 
 
 A las. Are you assured 'twas he 1 
 
 Did he address you 1 
 
 Hal. Alaster, you know 
 
 How rarely he will grace me with a word ; 
 But this is not a season for a thought. 
 Save of his peril. I had made my way, 
 Breasting the hurricane, in hope to lead 
 Our herd to shelter ere the night should add 
 Dark terrors to the storm : in blackening mist 
 I saw a mantle flicker ; then the hairs
 
 :^^E^•E I.: THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 Of a white head, which stream'd along the wave 
 
 Of flying vapour ; swift I ran to aid 
 
 Some aged wanderer's steps, and cried aloud. 
 
 He fled before me, till my fleeter limbs 
 
 O'ertook him ; then he faced me ; — 'twas your father! 
 
 A look, in which strong anguish baffled scorn, 
 
 He fix'd upon me ; waved his arm aloft, 
 
 In action that forbade pursuit, and took 
 
 The pathway to Loch Etive. I believed 
 
 He only wish'd to shun me, and that done, 
 
 He would turn homeward. 
 
 Alas. If indeed 'twas he, 
 
 And not a dreadful shadow of his mould : 
 He fears to meet the faces of his friends 
 After his oath to William. 
 
 Hal. V he lives, 
 
 That oath is past ; and being past, dear cousin. 
 Let it not prompt a word which may add pangs 
 To a brave spirit's shame. At earliest dawn 
 I '11 search each cavern'd nook within our glen. 
 Nor leave a crevice which the smallest rill 
 Has hollow'd, unexplored. I know them well : 
 So haply I may find the reverend chief 
 Crouch'd in some narrow cave, — his stately head 
 In resignation bow'd upon his staff", 
 And waiting, without struggle, the last chill 
 Of slowly freezing death ; — may lead him home, 
 And win one cordial pressure of his hand. 
 To speak he owns me true. 
 
 Joh?i. A footstep ! — hush ! 
 
 Enter Angus. 
 
 John. Angus at such an hour ! 
 
 Angus. A fearful summons 
 
 From a shrill voice, between the tempest's gusts, 
 Call'd me to meet my chief. 
 
 John. Would he were here ! 
 
 He comes even now {listening]. No. 
 
 Enter Donald. 
 John. This is terrible !
 
 182 GLENCOE ; OR, [act i. 
 
 Donald. Is not Mac Ian here ? I came to meet him ; 
 Roused from my bed by such a piercing cry 
 As rarely syllables a human name ! 
 
 John. You hear ! 
 
 Other old Clansmen enter. 
 John. I ask not why you come : I know- 
 
 Some mortal tidings linger on the storm, 
 And ye are here to share them. Let them come : 
 "We can but die ! 
 
 Hal. Heaven fit us to endure ! 
 
 John. Another step ; I know it well ! — 'tis his ! 
 Pray you withdraw awhile ; but go not hence. 
 
 [Halbert and the Clansmen retire to the end of the Room. 
 
 Enter Mac Ian. 
 
 Mac I. Still watching 1 — you too, Alaster ? \Miat care 
 My absence must have brought you ' My dear sons, 
 Do not despise your father, who returns 
 The subject of King William. 
 
 Johi. All you do 
 
 ]Must have our reverence. Let me bring you wine. 
 
 Mac I. No ; it would choke me, I must drain no more 
 The goblet to assuage the patriot glow 
 Of love and pride ; I may not drink to Him 
 Whose ancestry my own revered ; and wine 
 Were poison to me now. 
 
 Alas. Is all then past 1 
 
 Mac I. It is ; and sad as was the task, the way 
 Was worthy of its end. When through deep snow 
 I reach'd Fort-William, nerved to take the oath 
 Before the General, — I was told his office 
 Did not allow him to record it : thence 
 I was compell'd to struggle through the storm 
 To Inverary, where the Sheriff deign'd. 
 Although beyond the appointed time, to seal 
 The degradation of our race. I pass'd 
 Within two miles of this beloved home, 
 And dared not turn to it. 
 
 Hal. \fpeakhhj to Angus behind]. 'Twas there I met him. 
 
 Mac I. Who spoke ? Is he who track"d me in the storm
 
 scE.vE I.: THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 1S3 
 
 Come as a spy, upon my sad return, 
 
 To gaze upon my sorrow 1 Let him face me ! 
 
 Hal. [c-oming forvcard']. I came not to offend you. 
 
 John. No ; — he came 
 
 In terror for your safety. 
 
 Mac I. ' Said he so ? 
 
 Nay, Halbert, look yourself ; scant powers are left 
 To grace the seat you wait for, yet my son 
 Shall fill it after me. Declare your \^*ish 
 To rend it from us ; — 'twere a nobler course 
 Than that you follow% 
 
 Hal. Sir, you do me wrong ; 
 
 I boast no virtue when I claim content 
 With that which you have left me ; — would not change 
 My naked turret, in its mountain hold, 
 Reach "d by the path along whose rugged steeps 
 Discord and en\y climb not, for the fields 
 Rich Inverary in its scornful groves 
 Embosoms ; and to me the mouldering walls 
 Of its small chapel wear the glory yet 
 Of consecration which they took from prayers 
 Of the first teachers, though a thousand storms 
 Have di-ench'd and shaken them. Forgive me, sir : 
 I have a patrimony which forbids 
 Envy of yours. 
 
 Mac I. You hear — he taunts me now ; — 
 
 Do you believe that show of meekness cheats 
 A soldier's eye ? — that we esteem your thoughts 
 Subdued to habits of a herdsman's life, 
 And all the passion and the pride of youth 
 In these o'ercome ? 
 
 Hal. I strive to conquer them, 
 
 And not in vain. You think that strange. If day 
 Illumed the glen, I 'd show you, from your door, 
 A shapeless rock, which, thence observed, presents 
 No mark to give it preference o'er the mass 
 Of mountain ruin ; — yet from upward gaze 
 Of the slow traveller, as he drags his steps 
 Through yon dark pass, it shuts the mighty gorge 
 Above with all its buttresses ; its lake. 
 Black \N-ith huge shadows ; and its jagged heights,
 
 184 GLENCOE ; OR, [act i. 
 
 Which tempt the arrowy lightning from its track 
 To sport with kindred terrors. So, by grace 
 Of Heaven, each common object we regard 
 With steadiness, can veil the dark abodes 
 Of terrible Remembrance at whose side 
 Fierce Passions slumber, and supply to Hope 
 The place of airiest pinnacles it shades. 
 Thus, sir, it is with me. 
 
 John. Believe it, father ; 
 
 Indeed 'tis true. 
 
 Mac I. Perhaps I do you wrong ; 
 
 We '11 speak of this to-morrow, when I meet 
 The eldest clansmen, and with shame, enforce 
 Their new allegiance. 
 
 John. They await you now. 
 
 Mac I. Here ? — I must face them ; — tell them to 
 approach. 
 [Mac Ian takes Jils seat;— John beckons the old Clansmen, 
 who surround it. 
 
 Mac I. I have cold welcome for you, friends ; you come 
 To share the wreck of the Macdonalds. I, 
 The most unhappy of the race, have been 
 To make the final sacrifice. I felt 
 Resistance, with our deaths, would glut the hate 
 Of Scottish minions bribed by England's gold ; 
 
 And I have sworn relate it for me, John, 
 
 I cannot tell it ! 
 
 John. To secure your lives 
 
 My father perill'd his ; — and yesternight, 
 At Inverar}^, pledged our faith to William. 
 
 Enter Kenneth vMdly. 
 
 Ken. Too late ! too late ! 
 
 Hal. What mean those awful words ? 
 
 Is all his anguish vain 1 
 
 Ken. [seeing Mac Ian]. No, he is safe ! 
 Why start ye 1 — though the bridge is swept away, 
 Our chief 's unharm'd. 
 
 Hal. And thus you welcome him, 
 
 With words which freeze the soul ! You meant no ill j 
 Yet death is in your words.
 
 SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 185 
 
 Ken. [kneeUtig to Mac Ian.] Forgive me. 
 Mac I. Rise ; 
 
 I'm arm'd for any ill, unless it fall 
 On these, my life's last comforts. 
 
 [Looking on John and Alaster. 
 Ha!. Sir, farewell ! 
 
 ^^'hen peril comes — as come it will — regard 
 The meanest clansman's life less cheap than his 
 Whose loyalty you %^Tong. [Ej:it H albert. 
 
 3Iac I. \i.o't}'ie Clansmen.] Good night, my fi'iends. 
 
 [Edeunt Kenneth and Clansmen. 
 Come near me, children ; — I can scarcely bear 
 To look into your faces. You forgive me ? 
 tTo/ui. Forgive ! We honour and revere you. Bless us ! 
 [John and Alaster kneel, one on each side of Mac Ian's 
 chair. He lays hh hands on their heads. 
 Mac I. There ; — we are knotted now to live or die. 
 
 {The Drop Scene falls. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — The Hall of Halbert's Tower. Time — Daybreak. 
 
 Enter Lady jVIacdonald with a Letter, followed by Drummond, 
 in the uniform of the Earl of ArgyWs Regiment. 
 
 Lady M. Thanks for your pains. Let me devour again 
 The precious characters. (Beads.) " I come, dear mother, 
 Raised to high favour and command, to take 
 My quarters in your vale." The morn's faint light 
 Had scarce enabled eyes less glad than mine 
 To read ; — they are dazzled now. [To the Soldier.] Pray 
 
 you go in : 
 We have poor entertainment to bestow, 
 But our best cheer is yours. 
 
 Drum. I must return 
 
 Upon the instant ; shall I bear your answer 1 
 
 Lady M. There is no need ; he speeds ; his eager wish, 
 If I may judge it by my own, will add 
 Wings to his swiftness. Yet a moment stay ;
 
 1B6 GLENCOE ; OR, [act ir. 
 
 Know you the writer of these lines, my son, — 
 Is he of gallant port ? 
 
 Sol. Our regiment's pride, 
 
 And first in favour of Glenlyon. 
 
 Ladi/ M. Take 
 
 A happy mother's thanks. {Exit Soldier. 
 
 I shall behold 
 A hero whom I parted from a child ; 
 Trace in his lineaments the hints which gave 
 Sweet promise of his manhood ; shall enjoy 
 In one rich hour the pleasures which are spread 
 Through years to her who watches the degrees 
 Of youth's expanding brightness. Where is Halbert % 
 Where Helen % She will laugh with wildest glee 
 To find her little playmate a plumed soldier, 
 And shai'e his mirith. No gaiety like his 
 Has cheer'd her since he left us. She is here. 
 
 Enter Helen Campbell. 
 
 Helen. So early raised to meet the morning's chill ? 
 
 Lady M. I feel no chill ; the ecstacy within me 
 Clothes all without with summer ; you shall share 
 In joy which seldom visits these old walls. 
 
 Helen. O say not so ; — there's not a day but bears 
 Its blessing on its light. If Nature doles 
 Her gifts with sparing hand, their rareness sheds 
 Endearments her most bounteous mood withholds 
 From greenest valleys. The pure rill which casts 
 Its thread of snow-like lustre o'er the rock. 
 Which seems to pierce the azure sky, connects 
 The thoughts of earth with heaven, while mightier floods 
 Roar of dark passions. The rare sunbeam \\m% 
 For a most slight existence human care. 
 While it invests some marble heap wdth gleams 
 Of palaced visions. If the tufts of broom 
 Whence Fancy weaves a chain of gold, appear, 
 On nearer visitation, thinly strewn. 
 Each looks a separate bower, and offers shade 
 To its own group of fairies. The prized harebell 
 Wastes not its dawning azure on a bank 
 Rough and confused with loveliness, but wears
 
 SCKNE I.] TUE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 187 
 
 The modest story of its gentle life 
 On leaves that love has tended ; nay, the heath, 
 Which, slowly from a stinted root, unfolds 
 Pale lilac blossoms, — image of a maid 
 Rear'd in a solitude like this, — is bless'd, 
 Instead of sharing with a million flowers 
 One radiant flush, — in offering its faint bloom 
 To loving eyes. Say not again, dear lady, 
 That joy but seldom \dsits these old walls. 
 
 Lad}/ M. Not while they shelter you, my lovely cliild ; 
 But new joy waits us ; you have not forgotten 
 Our careless Henry ? 
 
 Helen. No ! — forgotten Henr}' ! 
 
 But he has long forgotten us ; no message 
 Has told us of his welfare, since he found us 
 Too sad for his companions. 
 
 Lady M. Pardon in him, 
 
 As I do, young ambition's upward gaze. 
 Which, fix'd upon the future, cannot turn 
 To glance upon the distant and the past. 
 
 Helen. Is it indeed so, madam ? 
 
 Lady M. You are grave now — 
 
 You who are joyous in our weariest days 
 Be glad ; for Henry will this day return 
 To charm us with his meiTiment. 
 
 Helen. To-day ? 
 
 Henrj return to-day ! Speak once again 
 That blessed news. 
 
 Lady M. He comes to-day, upraised 
 
 In Arg^^le's regiment to command, and graced 
 With favour of Glenlyon. 
 
 Helen. Of my uncle ? 
 
 I think of him unseen, as a stern soldier 
 Who, li-sdng to obey and to command, 
 Allows no impulses but these which guide 
 Along the rocky, strait, untinted channel, 
 That discipline has hewn. If Henry wins 
 Favour from him, he'll win the hearts of all. 
 Comes he alone % 
 
 Lady M. His troop is quarter'd ^^•ith us, 
 
 To taste in peace our simple Highland fare,
 
 188 GLENCOE ; OR.- [act ii. 
 
 And feel our Highland welcome. But I long 
 For Halbert's presence ; though he does not love 
 The clansmen of Argyle, he must rejoice 
 In Henry's fortune. 
 
 Helen. He has not return 'd 
 
 Since, yestere'en, he left us to inquire 
 The issue of Mac lan's journey. 
 
 Ladj/ M. You 
 
 Alarm me ; — not retum'd ? 
 
 Helen. Fear not for Halbert ; 
 
 You know he loves to wander at all hours, 
 And, ever present to himself, will rule 
 His course in safety. Is that he 1 The step 
 Is hurried ; yet it should be his. 
 
 Enter Halbert, greatly agitated; — ilirov:s himself into a seat. 
 
 Lady M. My son, 
 
 What ails you % Speak ! 
 
 Hal. I will — soon — presently ; 
 
 Ha ! ^Mother ! Helen ! safe ; — thank Heaven ! Has 
 To-night appall'd you % [nothing 
 
 Lady M. Nothing. 
 
 Hal. That is strange. 
 
 Lady M. What has befallen us ? Is Mac Ian dead ? 
 
 Hal. No ; he sur\'ives ; he has only lost the thing 
 "Which makes life precious ! — Ruin yawns for all — 
 Poor fated clansmen ! I have heard again 
 Old Moina's voice. 
 
 Lady M. Her voice who spake when death — 
 
 Hal. (laying his hand on her arm). Mother ! 
 
 Lady M. He shivers as with ague. Speak, my son ! 
 
 Hal. Yes — it is over now. — I '11 tell you all, 
 As far as words can tell it. As I left 
 Mac lan's door, and walk'd in mist, which clung 
 Around me like a shroud, that voice shriek'd forth 
 Close at mine ear, " The Hour is nigh !" — Each cliiF, 
 Pillar, and cavern, echo'd back the words. 
 Till they appear'd to fill the glen with sound, 
 As floods from thousand streams might deluge it. 
 'Twas no delusion ; surely as you hear 
 My voice, I heard them. 
 
 Lady M. You have mused; my son.
 
 scE.VK I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 189 
 
 In dismal solitudes on our old tales 
 Till each wild pass is haunted, and the wind, 
 Struggling within a mountain gully, moans 
 Or shrieks with prophecy. 
 
 Hal. No ! — It transfix'd me 
 
 As with an arrow, — when it sunk, still night 
 Held its breath, waiting terrors ! 'Neath the moon 
 Our three huge mountain bulwarks stood in light. 
 Strange, solemn, spectral ; — not as if they tower'd 
 Majestic into heaven, but hoar and bow'd 
 Beneath the w^eight of centuries ; and each 
 Sent forth a sound as of a giant's sigh : 
 Then, from their feet the mists arising, grew 
 To shapes resembling human, till I trac'd, 
 Dimly reveal'd among the ghastly train, 
 Familiar forms of living clansmen, dress'd 
 In vestments of the tomb ; — they glided on, 
 While strains of martial music from afar 
 ^lock'd their sad flight. — 
 \_A distant band heard inlaying " The Campbells are coming.''^ 
 
 I hear that music now, — 
 The same — the same — Do you not hear it, Helen % 
 Mother ? 
 
 Helen. I hear a lively strain which speaks 
 Approaching soldiers, who '11 make winter bright 
 And fill our vale with gladness. 
 
 Hal. There is death 
 
 In those blithe sounds ; — I know them now ; — the tune 
 Which wakes the shallow heart of false Argyle, 
 Hollow and cruel ever, 
 
 Helen. Surely there 's one 
 
 Who owns that clan, you would not spurn ! 
 
 Hal. _ Sweet girl ! 
 
 Your beauty, early sever'd from its stem, 
 And planted in an honest soil, retains 
 No vestige of its origin. [The music is heard approaching. 
 
 Yet nearer ! 
 Look not on me with those beseeching eyes ; [To Helen. 
 I will enjoy it ; His a gallant strain : 
 See, Helen, how you mould me ; — I can smile now.
 
 ino GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 
 
 Helen. And you shall smile ; while you have been 
 enthrall'd 
 By dismal fancies, we have heard sweet news 
 Of our long-sigh 'd-f or Henry. 
 
 Hal. Of my brother ? 
 
 Shall we embrace him soon '\ 
 
 Helen. We hope to-day. 
 
 Hal. Then I will cast all sadness from my thoughts, 
 And own these portents idle ; — my fair brother, 
 Who in staid manhood made me feel a child. 
 While I instructed him \\-ith tiny arm 
 To brave the torrent to its whirling pool 
 O'er rocky ledge descending ! I am a boy 
 Again in thinking of it. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald m the dress of an officer of the Earl 
 of Arcfyle^s regiment ; Halbert starts and stands apart ; 
 Lady Macdonald eagerly embraces Henry. 
 
 Ladj/ M. 0, most welcome ! 
 
 Hal. [ajiicTrt.] A soldier of Argyle ! a purchased slave 
 To his poor countiy's foes ! Would he had lain. 
 In all the glory of his youth, a corpse, 
 Or I had died first ! 
 
 Helen (laying her hand imploringly on H Albert's). 
 Halbert, speak to him. 
 
 Hal. Yes ; — I'll not dash that bonnet from his brow ; 
 Right, right — I'll speak to him. ]\Iy brother ! 
 
 [Henry embraces Halbert, icho receives him coldly^ 
 Hen. Stiff 
 
 And melancholy grown ! These nigged walls 
 
 Have shed their sullen gloom into your nature, 
 
 And made my welcome cold. 
 
 Hal. These walls are sacred — 
 
 Fit home for honest poverty ; 'twere well 
 
 If you had never left them. 
 
 Hen. [approaching Helen.] They contain 
 
 One form of radiant loveliness ; — is this 
 
 My some-time playmate Helen ? You are silent ; 
 
 You do not bid me welcome.
 
 scEXE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 191 
 
 Helen. Welcome, Henry 1 
 
 It is because my heart 's too full of welcome 
 To breathe its joy in words. 
 
 Hal. [apai-f]. So fond ! so fee ! 
 
 This stripling will engage the care of all 
 Within my little world ; — for shame ! the thought 
 Is selfish and most base ; I must suppress it. — [Aloud. 
 You '11 spend some time, I hope, in these poor walls, 
 And teach us to be gay ? 
 
 Henry. Our regiment mean 
 
 To teach your clan the finest of all lessons — 
 The art of spending life. We hope to raise 
 Strange echoes of delight among your mountains. 
 Let your old men prepare their choicest tales 
 Of ancient chiefs ; your lads their sinews brace 
 For noontide games and midnight dances ; bid 
 Your maidens' hearts be stout, for we shall lay 
 Fair siege to some of them. Your mansion, brother, 
 Will not be colder, if you '11 deign to share 
 A soldier's purse. 
 
 [Henry offers a purse to Halbert, who is about to dash 
 it on the ground, but restrains his passion ; pauses and 
 returns it. They speak apart from Lady Macdonald 
 and Helen. 
 
 Hal. Remove it from my sight. 
 
 Lest it provoke my curse upon the gold, 
 Which, having tempted Scotland's peers to sell 
 Their country, pass'd through treacherous hands to yours. 
 
 Henri/. Through treacherous hands ! I will not hear 
 that said : 
 Expend your spleen on me ; but speak a word 
 Disgraceful to the ofiicers I serve, 
 And though my brother, you shall answer it. 
 
 Hal. You make me smile now. I will answer it. 
 I must have speedy speech with you, where none 
 Shall break upon us. 
 
 Henri/. At my earliest leisure. 
 
 [ To Lady ^L\cdonald. 
 Mother, my duty calls me hence awhile,
 
 192 GLENCOE; OR, [act ri. 
 
 To hear my captain's orders, Helen, soon 
 I shall reclaim old friendship. 
 
 lApart to Halbert.] In an hour, 
 Upon Loch Leven's margin, 'neath the shade 
 Of the first rock, expect me. 
 
 Hal. Do not fail. [Exit Henry, 
 
 Lady M. Come, Helen, let us see the tower prepared 
 To feast our noble soldier and his friends. 
 Is he not all a mother's hope could image '? 
 
 Helen. He is indeed ; — at first he scarcely knew me ; 
 Changed as he is, I had not mistaken him 
 Among a host of heroes ! 
 
 \_Exeimt Helen and Lady Macdonald. 
 
 Hal. [alonel. Down, wild rage ! 
 
 These rebel passions ought to fright me more 
 Than night's grim phantoms, I had deem'd my temper 
 Proof 'gainst all griefs, all injuries, all scorns ; 
 But this — my brother self-sold to our foes ! — 
 I must be conqueror still. 
 
 [Looks out.'] 
 
 0, blessed star 
 Of morning, do you wait upon that cone 
 Whose whiteness mocks our marble, to renew 
 The calm thy fields of azure can impart 
 To thoughts of earth's brief struggles ? Linger yet ! 
 It sinks ; 'tis gone ; its peace is in my soul. 
 
 [Exit Halbert. 
 
 Scene II. — A JRoom in a Highland House. 
 
 Sentinels seen pacing before the Windoics. — Glenylon, Lind- 
 say, and other Officers of ArgyUs Regiment. 
 
 Glen. These are rough quarters for the \\'inter, friends ; 
 But let us make them jocund — find the huts 
 Which yield the warmest shelter from the snow, 
 And let our stores of wine and brandy pay 
 The courtesies we win. 'Tis easy service. 
 
 Lind. Is nothing more intended here than feasting ? 
 
 Glen. Lindsay, I fain would hope not ; we shall wait 
 For final orders. Now, our duty 's plain —
 
 scEVE n.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 103 
 
 To win the favour of our hosts ; — if more 
 Should be commanded, 'twill be ours to do it. 
 
 Enter Henry jMacdonald. 
 
 Glen. You know this glen, Macdonald : to your charge 
 I leave disposal of the soldiers ; place them 
 Where frankest entertainment will be given. 
 
 Henry. The entertainment may be coarse, but given 
 With heartiest welcome. I shall gi'ant a boon 
 To eveiy clansman in whose hut I place 
 One of my gallant comrades. 
 
 Glen. See all lodged, 
 
 And then report to me. This hut be mine. 
 
 Henry. May I retire ? I must redeem a pledge 
 ^^'ithin this hour. 
 
 Glen. An old acquaintance found ? 
 
 You have my leave, sir. \E.Tit Henuy. 
 
 Some one knocks ; attend ; 
 Who waits ? 
 
 Enter Drummdnd. 
 Drum. Mac lan's sons are at the door, 
 And ask to see you. 
 
 Glen. Ha ! — of course admit them. 
 
 \Ex\t Drummond. 
 The children of the stubborn chief who dared 
 Accuse our loftiest nobles that they filch'd 
 The money sent to buy the peace of Scotland I 
 I 'd thank him for a brawl. Your pleasure with me ? 
 
 Enter John and Alaster. 
 
 John. We bear Mac lan's greeting to Glenlyon ; 
 He trusts you come in friendship, now his oath 
 To William is recorded. 
 
 Glen. How ! recorded ? 
 
 Alas. Yes ; by the Sheriff of Argyle. We tell 
 The fact, not boast it. 
 
 Glen. You speak boldly, sir ; 
 
 A spirited young Highlander, i'faith : 
 Let me enlist you in our troop ; we teach 
 Some manners that you lack. 
 

 
 194 GLENCOE; OR [act ii. 
 
 Alas. And let me lack them, 
 
 Ere I endure your teaching. 
 
 Jo/in. Alaster ! 
 
 Forbear. 
 
 Glen. O, let him speak. The oath is taken ? 
 
 John. It is : though the appointed day had pass'd, 
 Yet, as mere error and the storm produced 
 The slight delay, it was forgiven. 
 
 Glen. Well ! 
 
 Your father acted prudently at last : 
 Within you '11 taste some wine, and tell me how 
 His journey prosper'd. 
 
 John. Sir, you have not made 
 
 Reply to my sole question ; — do you come 
 To visit us in friendship 1 
 
 Glen. Friendship ? Surely — 
 
 Fort- William's garrison, too small to hold 
 Our regiment, sends us beggars to request 
 Your hospitable greetings. 
 
 John. They are yours. 
 
 And all our glen can offer shall attend them. 
 
 Glen. Your hand. [ To Alaster] And yours ; — you '11 
 be a soldier yet. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — The Banks of Loch Leren. 
 Enter Henry. 
 Hemy. First at the place ! — the morning 's chill ; — 
 I wish 
 The quarrel were with other than the man 
 I wait for ; but of all the useless thii-.gs 
 Which form the business of the world, regret 
 Is the most idle. Yet, I wish 'twere past. — 
 He 's here. 
 
 Enter H albert. 
 Henry. I have but little time to spend, 
 
 And the air freezes. Let 's to work at once. 
 Select your ground, sir. 
 
 Hal. Do you mock me, Henry, 
 
 With this vain show of courage ?
 
 SCENE Hi.] THE FATE OF THE MACD0NALD3. 
 
 Henry. I came hither 
 
 Upon your summons, as I thought, to end 
 A soldier's quarrel with a soldier's sword ; 
 But if you can restrain the bitter speech 
 To which I must not listen, I prefer 
 To take your hand in kindness — As you will. 
 
 Hal. Did I not feel that 1 have power to pierce 
 Through that cold bravery to the heart within it, 
 I might relieve you of some frolic blood 
 Which makes the front of your rebellion proud. 
 
 Henry. Rebellion ! 
 
 Hal, Have you not rebell'd at once 
 
 Against your clan, your countrj^, and the tomb 
 Of a brave father who embraced in you 
 The darling of his age ? Behold his sword 
 You now defy, — your plaything while he talk'd 
 Of noble daring, till you paused in sport 
 To hear and weep. Its sight should wound you now 
 More than its edge could. What would be his grief 
 Could he behold you in that hated dress, 
 Link'd to the foes of Scotland ! 0, mv brother, 
 Why did you this % 
 
 Henry. If you intend to ask 
 
 What urged me to take service with Arg}-le, 
 I answer you at once. — My eagle spirit, 
 Which wanted air to soar in ; frank disdain 
 Of dull existence, which had faintly gleam'd, 
 Like yonder Serpent-river, through dark rocks 
 "VN^hich bury it ; ambition for 3. lot 
 Which places life and death uj^on a cast, 
 And makes the loser glorious. Not for me 
 The sullen pride of mouldering battlements, 
 Or rites of tottering chapel. 
 
 Hal. Is it so % 
 
 Is ancient sanctity, which sheds its grace 
 Upon the infant's sportiveness, and cleaves 
 To the old warrior when he falls, a thing 
 To mock at ? But I wrong you there : I know 
 Your heart then spoke not. 1 could cherish pride 
 In your gay valour, if a generous cause 
 Had won its aid ; — nay, deeming Scotland lost, 
 o 2
 
 196 GLENCOE; OR [act ii 
 
 If you had sought your fortune at the court 
 
 Of' England, I had borne it ; — but to join 
 
 With these domestic traitors — men who know 
 
 The rights they sell ; who understand the ties 
 
 Which, through the wastes of centuries, cement 
 
 Our clans, and give the sacred cord one life 
 
 Of reverential love ; for whom these hills 
 
 On the clear mirror of their childhood cast 
 
 Great shadows ; who have caught their martial rage 
 
 From deeds of Wallace and of Bruce, and learn 'd 
 
 To temper and enrage it with the sense 
 
 Of suffering beauty, which from Mary's fate 
 
 Gleams through dim years ; and who conspire to crush 
 
 These memories in men's souls, and call the void 
 
 They make there, freedom — is a deed to weep for ! 
 
 Henry. I may not hear the comrades whom I love 
 Thus slander'd. 
 
 Hal. You shall hear me while I speak 
 
 Of that which nearly touches you, as one 
 Of a small — branded — poor — illustrious race ; 
 Who boast no fertile pastures ; no broad lake 
 Studded with island woods, which make the soul 
 Effeminate with richness, like the scenes 
 In which the baffled Campbells hid their shame. 
 And scorned their distant foes. Our boasts are few, 
 Yet great : — a stream which thunders from its throne, 
 As when its roar was mingled with the voice 
 Of eldest song, from age to age retain'd 
 In human hearts ; — wild myrtles which preserve 
 Their hoard of perfume for the dying hour 
 When rudeness crushes them ; — rocks which no flowers 
 Of earth adorn, but, in themselves austere, 
 Receive The Beautiful direct from Heaven, 
 Which forces them to wear it, — shows their tops 
 Refined with air ; compels their darkest steeps 
 Reluctant to reflect the noontide sun 
 In sheeted splendour — wreathes around them clouds 
 In glorious retinue, which, while they float 
 Slowly, or rest beneath the sable heights. 
 In their brief fleecy loveliness grow proud 
 To wait upon The Lasting. — And the right
 
 scRVE ni.] THE FATE OF THE MACDOXALDS. ;;»7 
 
 To walk this glen with head erect, you sold 
 For bounties which Argyle could offer ! 
 
 Henry. No — 
 
 Not for base lucre ! — for a soldier's life, 
 Whose virtue 's careless valour, unperplex'd 
 With aught beyond the watchword. If your cause 
 "Were "iital, I would freely draw my sword 
 To serve it ; but where lives it ? 
 
 Hal. In the soul 
 
 Which, ruffled hy no hope to see it tower 
 Again in this world, cherishes it still 
 In its own deathless and unsullied home ; — 
 That soul which, swelling from the mould of one 
 Obscure as I, can grasp the stubborn forms 
 Of this great vale, and bend them to its use, 
 Until their stateliest attributes invest 
 \\'ith pillar'd majesty the freeborn thoughts 
 Which shall survive them. Even these rocks confess 
 Change and decay ; show where the ancient storm 
 Rent their grey sides, and, from their iron hearts, 
 Unriveted huge masses for its sport. 
 And left their splinters to attest a power 
 Greater than they ; — but mighty truths like those 
 On which our slighted cause was based, shall hold 
 Their seat in the clear spirit which disdains 
 To sully or resign them, undisturb'd 
 By change or death : — they are eternal, Henry ! 
 
 Henry. If we were now the lords of this domain 
 You love so well, I might have own'd a tie 
 To bind me to your wishes ; you resign'd them ; 
 What can these mountains yield to one who owns 
 Mac Ian as their lord ? 
 
 Hal. The power to bear 
 
 That bitter taunt— which yet I feel !— Henry ! 
 Was that well said % 
 
 Henry. You should not have provoked it 
 
 By slanders on my officers and friends. 
 
 Hal. Your fnends ! Poor youth ! companionship in 
 mirth, 
 Ungraced by thought, makes shallow fnends ; and yours 
 Are worse than shallow — thev are false.
 
 198 GLE^'COE; OR [act ii. 
 
 Henry. Nay, this 
 
 I will not bear ; draw, sir ! 
 
 [Henry drav:s his sword, and rushes on Halbert, who 
 dashes it from his hand. 
 Hal. Take up your sword ; 
 
 See how a bad cause makes a brave arm weak ! 
 Blush not ; 'twas but in pastime. 
 
 Henry. Kill me now, 
 
 And walk the hills in pride 
 
 Hal. Too plain I see 
 
 Our paths diverge ; — but let us not forget 
 That we have trod life's early way together. 
 Hand clasp'd in hand. How proud was I to watch 
 Your youngest darings, when I saw you dive 
 To the deep bottom of the lake beneath us, 
 Nor draw one breath till in delight you rose 
 To laugh above it ; when I traced the crags 
 By which with lightest footstep you approach'd 
 The eaglets' bed ; and when you slipp'd, yet knew 
 No paleness, bore you in my trembling arms 
 To yon black ridge, from which in the cold thaw 
 The snow wreath melts, as infancy's pure thoughts 
 Have vanish'd from your soul. 
 
 Henry. No — Halbert — no ! 
 
 Graceless I shook them from it, but they crowd 
 Here at your voice. 
 
 Hal. And you will not forget us ? 
 
 Go, then, where fortune calls you, loved and praised — 
 Let not the ribald licence of a camp 
 Insult the griefs of Scotland. 'Mid the brave 
 Be bravest ; and when honours wait your grasp. 
 Allow a moment's absence to your heart 
 While it recals one lonely tower, whose doors 
 Would open to you were you beggar'd, shamed. 
 Forsaken ; — and beside whose once-loved hearth 
 Your praises shall awaken joy more fen^ent 
 Than nobler friends can guess at. Ah ! you weep — 
 My own true brother still ! 
 
 Henry. lam! lam! [Jlieij embrace.
 
 SCENS III.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. I99 
 
 Enter Helen.' 
 
 Helen. Forgive me that I follow'd you. I saw 
 Both ruffled at your parting ; but my fears 
 Never suggested an event so sad, 
 As that two brothers, from whose swords alone 
 "We hope protection, should direct their points 
 Against each other's lives. 
 
 Henry. You must not leave 
 
 This spot with the belief that Halbert shares 
 The blame of this encounter ; mine the fault. 
 Be mine the shame. 
 
 Hal. I will not let you pour 
 
 On Helen's ear one word of self-reproach ; 
 You '11 not believe him shamed ? 
 
 Helen. Indeed I will not \ 
 
 I feel that shame and Hemy are disjoin'd 
 As yonder summits. \To Henry, 
 
 I must teach your steps 
 The pleasant pathways which we used to tread 
 In old sweet times. \Takis his hand. 
 
 Hal. [apart.} It cannot be she means 
 
 Other than sisterly regard in this ; 
 'Tis but the frankness of a courteous heart. 
 No more — no more. 
 
 Helen [to Halbert]. Will you not walk with us ] 
 1 have a hand for you too. 
 
 Hal. Nothing else ? 
 
 Helen. Yes ; and a heart — a gi-ateful one. So solemn ! 
 Nay, you must smile ; this is a day of joy. 
 And shall be cloudless. Hark ! the music calls us. 
 
 [Jlart'ial musk at a distance. 
 
 Hal. Those strains again ! Forgive me. Let us home. 
 
 Exeunt.
 
 GLENCOE; OR 
 
 ACT III.* 
 
 Scene I. — The Quarters of Glenlyon. 
 
 Enter Glenlyon and Lindsay. 
 
 Glen. Are you not weary of your quarters, Lindsay ? 
 
 Lind. Not I ; — I care but little where I lodge. 
 
 Glen. These fifteen days among the snows will nerve 
 Our soldiers to encounter a campaign 
 In coldest winter. Do they bear it bravely 1 
 
 lAnd. Bear it ? The rogues exult in it ! Rude plenty 
 And loosen'd discipline make rich amends 
 For rations duly meted, and warm shelter, 
 The garrison affords. Our savage hosts 
 Have open'd their rock-cellar'd stores of ale, 
 And of the luscious juice from honey press'd, 
 Which the wild bee from scanty heather wins 
 To make us jocund ; laughter and the dance 
 Have shaken many a hovel. May I ask 
 If we are destined long to dally thus ? 
 
 Glen. I know not, Lindsay ; what our mission was 
 You heard : — I scarcely dare remember it ; 
 I, who have ever held my conduct true 
 To orders, as my pistol to my touch, 
 And feel these fastnesses are unsubued 
 While a fierce clan like this retains its show 
 Of unity and ancient right, recoil 
 From that which we may execute. But thus 
 We must not loiter ; every social cup — 
 Each pressure of the hand, will make our work 
 Harder and darker. I will send at once 
 To Duncanson ; perchance JMac lan's oath 
 Accepted by the Sheriff, though so late, 
 May save him. There 's a mournful courtesy 
 In this old chief, crest-fall'n but self-sustain 'd. 
 Which urges me to wish it. 
 
 * A fortnight is supposed to elapse between the Second and Third Acts.
 
 scE.vK I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 2< 
 
 Lind. He is crafty, 
 
 But yet most daring : never will the Highlands 
 Know peace while he infests them. 
 
 Glen, [irriting']. Wound not him 
 
 With the shai'p tongue on whom your sword may deal ; 
 I \\-ill despatch Macdonald : can you tell 
 Where I may find him ? 
 
 Lind. No : but I am sure 
 
 He 's pleasantly engaged ; for I have met him 
 Often, since we have lodged here, with a lady 
 Gracing his ann, whom a slight glance approves 
 Of rarest beauty. But he comes to make 
 His o\YJi report. 
 
 Enter He>'RY Macdonald. 
 
 Glen. 'Tis well, sir, you have come ; 
 
 You have but seldom sought my orders here ; 
 And but that I am told you have fair plea 
 For such remissness, I might censure it. 
 At present I require to know the name 
 And station of the damsel who has drawn 
 So true an officer from duty. 
 
 Henri/. Sir, 
 
 My home was in this glen, and I live here 
 Beneath my brother's roof. 
 
 Glen. ^ay, no evasion ; 
 
 Tell me at once to whom I owe your absence, 
 Or hope no favour. 
 
 Henry. If I had not fear'd 
 
 The old estrangement which the father caused 
 Might touch the daughter, I had long ere this 
 Sought for her your protection. She is the child 
 Of your slain brother, from your love so long 
 Unhappily divided. 
 
 Glen. I knew not 
 
 That he had left a daughter. 
 
 Henry. When he died. 
 
 You were abroad ; and she, an infant, found 
 A sire in mine. 
 
 GUn. Poor girl, to find her here 
 
 At such a moment 1 — but she shall be cared for.
 
 202 GLENCOE ; OR [act in. 
 
 Henry. Cared for ! 
 
 Glen. Yes — cared for ; — said I something strange \ 
 Is 't strange that I should care for her % To business : — 
 You are swdft of foot^ and know the jagged paths 
 Among these hills. [Gkes a letter. 
 
 Bear this to Duncanson, 
 And bring his answer with your best despatch : 
 When you return, we '11 talk of my fair niece, 
 The partner of your rambles. I '11 find means 
 To honour and reward you. Lindsay, come. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — A Boom in Halhei'fs Tower. 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen. 
 
 Lady M. Helen, how gi-ave you are ! While winter 
 stretch' d 
 Its dull eventless length, your ready mirth 
 Streak'd the dark hours with gaiety, which else 
 Had been unvaried gloom. Now that our snows 
 Glitter with dancing feathers and bright plaids, 
 Our echoes learn to laugh, and our rough paths 
 Are cheer'd by tales of love, you droop and sigh ! 
 Does any secret grief afflict my child ? 
 
 Helen. Grief, madam ! 'Tis the pensiveness of joy, 
 Too deep for language, too serene for mirth, 
 Makes me seem sad. To meet in manhood's bloom 
 The gallant playmate of my childhood ; propp'd 
 On the same arm to tread the same wild paths ; 
 And in sweet fellowship of memories, feel 
 Hour after hour of long-forgotten pleasure 
 Start forth in sunny vividness to break 
 The mist of heavy years, — is joy so hearted, 
 That it can find no colour in the range 
 Of gladness to express it ; — so accepts 
 A solemn hue from grief. 
 
 Lady M. Have you then felt 
 
 Those years so heavy, you have help'd to make 
 So light to me ? Your lodging has been bleak, 
 Your entertainment scanty ; yet your youth 
 Has been so furnish 'd with rich thoughts, so raised
 
 rtCKN-E II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 2<-3 
 
 To lofty contemplations, that my pride 
 In the bright valour of my younger son 
 Cannot prevent my wonder that the hours 
 In which my Halbert with delighted care 
 Has minister'd to your soul's noblest thirsts, 
 Should be thus soon rorgotten. 
 
 Helen. Not forgotten. 
 
 Nor have the years been heavy : when I said so, 
 I was most thankless. Pardon me, sweet lady, 
 But when with Henry, I recal old times, 
 I look across the intei-vening years 
 As a low vale in which fair pastures lie 
 Unseen, to gaze upon a sunlit bank 
 On which my childhood sported, and which grows 
 Near as I watch it. If his nature seems 
 Unsoften'd by reflexion, — like a rock 
 Which draws no nurture from the rains, nor drinks 
 The sunbeam in that lights it, yet sustains 
 A plume of heather, — it is crown'd with grace 
 Which wins the heart it shelters. 
 
 Lady M. My dear Halbert, 
 
 How will you bear this ! 
 
 Helen. Can it be, you fear 
 
 My joy in Henry's presence should afflict 
 A soul so great as Halbert's ? 
 
 Ladi/ M. I do fear it ; — 
 
 I know it ; shudder at it : can you doubt 
 That Halbert loves you % 
 
 Helen. Do not think it, madam, 
 
 For mercy's sake, if you intend by love 
 Something beyond a brother's fondest care 
 For a lone sister ! You are silent ; turn 
 Your face away ; your bosom throbs as grief 
 Or terror shook it. Am I grown a curse 
 To you — to him ] whither shall I fly ? 
 Where seek for counsel 1 Dearest lady, save me ! 
 
 [Helen throics herself on Lady ]\Iacdonald's neck. 
 
 Lady M. Rest there, beloved fair one ; I will tiy 
 To temper this to Halbert ; — yet I fear — 
 He 's bending towards us.
 
 204 GLENCOE ; OR [act hi 
 
 Helen. Hide me from his sight, 
 
 I cannot bear it now. 
 
 Lady M. {leading Helen to the side.'\ That way ; I '11 
 break 
 This sorrow to him, if I can ; — be calm. \^Exit Helen. 
 
 Enter Halbert from the oj^posite side. 
 
 Hal. Was not that Helen ? Wherefore should 
 she fly 
 Upon my coming ? But her absence serves 
 My purpose now. I came to talk of her. 
 
 Ladj/ M. Of her ? Sit down ; you look fatigued and ill : 
 I '11 fetch a draught of wine. 
 
 Hal. Fatigued and ill ! 
 
 My looks belie me, then ; I scarce have felt 
 So fresh in spirit since I was a boy, 
 And the sweet theme I come to speak of needs 
 No wine to make it joyous. It is marriage. 
 
 Lady M. JMy son ! 
 
 Hal. Why, you look pale ; I thought my wish 
 
 Was also yours. I know a common mother, 
 Who, having lost her husband in her prime, 
 Seeks from a grateful son some slight return 
 For love that watch'd his infancy, may feel 
 Her fortune cruel, when a new regard, 
 With all the greediness of passion, fills 
 The bosom where till then affection reign'd. 
 Which answer'd, though it could not rival, hers : 
 But we have lived so long as equal friends 
 With love absorbing duty, that I thought, 
 And I still think, increase of joy to me 
 Must bring delight to you. I could have lived 
 Content, as we have lived, and still prolong 
 The lingering ecstacy of fearless hope. 
 But that the licence of the time, which brings 
 A band of loose companions to our glen, 
 Requires that I should claim a husband's right 
 To shield its lovely orphan. 
 
 Lady M. You mean — Helen ? 
 
 Hal. Whom else could I intend ? If you have been
 
 hCESE 11.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 Perplex'd by fear that I might mean to seek 
 Another's hand, no wonder you grew pale. 
 But still you tremble ; — what is this ? 
 
 Ladj/ M. My son, 
 
 Are you assured she loves you ? 
 
 Hal. As assured 
 
 As of my love for her. In both, one wish, 
 As she has glided into womanhood, 
 Has grown with equal progress. 
 
 Ladi/ M. Have you sought 
 
 Of her, if she esteems it thus ? 
 
 Hal. By words 1 
 
 No ; for I never doubted it : as soon 
 Should I have ask'd you if a mother's love 
 Watch'd o'er my nature's frailties. If sweet hopes 
 Da\\'ning at once on each ; if gentle strifes 
 To be the yielder of each little joy 
 Which chance pro\'ided ; if her looks upraised 
 In tearful thankfulness for each small boon 
 Which, nothing to the giver, seem'd excess 
 To her ; if poverty endured for years 
 Together in this valley, — do not breathe 
 Of mutual love, I have no stronger proofs 
 To warrant my assurance. Mother, speak ! 
 Do you know anything which shows all this 
 A baseless dream 1 
 
 Lady M. My Halbert, you have quell'd 
 
 Fierce passion by strong virtue ; — use your strength- 
 Nay, do not start thus ; I do not affirm 
 With certainty you are deceived, but tremble 
 Lest the expressions of a thankful heart 
 And gracious disposition should assume 
 A colour they possess not, to an eye 
 Bent fondly over them. 
 
 Hal. It cannot be ; 
 
 A thousand, and a thousand times, I 've read 
 Her inmost soul ; and you that rack me thus 
 With doubt have read it with me. Before Heaven, 
 I summon you to witness ! In the gloom 
 Of winter's dismal evening, while I strove 
 To melt the icy burthen of the hours
 
 9.06 GLENCOE ; OR ^ [act hi. 
 
 By knightly stories, and rehearsed the fate 
 Of some high maiden's passion, self-sustain'd 
 Through years of solitary hope, or crown 'd 
 In death with triumph, have you not observed, 
 As fading embers threw a sudden gleam 
 Upon her beauty, that its gaze was fix'd 
 On the rapt speaker, with a force that told 
 How she could la^dsh such a love on him ? 
 
 Ladj/ M. I have ; and then I fancied that she loved you. 
 
 Hal. Fancied ! Good mother, is that emptiest sound 
 The comfort that you offer ? Is my heart 
 Fit sport for fancy ? Fancied ! — 'twas as clear 
 As it were written in the book of Truth 
 By a celestial penman ! Answer me, 
 Once more ! when hurric^es have rock'd these walls, 
 And dash'd upon our wondering ears the roar 
 Of the far sea, exulting that its wastes 
 Were populous with death-pangs ; — as my arms 
 Enfolding each, grew tighter with the sense 
 Of feebleness to save ; — have you not known 
 Her looks, beyond the power of language, speak 
 In resolute content, how sweet it were 
 To die so link'd together ? 
 
 Ladi/ M. I have mark'd it. 
 
 Hal. Then wherefore do you torture me with doubt ? 
 What can you know, what guess, that you can weigh 
 Against these proofs ? 
 
 Ladi/ M. Be firm ; she loves another, 
 
 Hal. 'Tis false ! — and yet, great Heaven ! your quiver- 
 Attest it. And you knew this ? You partook [ing lips 
 Her counsels — His ! — Yes, His ! — you know the name 
 Which I must curse — of him I must pursue 
 Through deserts and through cities till I search 
 His bosom with my sword. Tell me the name — 
 Now — now — delay not. 
 
 Ladj/ M. [laying her hand on his awi^. Halbert^ pause, 
 and look 
 Into your mother's face, and then reply 
 To her : — does she deserve this of her son ? 
 
 Hal. I am a wretch indeed to use command 
 Where I should humbly sue. — Sit, sit, dear mother.
 
 SCENE n.] THE FATE OP THE MACDONALDS. 2f»7 
 
 Assume your old authoiity. 
 
 [WUdly places her in a chair and falls on his kn*?€g besid' it. 
 I kneel 
 There — meekly as you taught me— when you raised 
 For the first time my little hands to God ; 
 A child, obedient and infirm as then, 
 I do implore you, tell your wretched son 
 What he must suffer. 
 
 Ladj/ M. Are you arm'd to bear it ? 
 
 Hal. For all things. 
 
 Lady M. Henry — 
 
 Hal. Istartlng u}->.] My own brother ! Now 
 
 I see it clear ; — remember how she gazed 
 With fondness on him, when he came array'd 
 In a slave's tinsel ; how she seized his hand 
 When I had dash'd the insulting weapon from it, 
 Aim'd at my life. Would I had slain him there ! 
 
 Ladj/ M. What fearful vision crosses you ? Slay 
 Henry — 
 Him whom you moulded ! From too thoughtless youth 
 Strike him to all that Death reveals, and bid 
 Your twice-stabb'd mother gaze upon her sons — 
 The murder'd and the guilty ! 
 
 Hal. Guilty ?— yes ! 
 
 1 am — I thought it — felt as if my ami 
 Could act it ; — utter'd it. Look not upon me ! 
 Eaith hide me ! — cover me ! 
 
 \jiink8 into a seat and covers his face irith his hands. 
 
 Ladj/ M. I fear'd this outbreak 
 
 Of fire subdued, not quench'd. My noble son, 
 As you have wrestled with the fiends, and quell'd them, 
 Be victor now ! 
 
 Hal. \_nsinq?^ Are you assured she loves him \ 
 
 It may be but a girlish dream, — her eye 
 Enchanted for a moment by the grace 
 Of youth — her fancy dazzled by the show 
 Of military prowess, — while her soul 
 In its serene and inmost temple waits 
 Untouch'd and true. 'Tis so. 
 
 Lady M. Would that it were ! 
 
 Hal. I w'll awake her spirit from its trance ;
 
 208 GLENCOE ; OR [act iir. 
 
 I '11 meet her face to face, and soul to soul, 
 And so be satisfied. 
 
 Lady M. You shall do so, 
 
 If you will rule your passion. 
 
 Hal. I am calm, 
 
 Docile as infancy ; I '11 seek her now. 
 
 Lady M. No ; — I will bring her on the instant. Think 
 That she has not a refuge in the world 
 Except in our protecting care, and feel 
 How gently she should be entreated ! Rage 
 From you would kill her. 
 
 Hal. Rage — to her ? All weak 
 
 In passion as I am, you need not fear it. 
 
 Lady M. I '11 tmst you. \Ex]t. Lady ]\T. 
 
 Hal. \_alone\. She will come with her sweet 
 
 To charm away this mist. Alas ! I 'm rude [voice 
 
 And moody ; he is gay, and quick of spirit, 
 And light of heart. Why did I let them roam 
 So often ? Yet it cannot be ; her heart 
 Could not be caught by gauds ; — so pure ; so arm'd — 
 So true ! 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Henry. What, musing ! Let me not disturb 
 Deep meditations. Is my mother near. 
 Or Helen ? 
 
 Hal. Helen ! 
 
 Henry. I have scarce a word 
 
 To spend with either ; though I would not pass 
 Your tower unvisited, I 'm bound to speed, 
 For I am bearer of an urgent letter 
 To Duncanson. 
 
 Hal. To Duncanson ? The foe 
 
 Most bitter to our clan ; — and you dare bring it 
 Here ; — to your father's hall — where you were train 'd 
 To clansman's duty ; — which you left in scorn 
 And now revisit in a lackey's guise 
 To boast a cursed mission ; yield it to me, 
 Traitor and slave ! or I will tear it from you. 
 
 Henry. Stand off ! — what frenzy rules you ? Let me 
 Hal. There 's treachery in it — and in you. [pass.
 
 scEXE 11.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. flOQ 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen. 
 
 Ladi/ M. Your word : 
 
 [Halbert, at sight of Helen, 2^<^uses and shrinks hack.'] 
 
 Hal. {To Henry.] Forgive me ; I am ill at ca.se, and 
 scarce 
 Know what I utter. 
 
 Henry. I shall think of this 
 
 But as brain-sickness which your studies bring; 
 Heaven keep me from them ! I must not delay 
 A moment more : — farewell ; — I shall return 
 This way to-morrow, and shall hope to find 
 Your gi-ave philosopher in saner mood. \_Exit Henky. 
 
 LoAy M. I leave you \ recollect your word. 
 
 Hal. I \\\\\. 
 
 [Exit Lady M. 
 
 Hal. Be not alarm'd, sweet Helen ; if your looks, 
 Tum'd gently on me, had not power to still 
 The tempest my frail nature has endured. 
 The issue of this moment would command 
 All passion to deep silence, while I ask — 
 If my scathed life enrich'd by yours may spread 
 Its branches in the sunshine, or shrink up 
 In withering solitude, a sapless thing, 
 Till welcome death shall break it 1 
 
 Helen. Do not think 
 
 Your noble nature can require a reed 
 So weak as mine to prop it : virtue's power, 
 Which shields it as a breastplate, will not yield 
 To transient sorrow which a thankless girl 
 Can hurl against it. 
 
 Hal. '^ Little do you guess 
 
 The heart you praise : 'tis true, among the rocks 
 I sought for constancy, and day by day 
 It grew ; but then within its hardening frame 
 One exquisite affection took its root. 
 And strengthened in its marble ; — if you tear 
 That living plant, vnih. thousand fibres, thence, 
 You break up all ; — my struggles are in vain, 
 And I am min ! 
 
 Helen. What a lot of mine !
 
 210 GLENCOE; OR, [act rn. 
 
 I, who would rather perish than requite 
 Long years of kindness with one throb of pain, 
 Must make that soul a wreck ! 
 
 Hal. No, Helen, no — 
 
 It is a dream ; your heart is mine ; mine only, — 
 I '11 read it here : — you have not pledged its faith 
 To any other ? 
 
 Helen. No ; not yet. 
 
 Hal. Thank God! — 
 
 Then you are mine ; we have been betrothed for years. 
 
 Helen, Would it had been so ! 
 
 Hal. You desire it ? 
 
 Helen. Yes ; 
 
 I then had kept such watch upon my soul, 
 As had not let the shadow of a fancy 
 Fall on your image there ; but not a word 
 Of courtship pass'd between us. 
 
 Hal. Not a word. 
 
 Words are for lighter loves, that spread their films 
 Of glossy threads, which while the air 's serene 
 Hang gracefully, and spaikle in the sun 
 Of fortune, or reflect the fainter beams 
 Which moonlight fancy sheds ; but ours — yes, ours I — 
 ^^^as woven \vith the toughest yam of life, 
 For it was blended with the noblest things 
 We lived for ; with the majesties of old ; 
 The sable train of mighty griefs o'erarched 
 By Time's deep shadows ; with the fate of kings, — 
 a" gloiious dynasty — for ever crush'd 
 With the gi-eat sentiments which made them strong 
 In the affections of mankind ; — \^'ith grief 
 For rock-enthroned Scotland ; with poor fortune 
 Shared cheerfully ; with high resolves ; with thoughts 
 Of death ; and with the hopes that cannot die. 
 
 Helen. Hold ! If you rend oblivion's slender veil 
 Thus fearfully, and spectres of the past 
 Glide o'er my startled spirit, it will fail 
 In reason. 
 
 Hal. No ; — it shall cast off this cloud. 
 And retain no impression save of things 
 Which last for ever ;— for to such our love
 
 scsvE II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDON.U.DS. 
 
 Has been allied. How often have we stood, 
 
 Clasp'd on yon teiTace by columnar rocks, 
 
 Upon whose jagged orifice the sky 
 
 With its few stars seem'd pillar'd, and have felt 
 
 Our earthly fortunes, bounded like the gorge 
 
 That held us, had an avenue beyond. 
 
 Like that we gazed on ; and when summer eve 
 
 Has tempted us to wander on the bank 
 
 Of glory-tinged Loch-Leven, till the sea 
 
 Open'd beyond the mountains, and the thoughts 
 
 Of limitless expanse were render'd sweet 
 
 By crowding memories of delicious hours 
 
 Sooth'd by its murmur, we have o\^Ti'd and bless'd 
 
 The Presence of Eternitv and Home ! 
 
 Helen. What shaU I do ? 
 
 Hal. Hear me while I invoke 
 
 The spirit of one moment to attest. 
 In the great eye of love-approving Heaven, 
 We are each other's. When a fragile bark 
 Convey'd our little household to partake 
 The blessing that yet lingers o'er the shrine 
 Of desolate lona, the faint breath 
 Of evening wafted us through cluster'd piles 
 Of gently -moulded columns, which the sea — 
 Softening from tenderest green to foam more white 
 Than snow-wreaths on a marble ridge — illumed 
 As 'twould dissolve and win them ; — till a cave, 
 The glorious work of angel architects 
 Sent on commission to the sacred isle, 
 From which, as from a fountain, God's o^^^l light 
 Stream'd o'er dark Europe — in its fretted span 
 Embraced us. — Pedestals of glistening black 
 Rose, as if waiting for the aiiy tread 
 Of some enraptured seraph who might pause 
 To see blue Ocean through the sculptured ribs 
 Of the tall arch-way's curve, delight to lend 
 His vastness to the lovely. We were charm'd, 
 Not awe-struck ; — for The Beautiful was there 
 Triumphant in its palace. As we gazed 
 Rapt and enamour'd, our small vessel struck 
 The cavern's side, and by a shock which seem'd 
 p 2
 
 212 GLENCOE; OR, [act hi. 
 
 The last that we should suffer, you were thrown 
 Upon my neck — You clasp'd me then ; — and shared 
 One thought of love and heaven ! 
 
 Helen. Am I indeed 
 
 Faithless, yet knew it not ? my soul 's perplex'd ; — 
 Distracted. Whither shall it turn ? — To you ! — 
 Be you its arbiter. Of you I ask, 
 In your own clear simplicity of heart, 
 Did you believe me yours % 
 
 Hal. Yes ; and you are : 
 
 With this sweet token I assure you mine, 
 
 \Tl(\ces a rbig on her finger. 
 In sight of angels. Bless you ! 
 
 Helen. It is done. 
 
 I dare not, cannot, tear this ring away. 
 
 Hal. It but denotes what Heaven has registered ; 
 We must not pause : when will you that this pledge 
 Shall be redeem'd % To-morrow 1 
 
 Helen. Give me time 
 
 To speak with — to call in my scatter'd thoughts. 
 
 Hal. The next day, then ? 
 
 Helen. Direct it as you please ; 
 
 Would I were worthy ! — pray you leave me now. 
 
 Hal. I go to share my blessedness with her 
 Whose love you share with me ;— our mother, Helen. 
 
 [Exit Halbert. 
 
 Helen. Where am I 1 — can I wake from this strange 
 dream ? [Observes the ring. 
 
 No — 'tis all real — the good and brave alone 
 Have power upon the spirits of the guiltless 
 To raise or mar them, that I had met 
 All evil things — oppression — slander — hate — 
 How would I have defied them t 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald. 
 Lady M. Is it true 
 
 You have consented to wed Halbert ] 
 Helen. Yes. 
 
 Lady M. IV ly child, come to my heart. How 's this ? 
 You are pale 
 And cold as marble.
 
 SCENE r.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 213 
 
 Helen. You may well regard 
 
 My purpose vAWv distnist ; — Ijut when I take 
 The noble Halbert's hand, I bid adieu 
 To every recollection which might touch 
 My duty to him. I shall never muse 
 On childhood's pleasures, innocent no more 
 For me ; — shall never tread the shelter'd paths 
 Which I have lately linger'd in ; nor think 
 Upon a soldier's glories ; nor repeat 
 One name — never ! — I am very weak, 
 I did not know how weak. The Virgin aid me ! 
 
 Lady M. She will, my lovely one. 
 
 Helen. I '11 seek the chapel, 
 
 If these poor limbs will bear me. — On your bosom 
 I must seek strength first, mother. 
 
 Lady M. Weep there, child, 
 
 And may Heaven's arms encircle you as mine ! [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I.— The Toicer of II albert. — Time — Noon of the 
 Sixteenth Day. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Henry. Will no one answer me ? — I call in vain ; — 
 And must pass on without that glimpse of Helen 
 I came to win. [Kenneth crosses the stage. 
 
 Stay, fellow ; where 's my mother ? 
 
 Ken. She is preparing for our master's wedding, 
 Of which our notice has been short ; 'twas yesterday 
 Appointed for to-morrow. 
 
 Henry. Halbert's wedding ! — 
 
 That's pleasant news, though strange ; — to think my brother, 
 My solemn brother, all this time in love ! 
 He has not trusted me : so I must ask 
 Of you, the fair one's name. 
 
 Ken. Name ! — surely, sir. 
 
 It could be none but Helen Campbell,
 
 214 GLENCOE ; OR, [act jv. 
 
 Henry. Cease 
 
 Your jesting with that name, or ^vith my sword 
 I '11 try to teach you manners. 
 
 Ken. Jesting, sir ! — 
 
 We have little jesting here ; — although these walls 
 Will ring for once, when our dear master gives them 
 So kind a mistress. 
 
 Henry. Dare you mock me ? No ! — 
 
 I will not vent my rage on you ; — if this 
 Is not a jest, tell your kind mistress, — here 
 Henry Macdonald waits her ! — bid her come 
 And answer to him as she cares for life. 
 
 Ken. I '11 seek her, sir. 
 
 Henry. Begone. \Ex\t Kenneth. 
 
 Can this be true ? 
 Yes : that poor knave would never dare invent 
 A tale so monstrous ; — ^but it passes all 
 My lightest comrades tell of woman's falsehood. 
 How w^ill they scoff at me — duped and despised 
 By this meek mountain damsel — cast aside 
 For a dull dreamer of the rocks, who dared 
 To school me with his wisdom ! Wise, indeed, 
 The lady has become, to leave my hopes 
 Of wealth and glory for these crazy walls, 
 And solemn disputations. 'Tis a jest, 
 I 'faith a merry one ! — her uncle, too. 
 My captain and my friend ! — Most generous brother, 
 1 '11 mar your triumph yet. 
 
 Enter Helen. 
 
 you are here ! 
 Helen. Yes ; on a summons couch'd in terms more 
 harsh 
 Than needful : I had come on lightest word 
 Thai spoke your wish to see me. 
 
 Henry. Do you talk 
 
 To me of harshness ! Look me in the face — 
 Look steadily upon me, and reply 
 To one brief question. 
 
 [Henry sdzes Helen's arm ,• she, looks at him and turns aicay. 
 Henry. No ! — I need not ask it.
 
 ^, KNK I. THE FATE OF THE MACDONALnS. ' ; -. 
 
 Yet hoi. I one moment ; is the bndegroom he-re ? 
 I loni,' to wish him joy. 
 
 Ilelt'ti, Accuse him not : 
 
 He 's innocent of all. 
 
 Hcnrj/. 0, doubtless ! Still 
 
 'Twas churlish not to bid me to his bridal ; 
 What is the happy hour ? 
 
 Jli'Icn. Sunrise. 
 
 Ilnny. Until 
 
 That hour, farewell. 
 
 Helen. leave me not in scorn ! 
 
 But as you are a biave man, to the weak 
 Ik^ merciful. Although no j)lighted faith 
 Is broken with you, 1 will not allow 
 A base self-flattery to conceal the tnith 
 That I have wrong'd you — stolen delightful hours, 
 And cherish'd gentle vanities, with heart 
 Too joyous to revert to holy ties 
 Long woven, though unrecognised, which link'd 
 My destiny to Halbert's. He has shown 
 That, though I knew it not, my life is his, 
 And I have own'd his title to the hand 
 This ring enriches. 
 
 Hctiri/. And for dreams like this 
 
 You have repelFd a soldier's love, which you, 
 And only you, could have secured — released him 
 From the sole anchor of a giddy youth, 
 (So you described it,) and yourself from share 
 Of his young fortunes, and the ample dowry 
 With which your uncU; would have graced them ! 
 
 Helen, Stain not 
 
 The few sad moments we may spend with thought 
 So little worthy. Had my U)t been cast 
 With yours, I should have cared for no success 
 Save as it made you happier ; sought no pleasures 
 lUit the perennial gaiety your mirth 
 Had she«l around nu^ ;— deem'd no travel long 
 H shared with — Hold ! — Accept my last farewell ; — 
 May that undaunted courage which breathes in you 
 Inspire you to attain the airiest heights 
 Of glory, and upon them carve a name
 
 216 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv. 
 
 Resplendent to all soldiers ; — yet your frankness 
 
 Dispel all envy from it ; may your feasts, 
 
 Crown'd with delights, be shared by noblest friends ; 
 
 And from your towering fortunes, may the cloud 
 
 AVhich a slight woman's wayward folly wreathed 
 
 Around them, in soft sunshine melt at once. 
 
 And, with her, be forgotten ! So Heaven speed you ! 
 
 [Exit Helen. 
 Henry. Yes ; it will speed me ; for she loves me still ! 
 But I forget my duty ; — this despatch 
 Is waited for by him who shall avenge me ! 
 
 \Ex\t Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Scene II. — The Quarters ofGUnlyon. 
 
 Glenlyon — Lindsay. 
 
 Glen. Surely 'tis time Macdonald had retum'd : 
 The readiest, boldest, and most constant officer 
 I ever yet promoted ; — some mischance 
 Or treachery must delay him. Treacheiy — faugh ! 
 'Tis an ill word, but may import no more 
 Than a safe means of justice, which rash force 
 Might frustrate. Would our messenger were here ! 
 
 Lind. Indeed time presses ; we shall bear the charge 
 Of weakness for the doubt which has delay 'd 
 The course prescribed. 
 
 Glen. He was not wont to loiter. 
 
 If the command be clear, my course is plain ; 
 And yet — he comes — could I suspect he knew 
 The tidings that he bears, his face would tell them. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Glen. How's this ? your looks are \^ild ; have you met 
 aught 
 Should shake a brave man's constancy 1 
 
 Henry. I crave 
 
 Your pardon ; 'tis a private grief unner\-es me ; 
 The lovely lady who has shared my walks, 
 And, as I proudly thought, return'd the love 
 She had inspired in m.e, at sunrise weds 
 My elder brother. What of that ] My duty
 
 SCKXH 11.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 217 
 
 Has been perform'd ; — and Duncanson's reply 
 
 Is here. [Henry delivers a letter to Glenlyon. 
 
 Glen. Thanks ; — wait ^^'ithin ; — refresh yourself ; — 
 I '11 deal with your fair rebel. iExlt Henry Macdonald. 
 
 ^ly hand trembles 
 As it has never trembled ; — I aaall mar 
 The seal ; — open and read the letter. — 
 [Lindsay opens and reads the letter.'] Well ? 
 
 Lind. It is as I expected and you fear'd ; 
 The order is to guard the avenues 
 To-night ; and ere the morning, put in force 
 The royal ordinance on the lives of all 
 Below the age of seventy. 
 
 Glen. Would that death 
 
 Had met me first ! 
 
 Lind. Yet you will not wdthhold 
 
 Obedience ? 
 
 Glen. Never; — I am shaken now, 
 
 But you shall find me constant to obey 
 The simple law of duty : — none shall live. 
 
 Lind. Think of these clansmen as of rebels snared 
 In treason, whom a law, disdaining forms. 
 Has sentenced : it is hard to make brave soldiers 
 Anticipate the headsman with their swords ; 
 Yet we must do our office. 
 
 Glen. Be it yours 
 
 To show the men their duty. 
 
 Lind. I will do 
 
 All you may order ; but I cannot range 
 The soldiers so as to prevent escape 
 Through the wild passes of these mountains ; none. 
 Unless familiar with the glen, can do this. 
 
 Glen. Call in Macdonald. [Exit Lindsay. 
 
 He shall plant the men : 
 His present passion moulds him to our will. 
 
 Re-enter Lindsay a)id Henry jMacdonald. 
 Glen. [To Henry.] Thereis a service I would claim of you, 
 Which, well achieved, shall humble to your feet 
 The rival who presumes to cross your wish 
 For my alliance, and reward your love
 
 218 GLENCOE ; OR, [act rv. 
 
 With happiest fortune. 
 
 Henry. Let the service be 
 
 So full of peril that the chance of life 
 Bears but a thousandth portion of the hope 
 That death is greedy ^^•ith, and I embrace it. 
 
 Glen. It lacks the peril 3^ou desire. This clan, 
 Though crouching now to William's power, retains 
 Its lion fierceness. We must tame its chiefs 
 By forcing them, in abject terms, to sue 
 For pardon — yield their hidden stores of arms — 
 And feel themselves subdued. At dawn to-morrow 
 We '11 awe them to submission, by array 
 Of soldiers, planted in each track, whose arms 
 Shall make the glen their prison. What I seek 
 Is, that at midnight, you, who know the paths, 
 Would so dispose the soldiers, that no clansman 
 Escape the vale — save by the eastern road, 
 Which Duncanson will line ; — that done, repose — 
 And dream that at the sunrise you shall see 
 Your daring rival suppliant, and my niece 
 Your wealthy bride. Will you do this ? 
 
 Henry. I will. 
 
 Enter Drummond. 
 
 Drum. I come to ask if I shall bid the band 
 Attend you at the feast. 
 
 Glen. What feast ? 
 
 Lind. The banquet 
 
 Mac Ian gives to-day : — the hour is near. 
 
 Glen. A banquet ! that is terrible. 
 
 Lind. \Apan to Glenlyon.] Be wary ; 
 
 Eyes are upon us. 
 
 \Aloud?^ You wall send the band ; 
 All we can do should grace our visit. 
 
 Glen. \To Drummond.] Yes : 
 
 You may retire. \Tlxit Drummond. 
 
 Glen. \To Henry.] At dawn I will attend 
 Your bridal ; 'twill be yours. At this night's feast 
 Beware that by no word or look you hint 
 The midnight duty or the morning's hope : 
 Be calm — as I am. \Exeunt Glenlyon and Lindsay.
 
 scE.vE in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 219 
 
 Henri/. \^Alone?\ How shall I subdue 
 The mantling sense of victory which laughs 
 And dances in my spirit ] He who dash'd 
 iVIy good sword from my grasp shall feel he stands 
 Before his master ; chidden as I was, 
 And, for a moment, silenced, I shall rain 
 Pardon and life on him who would have stolen 
 The mistress of my soul ! She 's mine ! She 's mine ! 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — Terrace before Halbert's Toicer. 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald and Halbert. 
 
 Hal. Is she so pensive still ! 
 
 Ladj/ M. Alas ! in vain 
 
 I watch to see some gleam of pleasure light 
 Her mournful eyes. Save that her fingers ply 
 The needle constantly, as if they wrought 
 From habit of sweet motion, you might doubt 
 If in her statue-like and silent beauty 
 The life of this world stirr'd. 
 
 Hal. If Henry broke 
 
 Upon her suddenly, his harsh demeanour 
 Might drive the colour from her cheeks, and scare 
 Her thoughts from their repose. 
 
 Lachj M. I cannot hope it ; 
 
 She has been more serene since then. Before, 
 She would pursue her work with restless hand ; 
 Leave it and pace the room ; sit down and sigh, 
 As if her heart were breaking ; wring her hands ; 
 And then — as finding strength to chase some image 
 That madden'd her away, — toss back her head, 
 And smiling, urge her needle \\'ith more speed 
 Than at the first. But since she spoke with Henry 
 She has been calm, though sad, as one beyond 
 The reach of fear or hope ; who saw her course 
 And was resign'd to follow it. 
 
 Hal. Resign'd ! 
 
 Is that my sum of happiness ? To hold 
 As in a tyrant's grasp, a lovely form 
 Subdued by its own gentleness, yet know
 
 220 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv. 
 
 That the celestial mind defies the power 
 Of finest bonds, — and from the winning smile 
 In which fond custom wreathes the face, escapes 
 To scenes long past, or for a distant voice 
 Waits listening ! I have held the gaolei 's lot 
 Far heavier than his captive's ; yet how light 
 His chains to those I must inflict and bear ! 
 
 Ladi/M. Youwrong my lovely daughter ; — when she weds, 
 Each wish, each hope, each fancy which might dim 
 The brightness of her constancy, will fly 
 For ever. Her afi"ections have been toss'd, 
 But not perverted ; as the water keeps 
 Its ciystal beauty in its bed of rock, 
 Though vex'd by winds which from a cloudless sky 
 Sweep o'er high mountain tarns, her soul perplex'd 
 By contrary emotions, caught no taint, 
 Sunk or uplifted, but will settle, bright 
 As not a breath had wreath'd it. She will prove 
 With all her soul a true wife to you, Halbert, 
 Though not a blithe one. 
 
 Hal. Do you not believe 
 
 She will be happy soon ? 
 
 Ladi/ M. She will be tranquil ; 
 
 But if you ask me if she will enjoy 
 The happiness for which her nature 's framed, 
 I cannot veil my fears. 
 
 Hal. What should I do 1 
 
 I have known fearful heart-struggles ; but this 
 Makes all seem nothing. 
 
 Ladp M. There is in your soul 
 
 A noble pui-pose. 
 
 Hal. Must I give up all. 
 
 And yet live on ? No human hope remains 
 For me if this be blasted. With the fall 
 Of the great objects which my youth revered, 
 I lost all power to mingle in the strifes 
 Of this new-modell'd world. I cannot taste 
 The sweet resources Heaven, in grace, provides 
 For love-lorn manhood ; thirst of fame in me 
 Is quench'd ; society's miscall'd delights 
 Would fret me into madness ; and bright war,
 
 scsN-E Iff.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 221 
 
 The glorious refuge of despair, would seem 
 
 A slaughterous and a mercenary trade 
 
 To one who has no country. If I act 
 
 The thought which fills your bosom, I must live 
 
 Loveless and hopeless. Can you ask it, mother ? 
 
 Ladi/ M. I cannot ask it. But I saw in you 
 High resolution gathering, while I spoke 
 Of Helen's present state, and what I fear 
 'Twill be when — 
 
 Hal. istopping her.'] Speak no more. It shall not be ; 
 I will make ready for the sacrifice. 
 
 Laclj/ M. jMy noble son ! Let me embrace you, proud 
 As never Roman mother in the arms 
 Of her crown 'd hero. Shall I speak to Helen ? 
 
 Hal. No — not for worlds — I cannot utter yet 
 The irrevocable word. It may be still 
 That you misjudge her; — or that she mistakes 
 Her heart's true feeling. I will wait the mom. 
 
 Enter khk'&iY.-K Macdoxald. 
 
 Alas. jNIy father sends me with a gracious message 
 "Which I rejoice to bear, though it confess 
 A fault in him ; he ofi^ers you his hand, 
 With frank confession he has done you wrong, 
 And claims your presence at the feast he gives 
 To-day to Argyle's officers. 
 
 Hal. Dear cousin, 
 
 I am most happy in Mac lan's love. 
 And will ^\-ith earnest duty answer it ; 
 But I entreat him to excuse me now. 
 For I am busy with sick thoughts ; unfit 
 For high festi%ity. 
 
 Alas. I know you hate. 
 
 As I do, this submission ; but 'tis done ; 
 No courtesies can make it deeper. Hark ! 
 
 \I)istant music heard. 
 The guests assemble now, 
 
 Hal. That music breathes 
 
 As when I heard it first ; — in lively strain 
 It vibrates on the ear, but on my soul 
 Falls like a dirge. Some awful doom awaits
 
 222 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv. 
 
 Our race, and thus through sounds of this world speaks 
 To the mind's ear. I will avert or share it. 
 Yes ; — I attend you. Mother, you will watch 
 Your precious charge as if on eveiy glance 
 A life depended ? I am sure you will. 
 
 lEiit Lady Macdonald. 
 Now, Alaster, I am ready for your feast. 
 
 [Exeunt H albert and Al aster. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Hall in Mac lan^s House. — A Banquet. 
 
 Mac Ian, Angus, Donald, John Macdonald, Glenlyon, 
 Lindsay, Henry INIacdonald, Officers of Argyle's 
 Regiment, and Clansmen, seated. 
 
 Mac I. [rising']. Once more I thank you for the grace 
 you pay 
 To a fallen chief, whose name and title live 
 As shadows of the past ; but who can taste 
 A comfort in his downfall, while brave men 
 Show, by their courteous action, they preserve 
 Respect for what he has been. Let us drink 
 A health to those you serve ; — the Majesties 
 Of England ; whom to death I had withstood, 
 Had hope for James's cause remain'd ; but whom. 
 That hope extinguish 'd, I will frankly serve. 
 Rise, clansmen ! Drink to William and his Queen, 
 To whom we owe our duty. 
 
 Glen. We esteem 
 
 The pledge at its just value. 
 
 Mac I. I perceive 
 
 Your thoughts still WTong me. Stoutly have I fought 
 L^pon King James's side ; but with Dundee 
 His cause expired. I felt it when he fell, 
 Lifting his arm to wave these clansmen on, 
 To make his triumph sure. The menial slave. 
 The household traitor, who, with felon hand, 
 Stole then his noble life, destroy'd, in him, 
 A line of monarchs. While the tangled woods 
 Of Killikrankie rang with shrill delight 
 Of our victorious Highlanders, I knew
 
 SCENE IV.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 223 
 
 That we were conquer'd ; and I sheathed my sword 
 For ever. 
 
 Angus, {apart to Donald]. Do you mark him ! 
 
 Donald. Yes ; his life 
 
 Casts out its dying flash. He 's doom'd. 
 
 Glen. You wrong 
 
 Your gallant comrades ; surely loss of one 
 Might be supplied. 
 
 Mac I. Not of a man like him. 
 
 'Tis not in multitudes of common minds 
 That by contagious impulses are sway'd, 
 Like rushes in the wind, a mighty cause 
 Can live ; but in the master mind of one 
 WTio sways them. Sooner would these glorious hills 
 If crush'd to powder, with their atoms guard 
 Our glens, than million clansmen iill the place 
 Of such a chief. Would I had died with him ! 
 No more of this ; fill me some wine. \_I>rink$. 
 
 Enter Alaster and Halbert. 
 
 Your leave 
 One moment. 
 
 [Mac Ian comes to Halbert, and takes his hand. 
 Mac I. Halbert, I lack words to thank 
 
 This kindness as I ought. 
 
 Hal. It is deep joy 
 
 For me to know I am at peace with all, 
 And, most of all, with you. 
 
 Mac I. 'Tis very strange : 
 
 I am amazed how I could doubt your faith ; 
 A film is passing from my soul, that leaves 
 All clear within its vision. Take your place. 
 
 [Halbert and Alaster sit on the opposite side of the hall 
 to Glenlyon and Lindsay. 
 Mac I. [resuming his seat]. Your pardon. Let us drain 
 another cup 
 To our chief guest, Glenlyon ; frank in war, 
 And generous in alliance. 
 
 Hal. [To Alaster.] Watch him now ; 
 
 He changes ; see — his veiy lips are pale ; — 
 I \^ill unmask him.
 
 224 GLENCOE : OR, [act iv. 
 
 Alas. Pray forbear. 
 
 Glen. Accept 
 
 A soldier's thanks. 
 
 Hal. \_To Alaster.] His voice is choked — look now — 
 Do you not see him shiver 1 
 
 Alas. It is but fancy ; 
 
 How can he hope to see us fall more low 
 Than he has sunk us ? 
 
 Mac I. [To Glenlyon.] You must pledge me now ; — 
 Wine to Glenlyon. 
 
 [Glenlyon lises — takes the cup — puts it to his lips — and 
 hastily returns it. 
 
 Hal. He does not taste the wine, 
 
 He dares not taste it. Hold me not. 
 
 [BreaVmg from Alaster. 
 Glenlyon ! 
 Why did you put aside the untasted cup ? 
 Why did you change and glare ? Why is your heart — 
 Your hollow heart — shivering and shrinking now 1 
 Look on him, friends ! Mac Ian ! — Angus ! — Donald ! 
 John ! — Alaster ! Does some infernal charm 
 Delude you, that you rise not 1 
 
 [To Glenlyon.] Answer me ! 
 What fiendish thought was yours when you withdrew 
 That goblet from your lips ? 
 
 Lind. Who 's this that dares 
 
 Insult Glenlyon ? 
 
 Hal. Parasite, I speak not 
 
 To such as you ! Behold him now ! He's silent. 
 
 Lind. In scorn. 
 [To Glenlyon.] You will not deign to make reply 
 To this coarse brawler ? Let us hence. 
 
 Gleii. [addressing ^Iac Ian]. Farewell ! 
 
 You cannot curb the rudeness of your followers. 
 Nor I endure it. [Glenlyon and Lindsay retiring. 
 
 Hal. Let them not depart ; 
 
 Not for myself I speak, — for I shall find 
 No time so fit to die ; but for your wives — 
 Your sires — your babes — your all. Glenlyon ! turn, 
 If you have so much nature as to look 
 The thing you dare.
 
 scKXE IV ] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 225 
 
 Glen. \tuming\. Be brief in your demand. 
 "WTiat is your pleasure ? 
 
 Hal. That you spend three minutes 
 
 With me in the cold moolight ; — arm'd ; — alone. 
 
 Glen. With you — a conquer'd rebel ] 
 
 Mac I. [holding Halbert]. He's a guest 
 
 Beneath this roofs protection. 
 
 Hal. Let him claim 
 
 Its shelter if he dare, and I will kneel 
 And he shall trample on me. 
 
 Lmd. [To Glenlyon]. Come away ! 
 
 Ala^. Dear Halbert, do not risk a life so dear 
 As yours is to my father. 
 
 Hal. Risk my life — 
 
 Dost see him ? There is that within his breast 
 AYould paralyse his arm, and make his knees 
 Tremble, and bid the stubborn soldier fall 
 Half slain without the steel ; — [To Gleklvon. 
 
 I charge on you 
 Black treason — what I know not yet — but feel ; 
 Will you confess, or meet me ? 
 
 Lind. Do not answer. 
 
 Gle7i. I meet you ! — Talk to me of treason ! — me 
 Who bear the lawful orders of a king ; 
 To whom you are a traitor ; — whom your race, 
 With all the hatred of their savage thoughts, 
 Abjuie ; — but he shall curb them — they shall feel 
 His power is here. Your worthless life, rash fool, 
 To-night I spare ;— but if again we meet. 
 It shall be as you wish, for death. [E.veuni Glf.nlyon, &c. 
 
 Hal. It shall. 
 
 Mac I. [To Halbert]. I thank your generous courage, 
 but I look 
 With wonder on your passion. 
 
 Hal. What ! does nothing 
 
 Whisper of peril to yoa ] 
 
 Mac I. No— my heart 
 
 Is jocund ; — stripp'd of glory, power, and name, 
 We shall be all united and at peace. 
 
 Hal. Heaven grant it ! 
 
 Alas. I would rather die to-moiTow,
 
 226 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv. 
 
 If I might choose, than hold the sweetest home 
 At England's mercy. 
 
 Hal. My brave cousin ! Blessings 
 
 In life and death be with you. 
 
 Mac I. Come away ; 
 
 This sadness %vill infect us. There 's my hand 
 And my heart with it. 
 
 Alas. And mine too. 
 
 John. And mine. 
 
 Mac I. Farewell ; — no strife shall separate us more. 
 
 \Exeunt Mac Ian, Alaster, and John. 
 
 Hal. That 'swell!— [^c^s Henry. 
 
 My brother here ? — he wakes my soul 
 To its o^vn sufferings. Yet we must not part thus. 
 Brother ! 
 
 Henry. What would you with me % 
 
 Hal. I would know 
 
 We part to-night as brothers should ; you think 
 That you have cause to blame me : wait awhile, 
 And you may judge me better. 
 
 Henry. Blame you ? — No — 
 
 Not I — except that you forgot to bid 
 Your brother to your bridal. He '11 make bold 
 To go unbidden. 
 
 Hal. Fail not ; — you may find 
 
 A blessing there you will be grateful for. 
 
 Henry. \^Aside\. Can he suspect my purpose ? — 0, no 
 doubt 
 You have deserved all gratitude ; — and there 
 Will crown your favours. 
 
 Hal. I will take your hand ; 
 
 It trembles. 
 
 Henry. No ; — or if it shakes, — the night 
 Chills bitterly. It will be firm to-morrow. 
 
 \Exxt Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Hal. To-morrow ! — that will settle all — I '11 seek 
 My mother now ; — if she is still assured 
 That Helen loves — I cannot bear the thought — 
 Silence and darkness teach me to endure it ! 
 
 [,Ex.it Halbert Macdonald.
 
 STKMB I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 2-27 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — A Chapel adjoining Halhert's Toic^r, partly in 
 ruins, in which is seen the Tomb of Halhert's Father. — Morn- 
 ing just breaking. 
 
 Enter Halbert ]\Iacdonald. 
 Hal. The hour approaches when my life's last hope 
 Will be extinguish'd ; — it is quivering now 
 Upon the verge of darkness ; — ^yet I feel 
 No pang — no throb. My spirit is serene, 
 As if prepared to cleave celestial air 
 To passionless delights — this calm within me 
 Has something awful. 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald. 
 
 Hal. Mother, wish me joy. 
 
 Ladi/ M. Joy, Halbert ?— 
 
 Hal. Yes ; — of victory achieved 
 
 O'er the last passion which can ever rack 
 My bosom. I can bear to ask yoii now. 
 If any change in Helen raises doubt 
 
 How she will answer, when 1 am not quite arm'd 
 
 As I have boasted. 
 
 Lady 31. No ; — she scarcely raised 
 
 Her head, until her work — a bridal robe — 
 Hung dazzling on her arm ; as then she sought 
 Her chamber, I impress'd one solemn kiss 
 Upon her icy brow : then as aroused 
 From stupor by poor sympathy, she threw 
 Her arms around my neck ; and whispering low, 
 But piercingly, conjured me to keep watch 
 Upon her thinkings, lest one erring wish 
 Should rise to mar her duty to her lord. 
 
 Hal. I ask no more, till in this holy place 
 Her soul shall answer mine ; too well I know 
 The issue ; yet I shrink not, nor repine. 
 q2
 
 228 GLENCOE; OR, Lact ■»■ 
 
 Lady M. Your calmness frightens me ; you think of 
 death. 
 
 Hal. But as a thing to sigh for, not to seek ; 
 I never wall forsake you for the grave, 
 Till Heaven dismiss me thither. Has she slept ? 
 
 Lady M. I know not ; but her chamber has been still, 
 Until, on notice of the priest arrived 
 She sent to pray the guidance of his arm 
 To lead her to this place. 
 
 Hal. The priest arrived ! 
 
 what a world of happiness these words 
 Should indicate. It opens now to show 
 Its glories melting into air. They come — 
 Her step is heavy ; may the heart that sways it 
 Go lighter hence ! 
 
 Enter tlie Priest, leading Helen, in bridal attire. 
 
 Hal. [meeting them]. Before a solemn change 
 Shall pass on our condition, let me claim 
 One kiss, in memory of the wintry paths 
 Which we have walked with purity of heart 
 And heaven-ward aspect ; — should death take us now, 
 It had no terrors. [Kisses Helen's forehead. 
 
 Priest. Sir, your words are sad 
 
 For such an hour. Shall we begin the service ? 
 
 Hal. We wait my brother's presence. 
 
 Helen. not his ! 
 
 1 am quite ready ; let the rite proceed. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Hal. You are most welcome ; — we have waited for yoa. 
 
 Henri/, [looking eagerly round]. Your pardon ; all are 
 not assembled yet. 
 Where is Glenlyon ? 
 
 Hal. Who ? 
 
 Henry. The lady's uncle 
 
 He has, no doubt, approved her choice, and means 
 To grace the ceremonial. You will wait 
 His coming 1 
 
 Hal. He resign'd this lovely one
 
 SCENE I.] THE FATE OF TUE MACDONALDS. 229 
 
 To those who knew her worth ; he shall not now 
 Infest the roof that shelters her. 
 
 Henri/. [asideJi. All lost ! 
 
 What can detain him ? 
 
 Priest. Shall the rite proceed ? 
 
 Hal. I have a few momentous words to speak 
 Before the rites begin ; — to you, fair Helen, 
 I must address them ; but I pray my brother, 
 Whom they touch nearly, to attend. 
 
 Henri/. I listen. 
 
 Hal. How, through sad years, the consecrated joy 
 Which seems to wait me at this hour, has dawTi'd 
 And brighten'd, from its first uncertain rays 
 Along the rugged pathway of a life 
 Else unadom'd, my passion-fever'd speech 
 Has shown ; — nor less divine the \nsion glows 
 Now it stands clear before me, and invites 
 To mingle heaven with earth. You cannot doubt it. 
 
 Helen. Never ; — I only wish I could deserve 
 A love like yours. 
 
 Hal. Yet ere I grasp this dream, 
 
 And make its phantoms real ; — within these walls 
 By both revered ; — where side by side we knelt 
 In infantine humility, and faith 
 No question ruffled; where your spirit sought 
 To cast from its pure mirror, each faint cloud 
 ^\Tiich jocund thoughts might breathe, or nicest fear 
 Imagine to o'erspread it ; — at the tomb 
 Of him who watches o'er his trembling son, 
 At this dread crisis of his fate ; — I ask you — 
 Explore your heart ; and if you find a wish 
 That glances at another fortune, speak it ! 
 
 Helen. Have mercy on me ! 
 
 Hal. You have seen me chafed 
 
 By passion worse than aimless in a soul 
 AVhose destinies are fashion 'd by a Power 
 Wise, bountiful, resistless ; — and the words 
 Such frenzy dashes with its foam might seem 
 To urge that one unlike myself must prove 
 Unfit for your affection. Hear me now, 
 When calmer reason governs me ! There stands
 
 230 GLENCOE; OR, [act v. 
 
 One near to me in blood ; a soldier, valiant, 
 And raised above all baseness ; ia the bloom 
 And gladness of his youth ; who loves you — not 
 Perchance as I do — but who loves you well ; — 
 You are a soldier's child ; — your noble heart 
 May from most natural impulse turn to one 
 Endow'd and gi*aced as he is ; — if I read 
 Your wish aright ; — I '11 join this hand with his, — 
 As freely as I would relinquish life 
 To succour yours. 
 
 Helen, [sinking on her hiee before Halbert]. Heaven 
 
 Hal. [raising Helen]. 'Tis enough ; [bless you ! 
 
 Now let me draw this ring away — 'tis done — 
 You'll let me wear it for a little time — 
 A very little time ? Come, Heniy, — take 
 This hand, with the deep blessing of a man 
 Whose all is given with it. 
 
 [Takes Henry's hand to join it to Helen's. Henry 
 stands abstracted. 
 
 Hal. You are cold — 
 
 Your thoughts are far away : — a blackness spreads 
 Across your face ; speak to us ! 
 
 Helen. He is stricken 
 
 With wonder at your goodness. Henry ; Love ! 
 Join me to bless your brother. 
 
 Henry. Will no bolt 
 
 From heaven fall on this head ! 
 
 Helen. His senses wander, 
 
 Scared at this sudden happiness ; — anon 
 All will be well. [Grasps his arm. 
 
 Henry. never ! — do not gaze 
 
 Upon me ; — Helen, touch me not ; — fly all. 
 
 Hal. Wherefore ? From whom ? 
 
 Henry. God ! I cannot tell it, 
 
 \_A confused cry heard far in the Valley below. 
 
 Hal. What cry is that ! 
 
 Lady M. The shrieks of death arise. 
 
 Henry. Not death ! 
 
 Enter Angus. 
 Angus. Fly for your lives ; our cherish'd guests
 
 SCF.NS I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 231 
 
 Have fall'n upon the clansmen wrapp'd in sleep 
 With murderous swords ; and burning hovels light 
 Their slaughterous way. 
 
 Henry. 'Tis false. 
 
 Angus. False ! Hark ! Behold ! 
 
 \Anoiher cry heard more dhtinctly from the Valley , and 
 the glare of distant fire seen. 
 Henry. misery ! I meant not this. 
 Hal. You ! 
 
 Enter Alaster Macdonald, icounded. 
 
 Alas. Cousin — 
 
 Halbert — I've struggled through the ranks of death 
 Dying to cry for justice, A few moments — 
 And my poor life expended, you will bear 
 The Chieftain's sword. 
 
 Hal. Where is your Father ? 
 
 Alas. Slain. 
 
 Hal. And John ? 
 
 Alas. Both murder'd in their sleep. I cry 
 
 For justice on the head of him who ranged 
 The assassins. Hear me ! I would kneel indeed, 
 But my joints stiffen. 
 
 Hal. Where's the traitor 1 
 
 AI0.S. [looking round, sees Henry and exclaims}. There ! 
 [Falls lifeless into the arms of the Priest, ^cho hears him out. 
 
 Hal. My most unhappy brother ! 
 
 Priest, [returning]. He has pass'd. 
 
 Hal. And I am chief ! This is the fatal hour 
 That Moina saw. 
 
 [Angus a)id Attendants kneel to Halbert. 
 Ancestral shades, I see 
 You beckon in yon flame. Let me sit here ; 
 The grave will ser\"e. Where does the doom'd man stand? 
 
 Henry. Here ! Chief of the Macdonalds, let my blood 
 Atone my crime — it was not this — I meant 
 But your disgrace. How little did I know 
 The heart I meant to grieve ! Strike ! vindicate 
 The ancient power, which perishes while thus 
 I pray to be its victim. Do you hear ? 
 
 [Rtncxced cries from the Valley.
 
 232 GLENCOE; OR, [act v. 
 
 Release me from those cries ; give me one look 
 Of love, and end me. 
 
 Hal. Will none plead for him ? 
 
 Helen. It was for me. [To Lady Macdonald. 
 
 Plead for your son. 
 
 Lady M. I plead 
 
 For him who, plotting infamy, has brought 
 Death on our race ! All things around me plead 
 Against him ; and that wail is fraught with shrieks 
 Of mothers, who, with death's convulsions, strive 
 In vain to shield their infants — such as he 
 Was once — as innocent^ as blithe, as fair. 
 
 Henry ! Henry ! could I die for you ! 
 
 [Lady Macdonald falls on his neck. Another cry heard. 
 She starts away. Helen sinks on her knees beside the 
 tomb. 
 Henry. I 'm ready. 
 Hal. There !— without. 
 
 Henry. I'll wait you there. 
 
 Hal. Will Heaven vouchsafe no refuge ? 
 
 \As he raises his arms in supplication, a shot strikes him ; 
 he falls. 
 
 That is well. 
 Mercy, Most Merciful ! — I am absolved. 
 
 Enter Glenlyon. 
 
 Glen. Am I too late ? My niece ■ 
 
 Helen. Away ! away ! 
 
 Henry, [rushing on Glenlyon]. Die, murderer ! 
 Lady M. [stops his arm]. Let him live. Glenlyon, 
 
 1 pray you may have life stretch'd out beyond 
 The common span of mortals, to endure 
 The curse of Glencoe cleaving to your soul. 
 
 Helen Amen ! 
 
 Glen. It is upon me, yet I will preserve you. 
 
 Hal. Leave us to die. 
 
 Enter Drummond. 
 Drum. I seek Glenlyon here. 
 
 The eastern pass is open ; Duncanson 
 Has not arrived : that way the clansmen fly.
 
 scEVE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 233 
 
 Glen. Heaven speed them ! [Exit Glenlyon , 
 
 Henry. Then will I oppose this breast 
 
 To the pursuing demons, till I win 
 The death I thirst for. [Exit Henry. 
 
 Helen. Henry ! \SinJcs on the ground. 
 
 Hal. There is comfort ; 
 
 Raise me to clasp my mother. You will pray 
 For Henry ; — and will find a child in her 
 Whom mercy spares this moment. [To the Priest. 
 
 To your charge 
 I leave the gathering of my scanty fortune, 
 Which will provide a refuge for these sad ones 
 In some small convent, where they'll weep out life. 
 AVill you do this ? 
 
 Priest. I will. 
 
 Hal. Bless you ! I mark 
 
 The face which gazed in pity on my rage 
 Beside my father's death-bed : — 'tis subdued — 
 Hush'd — conquer'd — pardon' d — and I die in peace. [Dies.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 EVENING SERVICE. 
 
 PERFORMED BY DR. VALPY AT READING SCHOOL. 
 
 There is a holy magic in that tone, 
 
 Can wake from ^Memory's selectest cell 
 
 The hour when first upon my heart it fell 
 
 Like dew from Heaven : — the years that since have flown 
 
 Seem airy dreams ; — yet not of self alone 
 
 Those sacred strains are eloquent ; — they tell 
 
 Of numbers temper'd by their simple spell 
 
 In boyhood's unreflecting prime to own 
 
 Their kindred with their fellows — best of lore ! — 
 
 "VVho to this spot, as Persians to the East, 
 
 Turn reverential thoughts from every shore 
 
 Which holds them ; nor forbear till life hath ceased 
 
 With chi-ld-like love a blessing to implore 
 
 On thee, mild Chanty's unspotted Priest !
 
 SON]VETS. 
 
 IL 
 
 THE FORBURY, AT READING. 
 
 VISITED ON A MISTY E\ ENIXG IN ALTUjMN. 
 
 Soft uplands, that in boyhood's earliest days 
 Seem'd mountain-like and distant, fain once more 
 Would I behold you ! but the autumn hoar 
 Hath veil'd your pensive groves in evening haze ; 
 Yet must I wait till on my searching gaze 
 Your outline lives — more dear than if ye wore 
 An April Sunset's consecrating rays — 
 For, even thus the images of yore 
 Which ye awaken glide from misty years 
 Dream-like and solemn, and but half unfold 
 Their tale of glorious hopes, religious fears, 
 And visionary schemes of giant mould ; 
 Whose dimmest trace the world-worn heart reveres. 
 And, with love's grasping weakness, strives to hold.
 
 SONNETS. 237 
 
 ra. 
 
 ON HEARING THE SHOUTS OF THE PEOPLE AT THE 
 
 READING ELECTION IN THE SUMMER 1826, 
 
 AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 Hark ! from the distant town the long acclaim 
 
 On the chai-m'd silence of the evening breaks 
 
 With st-artling interruption ; — yet it wakes 
 
 Thought of that voice of never-dying fame 
 
 Which on my boyish meditation came 
 
 Here, at an hour like this ; — my soul partakes 
 
 A moment's gloom^ that yon fierce contest slakes 
 
 Its thirst of high emprise and glorious aim : 
 
 Yet wherefore 1 Feelings that from heaven are shed 
 
 Into these tenements of flesh, ally 
 
 Themselves to earthly passions, lest, unfed 
 
 By warmth of human sympathies, they die ; 
 
 And shall — earth's fondest aspirations dead — 
 
 Fulfil their- first and noblest prophecy.
 
 2?8 SONNETS. 
 
 VIEW OF THE VALLEY OF READING. 
 
 FROM TtLEHURST, AT THE CLOSE OF THE SAME ELECTION. 
 
 Too long have I regarded thee, fair vale, 
 
 But as a scene of struggle which denies 
 
 All pensive joy ; and now -with childhood's eyes 
 
 In old tranquillity, I bid thee hail ; 
 
 And welcome to my soul thy own sweet gale, 
 
 Which wakes from loveliest woods the melodies 
 
 Of long-lost fancy — Never may there fail 
 
 Within thy circlet, spirits born to rise 
 
 In honour — whether won by Freedom rude 
 
 In her old Spartan majesty, or wrought 
 
 With partial, yet no base regard, to brood 
 
 O'er usages by time with sweetness fraught ; 
 
 Be thou their glory-tinted solitude. 
 
 The cradle and the home of generous thought !
 
 SONNETS, 
 
 V. 
 
 TO THE THA5IES AT WESTMINSTER, 
 
 IN RECOLLECTION OF THK BANKS OF THE SAME RIVER AT CAVERSHAM, 
 NEAR READING. 
 
 AViTH no cold admiration do I gaze 
 
 Upon thy pomp of waters, matchless stream ! 
 
 But home-sick fancy kindles with the beam 
 
 That on thy lucid bosom faintly plays ; 
 
 And glides delighted through thy crystal ways, 
 
 Till on her eye those wave-fed poplars gleam, 
 
 Beneath whose shade her first ethereal maze 
 
 She fashion'd ; where she traced in clearest dream 
 
 Thy mirror'd course of wood-enshrined repose 
 
 Besprent with island haunts of spirits bright ; 
 
 And widening on — till, at the vision's close, 
 
 Great London, only then a name of might 
 
 For childish thought to build on, proudly rose 
 
 A rock-throned city clad in heavenly light.
 
 240 SO^NETS. 
 
 VI. 
 TO THE SAME RIVER. 
 
 I MAY not emulate their lofty aim, 
 Who, in divine imagination, bold, 
 With mighty hills and streams communion hold, 
 As li\'ing friends ; and scarce I dare to claim 
 Acquaintance with thee in thy scenes of fame. 
 Wealthiest of Rivers ! though in days of old 
 I loved thee where thy waters sylvan roll'd. 
 And in some sense would deem thee yet the same. 
 So love perversely cleaves to some old mate 
 Estranged by fortune ; in his very pride 
 Seems lifted ; waxes in his greatness great ; 
 And silent hails the lot it prophesied, — 
 Content to think in manhood's palmy state 
 Some lingering traces of the child abide.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 vn. 
 
 TO MR. MACREADY, 
 
 ox HIS PERFORMAXCE OF WERNER, IX LORD BYRON'S TRAGEDY 
 OF THAT NAME. 
 
 LE.fiRNED in Affection's thousand ways ! 
 
 1 thought thy art had proved its happiest power, 
 '\\'hen thou didst bend above the opening flower 
 Of sweet Virginia's beauty, and with praise 
 Measured in words but fineless in the gaze 
 
 Of the proud sire, her gentle secret won : 
 Or when the Patriot Archer's hardy Son 
 Was school'd by doting sternness for the hour 
 Of glorious peril ; but the just designs 
 Were ready ; now thy soul's affections glow 
 By thy own genius train'd, through frigid lines. 
 And make a scomer's bloodless fancy show, 
 When love disdain'd round its cold idol twines, 
 How mighty are its weakness and its woe !
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 vm. 
 
 FAME— THE SYMBOL AND PROOF OF IMMORTALITY 
 
 The names that slow Oblivion have defied, 
 And passionate Ambition's wildest shocks 
 Stand in lone grandeur, like eternal rocks, 
 To cast broad shadows o'er the silent tide 
 Of time's unebbing flood, whose waters glide. 
 To ponderous darkness from their secret spring, 
 And, bearing on each transitory thing, 
 Leave those old monuments in loneliest pride. 
 There stand they — fortresses uprear'd by man, 
 Whose earthly frame is mortal ; symbols high 
 Of power unchanging, — thought that cannot die ; 
 Proofs that our nature is not of a span. 
 But of immortal essence, and allied 
 To life and joy and love unperishing.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO MR. MACREADY, 
 
 OS THE BIRTH OF HTS FtRST CHILD ; 
 r.V RECOLLECTION OF HIS PERFORMA.VCfi OF VIRGIVIfS 
 
 There is no father, who, with swimming eyes, 
 
 Has seen thee present life and passion lend 
 
 To scenes by simple-hearted Poet penn'd, 
 
 Depicting household love in Roman guise, 
 
 Which, breathed through ancient forms, in freshness vies 
 
 With love of yesterday, who does not send 
 
 A greeting to thee as a cherish'd fiiend. 
 
 Now thy own heart acknowledges the ties 
 
 Which skill, forestalling Nature, made thee guess 
 
 With finest apprehension, and commend 
 
 To tearful crowds ; — yet while the sweet excess 
 
 Of joy that thou hast passion'd forth, shall fill 
 
 Thy soul with all it dream'd of happiness. 
 
 May Fear and Grief remain Art's Fictions still ! 
 
 K 2
 
 241 SONNETS. 
 
 TO CHARLES DICKENS, 
 
 ON HIS "OLIVER TWIST." 
 
 Not only with the Author's happiest praise 
 
 Thy work should be rewarded ; 'tis akin 
 
 To DEEDS of men, who, scorning ease to win 
 
 A blessing for the wretched, pierce the maze 
 
 Which heedless ages spread around the ways 
 
 Where fruitful Sorrow tracks its parent Sin ; 
 
 Content to listen to the wildest din 
 
 Of passion, and on fellest shapes to gaze, 
 
 So they may earn the power which intercedes 
 
 With the bright world and melts it ; for within 
 
 Wan Childhood's squalid haunts, where basest needs 
 
 Make tyranny more bitter, at thy call 
 
 An angel face with patient sweetness pleads 
 
 ?or infant suffering to the heart of all.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XL 
 
 TO MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE, 
 
 on hkr approaching retire.ment from the stagf- 
 [december, 1842.] 
 
 If Time has doom'd the triumphs of thy race 
 With loss of thee — the youngest and the last — 
 To take majestic station in the Past, 
 We thank thee that thy fleeting hours embrace 
 Some hint of all their glories ; — bid us trace 
 In thy proud action the unconquer'd will 
 Of the great Roman ; own once more a thrill 
 Akin to that which blanch'd the childish face 
 At Siddons' whisper ; bless the honest grace 
 Which the true heart of chivalry should still 
 Shed o'er thy Father's brow ; — consol'd that all 
 Thus waning into memory, gi-ow more sweet. 
 And make their last expression musical. 
 To live while any heart they hush shall beat.
 
 24(5 SONNETS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ON 1 HE RECEPTION OF THE POET WORDSWORTH 
 AT OXFORD. 
 
 NEVER did a mighty truth prevail 
 With such felicities of place and time, 
 As in those shouts sent forth \vith joy sublime 
 From the full heart of England's Youth, to hail 
 Her once neglected bard, within the pale 
 Of Learning's fairest Citadel ! That voice, 
 In which the Future thunders bids rejoice 
 Some who through wintry fortunes did not fail 
 To bless with love as deep as life, the name 
 Thus welcomed ; — who, in happy silence, share 
 The triumph ; while their fondest musings claim 
 Unhoped-for echoes in the joyous air, 
 That to their long-loved Poet's spirit bear 
 A Nation's promise of undying fame.
 
 SONNETS. 247 
 
 THE MEMORY OF THE POETS. 
 
 The fame of those pure bards whose fancies lie 
 Like glorious clouds in summer's calmest even, 
 Fringing the western skirts of darkening Heaven, 
 And sprinkled o'er with hues of rainbow dye, 
 Awakes no voice of thunder, which may vie 
 With mighty chiefs' renown ; — from ages gone, 
 In low undying strain, it lengthens on. 
 Earth's greenest solitudes with joy to fill, — 
 Felt breathing in the silence of the sky, 
 Or trembling in the gush of new-bom rill, 
 Or whispering o'er the lake's undimpled breast ; 
 Yet blest to live when trumpet notes are still. 
 To wake a pulse of earth-bom extasy 
 In the deep bosom of eternal rest.
 
 248 SONNETS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ETON COLLEGE. 
 
 SURVEYED AFTER LEAVING A SON AT SCHOOL FOR THE FIRST TIME. 
 
 How often have I fix'd a stranger's gaze 
 On yon fam'd turrets, clad in light as fair 
 As this sweet evening lends, and felt the air 
 Of Learning that from calm of ancient days 
 Breathes round them ever ! Now to me they wear 
 Hues drawn from dearer thought ; the radiant haze 
 That mantles them grows thick with fondest care, 
 And its slant sunbeams flicker like the praise 
 Youth wins from wisdom ; — for in yon retreats 
 One little student's heart expectant beats 
 With blood of mine ; — God ! vouchsafe him power. 
 When I am dust, to stand on this sweet place, 
 And, through the vista of long years, embrace 
 With cloudless soul this first Etonian hour !
 
 ALUM BAY. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WR.TTEN AT THE NEEDLES HOTEL, ALUM BAY, ISLE OF WIGHT, 
 AFTE.H A WEEK SPENT AT THAT PLACE. 
 
 How simple in their grandeur are the forms 
 
 That constitute this picture ! Nature grants 
 
 Scarce more than sternest cynic might desire — 
 
 Earth, Sea, and Sky, and hardly lends to each 
 
 Variety of colour ; yet the soul 
 
 Asks nothing fairer than the scene it grasps 
 
 And makes its o\sti for ever ! From the gate 
 
 Of this horae-featur'd Inn, which nestling cleaves 
 
 To its own shelf among the downs, begirt 
 
 With trees which lift no branches to defy 
 
 The fury of the storm, but crouch in love 
 
 Round the low snow-white walls whence they receive 
 
 More shelter than they lend, — the heart-sooth 'd guest 
 
 Views a furze-dotted common, on each side 
 
 Wreath'd into waving eminences, cloth 'd 
 
 Above the furze with scanty green, in front 
 
 Indented sharply to admit the sea. 
 
 Spread thence in softest blue — to which a gorge 
 
 Sinking within the valley's deepening gi-een 
 
 Invites by grassy path ; the Eastern do^^n
 
 ) ALUM BAY. 
 
 Swelling with pride into the waters, shows 
 
 Its sward-tipp'd precipice of radiant white, 
 
 And claims the dazzling peak beneath its brow 
 
 Part of its ancient bulk, which hints the strength 
 
 Of those fam'd Pinnacles that still withstand 
 
 The conquering waves, as fortresses maintain'd 
 
 By death-devoted troops, hold out awhile 
 
 After the game of war is lost, to prove 
 
 The virtue of the conquer'd. — Here are scarce 
 
 Four colours for the painter ; yet the charm 
 
 Which permanence, mid worldly change, confers 
 
 Is felt, if ever, here ; for he who loves 
 
 To bid this scene refresh his inward eye 
 
 WTien far away, may feel it keeping still 
 
 The very aspect that it wore for him, 
 
 Scarce chang'd by Time or Season : Autumn finds 
 
 Scant boughs on which the lustre of decay 
 
 May tremble fondly ; Storms may rage in vain 
 
 Above the clumps of sturdy furze, which stand 
 
 The Forest of the Fairies ; T%vilight gi-ey 
 
 Finds in the landscape's stern and simple forms 
 
 Nought to conceal ; the Moon, although she cast 
 
 Upon the element she sways a track 
 
 Like that which slanted through young Jacob's sleep 
 
 From heaven to earth, and flutter'd at the soul 
 
 Of Shadow's mighty Painter, who thence drew 
 
 Hints of a glory beyond shape, reveals 
 
 The clear-cut framework of the sea and downs 
 
 Shelving to gloom, as unperplex'd with threads 
 
 Of pallid light, as when the summer's noon
 
 ALUxM BAY. 2.1 
 
 Bathes them in sunshine ; and the giant cliffs 
 Scarce veiling more their lines of flint that run 
 Like veins of moveless blue through their bleak sides, 
 In moonlight than in day, shall tower as now, 
 (Save when some moss's slender stain shall break 
 Into the samphire's yellow in mid air, 
 To tempt some trembling life) until the eyes 
 Which gaze in childhood on them shall be dim. 
 
 Yet deem not that these sober forms are all 
 That Nature here provides, although she frames 
 These in one lasting picture for the heart. 
 Within the foldings of the coast she breathes 
 Hues of fantastic beauty. Thread the gorge, 
 And, turning on the beach, while the low sea 
 Spread out in mirror'd gentleness, allows 
 A path along the cui-\-ing edge, behold 
 Such dazzling glory of prismatic tints 
 Flung o'er the lofty crescent, as assures 
 The orient gardens where Aladdin pluck'd 
 Jewels for fniit no fable, — as if earth, 
 Provok'd to emulate the rainbow's gauds 
 In lasting mould, had snatch'd its floating hues 
 And fix'd them here ; for never o'er the bay 
 Flew a celestial arch of brighter grace 
 Than the gay coast exhibits ; here the cliff 
 Flaunts in a brighter yellow than the stream 
 Of Tiber wafted ; then with softer shades 
 Declines to peaily white, which blushes soon 
 With pink as delicate as Autumn's rose 
 Wears on its scattering leaves ; anon the shore
 
 252 ALUM BAY. 
 
 Recedes into a fane-like dell, where stain'd 
 With black, as if with sable tapestry hung, 
 Light pinnacles rise taper : further yet 
 Swells out in solemn mass a dusky veil 
 Of purpled crimson, — while bright streaks of red 
 Start out in gleam-like tint, to tell of veins 
 Which the slow-winning sea, in distant times, 
 Shall bare to unborn gazers. 
 
 If this scene 
 Grow too fantastic for thy pensive thought, 
 Climb either swelling down, and gaze with joy 
 On the blue ocean, pour'd around the heights. 
 As it embraced the wonders of that shield 
 Which the vow'd Friend of slain Patroclus wore, 
 To grace his fated valour ; nor disdain 
 The quiet of the vale, though not endow'd 
 With such luxurious beauty as the coast 
 Of UnderclifF embosoms ; — mid those lines 
 Of scanty foliage, thoughtful lanes and paths, 
 And cottage roofs, find shelter ; the blue stream. 
 That with its brief vein almost threads the isle. 
 Flows blest with two gi-ey towers, beneath whose shade 
 The village life sleeps tnistfully, — whose rites 
 Touch the old weather-harden'd fisher's heart 
 With child-like softness, and shall teach the boy 
 Who kneels, a sturdy gi'andson, at his side. 
 When his frail boat amidst the breakers pants. 
 To cast the anchor of a Christian hope 
 In an nnrippled haven. Then rejoice. 
 That in remotest point of this sweet isle.
 
 ALUM BAY. 253 
 
 "Which with fond mimicry combines each shape 
 
 Of the Great Land that, by the ancient bond 
 
 (Sea-parted once, and sea-united now), 
 
 Binds her in unity — a Spirit breathes 
 
 On cliflF, and tower, and valley, by the side 
 
 Of cottage-fire, and the low gi'ass-grown gi'ave, 
 
 Of Home on English earth, and Home in Heaven ! 
 
 October 18, 1843.
 
 VERSES 
 
 TO THE MKMORV OF A CHILD NAMED AFTER CHARLES LAMB, WHO DtED 
 AT BRIGHTON, 30TH DECEMBER, 1835, AGED SIX YEARS*. 
 
 Our gentle Charles has pass'd away 
 From Earth's short bondage free, 
 
 And left to us its leaden day 
 And mist-enshrouded sea. 
 
 * The child who bore the name of Charles Lamb, and shared largely 
 in his affections, survived him just a year — Lamb's death having taken 
 place on the 27th December, 1834. He had been taken to Brighton in 
 the hope of restoration from mild sea air, and at first seemed revived by 
 its influence ; but severe weather set in, our hopes withered, and he 
 sunk, leaving us the consolation of a most beautiful image in his death — 
 a lighting-up and ennobling the face at the last, which I cannot consent 
 to refer to mere physical causes. The thoughts expressed in these verses 
 — if they deserve the name — were suggested at the time when we lost 
 him ; but I could not then find the heart to attempt putting them into 
 rhyme, notwithstanding the opinion of the nurse who watched hia 
 patient decay, " That Master Charles ought to have verses written upon 
 him ; " and have only just accomplished her wish. From a similar 
 feeling I abstained from publishing among Lamb's Letters the follow- 
 ing little note, on his being informed of the use I had made of his nam« ; 
 but I have a pleasure (scarcely melancholy) in adding it now. 
 " Dear T— 
 
 " You could not have told me of a more friendly thing than you have 
 been doing. I am proud of my namesake. I shall take care never to do 
 any diity action— pick pockets, or anyhow get myself hang'd, for fear of
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES. 255 
 
 Here, by the restless ocean's side, 
 
 Sweet hours of hope have flown, 
 "WTien first the triumph of its tide 
 
 Seem'd omen of our own. 
 
 That eager joy the sea-breeze gave, 
 
 When first it raised his hair, 
 Sunk with each day's retiring wave, 
 
 Beyond the reach of prayer. 
 
 The sun-blink that through drizzling mist, 
 
 To flickering hope akin, 
 Far waves with feeble fondness kiss'd, 
 
 No smile as faint can win ; 
 
 Yet not in vain with radiance weak 
 
 The heavenly stranger gleams — 
 Not of the world it lights to speak, 
 
 But that from whence it streams. 
 
 reflecting ignominy upon yo\ir young Crisom. I have now a motive 
 
 to be good. I shall not omnis moriar, my name borne down the black 
 gulf of oblivion. I shall survive in eleven letters — five more than Cassar. 
 Possibly I shell come to be knighted, or more — 
 Sir C. L. Talkourd, Bt. 
 Yet hath it an authorist's twang with it, which will wear out with my 
 name for poetry. Give him a smile from me till 1 see hira. If you do 
 not drop down before, some day in the week after next I will come and 
 take one night's lodging with you, if convenient, before you go hence- 
 You shall name it. We are in tovna, tamen speciali gratiii; but by no 
 arrangement can get near you. Believe us both, with the greatest 
 regards, yours and Mrs. Talfourd's, 
 
 " Charles La.mb— Pkilo-Talfoird. 
 " I come as near it as I can.*
 
 25<5 MEMORIAL VERSES. 
 
 That world our patient sufferer sought, 
 
 Serene with pitying eyes, 
 As if his mounting Spirit caught 
 
 The wisdom of the skies. 
 
 With boundless love it look'd abroad 
 For one bright moment given. 
 
 Shone with a loveliness that aw'd, 
 And quiver'd into Heaven. 
 
 A year made slow by care and toil 
 
 Has pac'd its weary round. 
 Since Death's enrich'd with kindred spoil 
 
 The snow-clad, frost-ribb'd ground. 
 
 Then Lamb, with whose endearing name 
 
 Our boy we proudly grac'd, 
 Shrank from the warmth of sweeter fame 
 t Than ever Bard embrac'd. 
 
 Still 'twas a mournful joy to think 
 
 Our darling might supply, 
 For years on earth, a \\\mg link 
 
 To name that cannot die. 
 
 And though such fancy gleam no more 
 
 On earthly sorrow's night, 
 Truth's nobler torch unveils the shore 
 
 Which lends to both its light.
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES. 257 
 
 The nurseling there that hand may take 
 
 None ever grasp 'd in vain, 
 And smiles of well-known sweetness wake, 
 
 Without their tinge of pain. 
 
 Though 'twixt the Child and childlike Bard 
 
 Late seem'd distinction wide, 
 They now may trace, in Heaven's regard, 
 
 How near they were allied. 
 
 Within the infant's ample brow 
 
 Blythe fancies lay unfurl'd, 
 Which all uncrush'd may open now 
 
 To charm a sinless world. 
 
 Though the soft spirit of those eyes 
 Might ne'er with Lamb's compete — 
 
 Ne'er sparkle with a wit as wise, 
 Or melt in tears, as sweet, 
 
 That calm and unforgotten look 
 
 A kindred love reveals, 
 With his who never friend forsook. 
 
 Or hurt a thing that feels. 
 
 In thought profound, in wildest glee, 
 
 In sorrow's lengthening range. 
 His guileless soul of infancy 
 
 Endur'd no spot or change.
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES. 
 
 From traits of each our love receives 
 
 For comfort nobler scope ; 
 While light which childlike genius leaves 
 
 Confirms the infant's hope : 
 
 And in that hope with sweetness fraught 
 
 Be aching hearts beguil'd, 
 To blend in one delightful thought 
 
 The Poet and the Child.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 ADDITION TO THE NOTICE OF DR. VALPY, PREFIXED 
 TO " ION." 
 
 Presentation 0/ Plate by Dr. Valpy's Scholars, on the Jubilee 0/ his 
 Mastership, October 19, 1830. 
 
 There is a striking comparison, in one of our old plays, of 
 Life " to a storm, hurrying us from our friends," which is 
 painfully justified by the scattering of those to whom Doctor 
 Valpy's memory was most dear, in the few years which have 
 elapsed since I was compelled to substitute a prefatory notice 
 of the dead for a grateful dedication to the living. Mr. Baron 
 Bolland, his first and favourite pupil, whose advancement he 
 fondly and proudly observed, has closed his earthly career 
 of learning, of kindness, and of honour. The members 
 of Doctor Valpy's large family, who were accustomed to 
 gather around him at the scenes of festivity, now settled 
 in various parts of the country, no longer form the group 
 from which the widening circle of his friends expanded, and 
 meet them no more. The School-Meetings, in which the 
 sentiment of the past early blended with present enjoyment 
 and distant hope, and which deepened in interest as the recol- 
 lections of each festival enriched its successor, are fled ; and 
 many of those who attended them to the last are gone, or aro 
 engrossed with the cares of busy life. Still, among those of 
 us who survive, the remembrance of these delightful hours, 
 and of him who gladdened them, continue unimpaired, only 
 rendered more solemn by the successive removals of those 
 s 2
 
 260 APPENDIX. 
 
 who shared them with us, and the mist of years that has 
 thickened around them. For their sakes, I would faiu ask 
 the indulgence of uninterested readers, when I seek to pre- 
 serve from oblivion the occurrences of one of our last meetings, 
 for such little life as may be permitted to these slight pro- 
 ductions. 
 
 The completion of the fiftieth year of Doctor Valpy's Mas- 
 tership of Reading School, which he was about to resign into 
 the hands of his youngest sou, aiforded an opportunity to his 
 pupils of embodying their sentiments of grateful affection in a 
 substantial form, which could not be lost. A splendid service 
 of plate had, many years before, been presented to the lovely 
 and excellent wife of whom death had long deprived him ; 
 and the precedent was now followed, under still more affecting 
 circumstances, in honour of the survivor. The subscription, 
 limited to a guinea, had been filled by more than two hundred 
 and fifty of his old scholars ; and long after the completion 
 of their pui'pose, other subscriptions arrived from distant 
 pax'ts of the world, which the intelligence had reached, too 
 late to enable the subscribers to express their wish in time to 
 shai-e in the gift before it was presented. The central piece 
 of plate — a beautiful copy of the most beautiful of all vases, 
 " the Warwick " — bore the following inscription : — To the 
 Rev. Richard Valjyy^ D.D.^ who for the long sjxice of Fifty 
 Years presided over Reading School, distinguished for his piety 
 and learning, this testimony of respect and affection was pre- 
 sented by his grateful Scholars, on the I9th October, 1830. The 
 time fixed for the presentation was the close of one of those 
 Triennial Visitations of the school, which had been so 
 often illustrated by a representation of Greek tragedy, 
 unrivalled for correctness of costume, sweetness of enuncia- 
 tion, and graceful simplicity of action ; but which was now 
 to be marked by a reality of interest more deep, and to be 
 foUov/ed by recollections yet more sacred. Mr. Baron Bolland 
 had been selected by the Committee managing the subscrip- 
 tion, to present the Testimonial, and most readily acquiesced
 
 APPENDIX. 261 
 
 in their wishes, but was detained by domestic circumstances 
 in a distant part of the country ; and, having cherished to the 
 last possible moment the hope of performing his deliglilful 
 duty, was obliged to resign it. Under these circumstances, I 
 was so fortunate as to be requested to supply his place, and 
 to be honoured by the opportunity of feebly expressing senti- 
 ments every one present knew to be the simple truth. The 
 Sehool-Room, which Dr. Valpy had erected out of his own 
 funds, was the scene of the breakfast and presentation, at 
 which nearly two hundred persons were seated, exclusive of 
 the real school-boys, who occupied their own desks lining the 
 room. The plate was exhibited on the desk at which the 
 Master had presided for the last half century ; and as soon as 
 the company had assembled, was presented to Dr. Valpy in 
 the following Address, which, with the Reply, I copy from the 
 Reading Newspapers of the following Saturday. 
 
 " In the absence of your distinguished Scholar, who should 
 have been the organ of our sentiments to-day, but who has 
 been detained in a distant part of the country, I have been 
 suddenly called to the high and unmerited honour of repre- 
 senting that large body of your pupUs who now offer to you 
 this little token of their affection and gratitude. In this 
 pleasure there are more than 250 sharers — men scattered 
 through different parts of this and other countries, but all 
 acknowledging one home of their early hopes, loves, and joys, 
 to which their thoughts have often delightedly I'everted, and 
 to which they have themselves been ever welcomed with bound- 
 less hospitality and unfailing kindness ; — men of ages varying 
 through a large portion of human life, yet all alike young in 
 the vivid perception of the happy days they spent under your 
 care; — men of far different avocations and degrees of this 
 world's wealth and esteem, but all equal in that great treasure 
 of imperishable recollection, over which its changes have no 
 power, and in those principles of integrity and honour which 
 have been instilled into them here; — of opinions various as 
 those of freemen will become in a free country, on the
 
 ■262 APPENDIX. 
 
 greatest subjects of inquiry, but all animated by one senti- 
 ment of regard for the institution in wliich they were fostered, 
 and for him who has raised and adorned it through fifty years. 
 In your kind and partial eyes — ever used to look indulgently 
 on our imperfect performances — this gift, we well know, will 
 not be esteemed lightly ; but we offer it with an almost painful 
 sense how inadequate it is to betoken our feelings towards 
 you, and how powerless are all words to express them. If 
 in any place we should feel the insufficiency of language to 
 convey our thoughts and wishes, how must this sense press 
 upon our minds in the place where I have the pleasure to 
 address you ? Here all around has a silent eloquence beyond 
 that of words ; every old familiar object has a speech and a 
 language ; the years long past are rushing by us, — 
 
 ' And more than echoes talk along the walls.* 
 
 "Here have your peaceful successes been achieved ; Tiere 
 have we shared in the blessings of an education in which learn- 
 ing and charity met together ; here have our minds been led 
 along, not the straight and barren ' march of intellect,' but 
 its easy, varied, and delightful journey ; here have we listened 
 (on how many Sabbath evenings!) to precepts which the 
 virtues and labours of the week exemplified, and which fell 
 upon the hearts of joyous and unthinking boyhood in tones fit 
 lo awaken its first sympathy with human infirmity and 
 sorrow. IIe7'e we hail and welcome you on the close of fifty 
 years of toils on which the seal of time is already set ; and 
 we rejoice to believe that hej'e that system of instruction, in 
 which the charities of life are interwoven, will yet long be 
 vital, as administered by one who is endeared to us by a 
 double tie, as our schoolfellow and your son ; who has emulated 
 your learning and your fame ; and who, we trust, through 
 many years, will here impart to others those lessons which he 
 has learned so well, and infuse into our children and children's 
 children the principles and feelings which he, together with 
 us, has derived from his father !
 
 APPENDIX. 263 
 
 *« And now, dear and honoured Master, accept this offering, 
 with our earnest wishes and prayers that you may yet long be 
 spared to us ! As your season of labour has been protracted 
 beyond the usual period in which man is called to work, so 
 may your season of repose be long and happy ! Long, very 
 long, may you live to enjoy the store of triumphant recollec- 
 tions that your life has gathered ! Long, very long, may you 
 live to share in our successes and to rejoice in our joy ! Long, 
 ^•ery long, may you exult in the consciousness that you have 
 done as much good, that you have diffused as much happi- 
 ness, and, allow me to add, that you have excited as much 
 veneration and love, as any individual of your time ! May 
 God preserve and bless you !" 
 
 Doctor Valpy rephed as follows : — 
 
 " Great griefs are silent — so are great joys. There are 
 occasions on which the remembrance of friends snatched 
 from us recurs with fresh bitterness. Some years ago a 
 similar tribute was paid to that dear saint in heaven, my 
 lamented wife. If ever there was a woman adored by all 
 who knew her, it was this object of my affection. I appeal to 
 you, v>ho knew her, whether I have overcharged this picture. 
 If spirits have any sense of what is passing below, that 
 blessed spunt is now hovering over you, whom she loved. 1 
 do not know that I can prove that spirits of departed friends 
 are sensible of our actions, but it is an idea from which I have 
 gained much comfort in many a trying hour. I heartily wish 
 those husbands and wives who hear me may never feel such 
 a privation, untU they reach a ripened age, I cannot accept 
 this tribute of your affection without sensations such as no 
 language I have ever learned can describe. My pilgrimage 
 has been accompanied with many thorns, and illumined with 
 some few flowers ; but this is the fairest flower, the brightest 
 rose, that has ever adorned my path. I cannot say more. 
 You say this is a tribute of your gratitude ; but on the present 
 occasion the debt of gratitude becomes due, not from you to 
 me, but from me to you."
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 NOTE TO THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE— Page 157. 
 
 Cm the final exit of Ismk.ve, the original play thus proceeded to its 
 close : — 
 
 Iph. Since no opposing voice of oracle 
 Confutes her sentence, it must he fulfilled. 
 Advance, and bind the victim. 
 
 Tho. Hold, for mercy ! 
 
 A moment ! Gods, who hover o'er our coimcil. 
 Ye cannot look upon this and be silent ! 
 Corinthians, ye have known him from a child ; 
 Behold him now. Upon his forehead Heaven 
 Hath set a living seal of innocence, 
 Which should outspeak a thousand vices— feign'd 
 It may be — while the unspotted soul, that speaks 
 In nature's honest signs, shall find an answer 
 In every honest heart ? Ye aie silent. Then 
 I turn to ye, Athenians. Coimtrymen ! 
 Whom I have led to conquest — Masters here. 
 Draw your keen swords, and teach the conquered justice. 
 
 [Athenians aiJvance. 
 
 Iph. Forbear .' 
 
 Tho. Deliver, then, your prisoner, my charge : 
 
 Let me confer with him apart from all. 
 I '11 answer for his life's blood with mine own. 
 
 Iph. Corinthians ! we will give the Athenian way ; 
 He speaks \\ith power that is not of the earth. 
 Fate struggles into light— let us retire. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Hyllis and Thoas. 
 
 Hyl. Thoas, thou wilt not lot Creusa think 
 Her brother guilty ? 
 
 Tho. Would that for myself 
 
 I might implore like grace ! but that I fear 
 Thou canst not grant. I have another suit 
 For that which thou canst give. 
 
 Hyl. What boon can I, 
 
 In these my numbered minutes, grant to thee ? 
 What canst thou ask ? Forgetfulness ? Alas ! 
 I have no power. 
 
 Tho. Yes ; in the boon I ask 
 
 That blessing is included. 'Tis a thing 
 Which I must shortly taste, a thing I thirst for ;
 
 APPENDIX. 2C5 
 
 But it will have no sweetness and no worth, 
 Unless it come from thee. 
 
 Hi/i. ^^^lat is it ? 
 
 Tho. Death. 
 
 HyL I know that one of us must die. The lot 
 Hath fallen on me ; and it is best. My life 
 Is that of a slight stripling ; thine is rich 
 In promises of greatness. 
 
 Tho. No ; most worthless— 
 
 For it is tainted. Had my soul been base 
 From nature, I might win a conqueror's wreath 
 StiU in the field ; but noble as it was, 
 It shivers at the shadow of its crime. 
 And shuts itself from this world ; — in another 
 
 \_He plucks the kni/e/rom his bosom. 
 It may expand unsoil'd. Behold this steel. 
 Which thy brave kindness left me ; it is red 
 From the paternal fountain whence thou drew 
 The blood that circles in thy veins ; receive it. 
 And sheath it here I Ikncels'^ The gods require a life 
 For his, and mine alone can justly pay 
 The forfeit. 
 
 Hyl. Mine will satisfy. 
 
 Tho. No, Hyllus ; 
 
 So paid, 'twill bring upon thy native Corinth 
 A double curse. For there is none so deadly 
 As that of guiltless blood, poiu-ed out by men 
 In the high name of justice. Think, O think, 
 What torture Avill be mine, when pestilence 
 Lays waste thy city ; when Creusa wails 
 For her slain brother, and the burning truth 
 Lives ever in my vision ; O, be just ! 
 Be merciful, and send the dagger home ! 
 
 Hyl. I may not stain Jove's temple with thy blood. 
 
 Tho. \_rising'] Thou art right ; thou art right. There is a fitter 
 spot. 
 Walk with me to the grove, in whose recess 
 Thj' father's ashes are inum'd ; where still 
 His shade is waiting unavenged, and calls 
 His son to his last duty. 
 
 Hy!. 1 will go. 
 
 Tho. 'Tis well. Now may I grasp thy hand again. 
 And taste thy generous friendship ; fur I feel 
 The stain of blood already passing from me. 
 As though the sacrifice were past. 3Iay'st thou 
 And she, whom tliou wilt cherish with such love 
 As brothers rarely feel, live happy. 
 
 Hi/l. Never! lExcunt.
 
 APPE^'DIX. 
 
 ScEXE JL— The outside of the Funereal Grove. 
 Enter two Corinthian Soldiers. 
 \st Cor. Sol. Comrade, hast thou heard tidings from the temple ? 
 2nd Cur. Sol. None since the crowd withdrew from it and left 
 The prince and the Athenian leader there ; 
 But these may tell us more. 
 
 Enter two Athenian Soldiers. 
 
 1st Cor. Sol. Can you inform us 
 
 How the strange conference, between our prince 
 And him who led you, ended ? 
 
 1st Ath. Sol. They have left 
 
 The fane together, and have bent their way 
 To the thick grove which holds the irrn of Creon ; 
 Take heed no evil happen to our chief, 
 Or we will make a wilderness of Corinth. 
 
 1st Cor. Sol. This is the grove. They must have enter'd it 
 On the west side. Ye need not fear — the prince 
 Was without arms, and Thoas, in the might 
 Of corporal strength, o'ermatches him. Hast heard 
 Aught of the queen ? 
 
 2nd Cur. Sol. Here comes the prie8t.~Dost know 
 
 Enter Iphitus. 
 Whither the queen hath wander'd ? 
 
 Iph. From the fane 
 
 Where she in madness had denounc'd a youth 
 Whom I believe most innocent, she pac'd 
 The city, with a step so firm and brow 
 So resolute, that none dar'd stay her course 
 By deed or question. To the mournful glen. 
 Which, if hush'd rumours are believ'd, she lov'd 
 Strangely to linger in, she bent her way ! 
 Its depth was clear,— the poisonous vapour slept 
 Within its frightful home. From a tall crag, 
 Wlience none could stop her, I beheld her pass 
 To the detested cavern ; at its entrance 
 She paused an instant, cast a mournful look 
 Upon the sun just setting ; toss'd her arms 
 Wildly towards heaven, then drew them to her breast, 
 In act as if she press'd an infant there ; 
 And, as her eye, uplifted, caught a glimpse 
 Of those who might prevent her, backward drew 
 Into the cave, whose deadly vapours wreath'd 
 Her form grown spectral. So she faded hence, 
 Where none dare ever tread to seek for that 
 Which was Ismene !
 
 APPENDIX. 2GV 
 
 Enter C'p.elsa, 
 
 Cre. Where is Ilyllus ! where 'a 
 
 The Athenian chief? I hear they left the fane 
 Together — they are gone to mortal conflict, — 
 I 'm sure on 't. — Iphitus, thou art Jove's priest ; 
 Haste with me, and prevent them ! [^ (iroan from the wood. 
 
 Heard ye that? 
 It is too late for succour. I will go, 
 Though sights of horror blast me ! 
 
 I ph. Lad}-, thou 
 
 "NVilt be distracted. 
 
 Cre. "iso ; there is no refuge 
 
 In madness for a wretchedness like mine ! 
 Away I away ! Hold back, — I pass alone. 
 
 Iph. Let's follow. \_Exeunl. 
 
 Scene III.— T7ie interior of the Funereal Grove. 
 
 The Urn o/Creox. The Knife bloody on its Pedestal. On one fide Thoas 
 wounded ; on the other, Hyllus, with face averted, and covered with 
 his hands. 
 
 The. I bless thee ! do not mourn ; it was well done— 
 Speak kindly of me as thou canst, to her— 
 Thy sister. 
 
 Enter Pentheus and Athenian Soldiers. 
 
 Pen. Have I come too late ? 
 
 Tho. No, Pentheus, 
 
 In happy time. 
 
 Pen. Alas ! but to avenge thee. 
 
 Tho. Friend, there is nothing to avenge ; this death 
 Was yielded to my prayer. Thou may'st guess well 
 Why I have courted it. My brief command 
 AVill now devolve on thee ; but I would make 
 A treaty with this youth, whoui I now hail 
 As King of Corinth. 'Twill be short, but sealed 
 With blood :— that the Athenian troops retire. 
 Laden with the rich spoils they have achiev'd. 
 And leave his reign in peace. Wilt thou consent ? [To Hyllus. 
 
 Hpl. Alas ! I must. 
 
 Tho. And, Pentheus, thou wilt see 
 
 Our part fulfilled ? 
 
 Pen. Thy wish shall be obeyed. 
 
 Enter Crevsa, folloived by Iphitus, and others. 
 Cre. Ha I Thoas wounded ! first and only love I 
 O, cruel, cruel brother ! never more 
 Be called by that dear title.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Tho. Hold, Creusa, 
 
 I will not, purchase a last ecstasy 
 By such disuuion. Hear me ! and Corinthians, 
 Attend ! My death is just. 'Tis I who slew 
 Your king ! — with what excuse of circumstance 
 You will hercjxfter gather from the prince. 
 Whose noble tongue will speak too gently of me. 
 Pentheus, thy hand ; convey these poor remains 
 To that fair city I have lov'd so well ; 
 Her glories dawn upon me now, more clear 
 Than I have ever seen them in the di-eams 
 Which have enrich'd my little life ! O, Athens ! [ Dica. 
 
 Hyl. Sister! 
 
 Cre. Forgive me, brother. 
 
 IShe/alls on his breast, and bursts into tears. 
 
 Hyl. Weep there ; 'tis thy home. 
 
 Fate, which has stricken us so young, and made 
 Our regal state so dismal, leaves this joy — 
 That we shaU cleave together to the grave. 
 
 NOTES TO GLENCOE. 
 
 *' Frank disdain 
 Of dull existence, ivhich had faintly gleam%t. 
 Like yonder Serpent river, through dark rocks 
 Which bury it." — Page 195. 
 
 The Serpent River is a rapid mountain stream on the north side of 
 Loch Leven, which after a fall of about twenty feet, rushes through ;i 
 series of overhanging rocks, like natural arches, through which the 
 rapid water belo'v can be scarcely discerned. 
 
 " No broad lake 
 Studded with island woods, which make the soul 
 Effeminate toith richness, like the scenes 
 In which the baffled Campbells hid their shame. 
 And scorn'd their distant foes." — Page 196. 
 
 These lines refer to the charge which the enemies of the Campbells 
 ased to urge against them, that when beaten from the borders of Loch 
 Finne, they found shelter on the shores and in the islands of Loch 
 Awe, and defied their foes to follow them, by the proverb, " It is a far 
 cry to Loch Awe." Perhaps Loch Awe embraces or borders on the 
 most lovely scenery in the Highlands, and Glencoe is embedded in that 
 which is the most sublime.
 
 APPENDIX. 20t« 
 
 " ]}'e tcfre charm'd, 
 Ifot awe-struck ;— for The Beaut i/u I teat there 
 Triumphant in its palace."— Vage 211. 
 
 In seeking to embody in this passage the author's impression of the 
 Cave of Fingal, in Staffa, he is aware that it differs from that which all 
 the descriptions he has read of tho same scene convey. All suggest 
 far greater dimensions — a hollow far more vast and awful, but less 
 exquisite in beauty, than to his eye the reality justifies. "Compared 
 to this (it has been said) what are the cathedrals or the palaces built 
 by men ? — mere models or playthings ; — imitative or diminutive as his 
 works will always be when compared with those of nature." According 
 to the author's recollection, the cave would be more fitly compared 
 to a narrow aisle of a great cathedral, fashioned with nicest art, and 
 embellished with the most florid sculpture, than represented as some- 
 tiiing immeasurably greater than the cathedral itself ; and the actual 
 admeasu-ement of he cave will rather accord with this impression, than 
 with that which is more popular. The height of the top of the arch 
 above the water at mean tide is sixty-six feet; the breadth at the 
 entrance forty-two feet ; whence it contracts during its length of two 
 hundred and twenty-seven feet, imtil at the extremity it is only twenty- 
 two feet in width ; and the roof descends in nearly the same propor- 
 tion. "When it is further recollected that even this width is nan-owed 
 to the eye by the row of exquisite columns which continue on the 
 northern side, and along which the adventurer may step, and that a 
 slight bend about half way breaks its imitormity, perhaps he will be 
 pardoned for thinking that there has been much exaggeration in attri- 
 buting the grandeur which arises from space and gloom to tliis wonder- 
 ful cavern. On the other hand, justice has not been done — indeed, 
 never can be done by words — to the fairy loveliness of the scene, — tho 
 delicate colour of the water, — the grace of the columns, — the elegance 
 of the arched roof, and the blue serenity of the distant sea, as seen from 
 beneath it. 
 
 " The order is to guard the avenues 
 To-night ; and ere the morning, put in/ifrce 
 The Royal ordinance on the lives of all 
 Beloio the age of seventy." — Page 217. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott's narrative of the massacre : — 
 
 Mac Ian of Glencoe (this was the patronymic title of the chief of this 
 clan) was a man of a stately and venerable person and aspect. He pos- 
 sessed both courage and sagacity, and was accustomed to be listened to 
 by the neighbouring chieftains, and to take a lead in their deliberations. 
 Mac Ian had been deeply engaged both in the campaign of Killiccrankio, 
 and in that which followed imder General Buchan ; and when the 
 insurgent Highland chiefs held a meeting with the Earl of Hreadalbane, 
 at a place called Auchallader, in the montli of July lUyi, for thepurpose 
 of arranging an armistice, 3Iac Ian was present with the rest, and, it is 
 said, taxed Breadalb^me with the design of retaining a part of the 
 money lodged in his hands for the pacification of the Liighlands. The
 
 270 APPENDIX. 
 
 Earl retorted with vehemence, and charged Mac Tan with a theft of 
 cattle, committed upon some of his lands by a party from Glencoe. 
 Other causes of ofifence took place, in which old feuds were called to 
 recollection ; and Mac Ian was repeatedly heard to say, he dreaded 
 mischief from no man so much as from the Earl of Breadalbane. Yet 
 this unhappy chief was rash enough to stand out to the last moment, 
 and decline to take advantage of King William's indemnity, till the 
 time appointed by the proclamation was wellnigh expired. 
 
 The displeasure of the Earl of Breadalbane seems speedily to have 
 communicated itself to the Master of Stair, who, in his correspondence 
 with Lieutenant- Colonel Hamilton, then commanding in the Highlands, 
 expresses the greatest resentment against ^lac Ian of Glencoe, for 
 having, by his interference, marred the bargain between Breadalbane 
 and the Highland chiefs. Accordingly, in a letter of 3d December, the 
 Secretary intimated that Government was determined to destroy utterly 
 some of the clans, in order to terrify the others, and he hoped that, by 
 standing out and refusing to submit imder the indemnity, the Mac 
 Donalds of Glencoe would fall into the net, — which meant that they 
 would afiFord a pretext for their extirpation. This letter is dated a 
 month before the time limited by the indemnity ; so long did these 
 bloody thoughts occupy the mind of this imprincipled statesman. 
 
 Ere the term of mercy expired, however, ]Mac lan'sosvn apprehensions^ 
 or the advice of friends, dictated to him the necessity of submitting to 
 the same conditions which others had embraced, and he went with his 
 principal followers to take the oath of allegiance to King William, 
 This was a very brief space before the 1st of January, when, by the 
 terms of the proclamation, the opportunity of claiming the indemnity 
 was to expire. Mac Ian was, therefore, much alarmed to find that 
 Colonel Hill, the governor of Fort William, to whom he tendered his 
 oath of allegiance, had no power to receive it, being a military, and not 
 a civil officer. Colonel Hill, however, sjTupathised with the distress 
 and even tears of the old chieftain, and gave him a letter to Sir Colin 
 Campbell of Ardkinlas, Sheriff of Argyleshii-e, requesting him to receive 
 the "lost sheep," and administer the oath to him, that he might have 
 the advantage of the indemnity, though so late in claiming it. 
 
 Mac Ian hastened from Fort William to Inverary, without even 
 turning aside to liis own house, though he passed within a mile of it. 
 But the roads, always very bad, were now rendered almost impassable 
 by a storm of snow ; so that, with all the speed the unfortunate chief- 
 tain could exert, the fatal 1st of January was past before he reached 
 Inverary. 
 
 The SherifiF, however, seeing that Mac Ian had complied with the 
 spirit of the statute, in tendering his submission within the given period, 
 under the sincere, though mistaken belief, that he was applying to the 
 person ordered to receive it ; and considering also, that, but for the 
 tempestuous weather, it would after all have been offered in presence 
 of the proper law-officer, did not hesitate to administer the oath of 
 allegiance, and sent off an express to the Prvry Council, containing an 
 attestation of Mac lan's having taken the oaths, and a full explanation 
 of the circumstances which had delayed bis doing so until the lapse of
 
 APPENDIX. 271 
 
 the appointed period. The Sheriff also wrote to Colonel ITill what he 
 had done, and requested that he would take care that Glencoe should 
 not he annoyed hy any military parties until the pleasure of the 
 Council should be known, which he could not doubt would be favour- 
 able. 
 
 Mac Ian, therefore, returned to his own house, and resided there, as 
 he supposed, in safety, under the protection of the Government to 
 which he had sworn allegiance. That he might merit this protection, 
 he convoked his clan, acquainted them with his submission, and com- 
 manded them to live peaceably, and give no cause of offence, under 
 pain of his displeasure. 
 
 In the meantime, the vindictive Secretary of State had procured 
 orders from his sovereign respecting the measures to be followed with 
 such of the chiefs as should not have taken the oaths within the term 
 prescribed. The first of these orders, dated 11th January, contained 
 peremptory directions for military execution, by fire and sword, against 
 all who should not have made their submission within the time ap- 
 pointed. It was, however, provided, in order to avoid driving them to 
 desperation, that there was still to remain a power of granting mercy 
 to those clans who, even after the time was past, should still come in 
 and submit themselves. Such were the terms of the first royal warrant, 
 in which Glencoe was not expressly named. 
 
 It seems afterwards to have occurred to Stair, that Glencoe and his 
 tribe would be sheltered imder this mitigation of the intended severities, 
 since he had already come in and tendered his allegiance, without 
 waiting for the menace of military force. A second set of instruc- 
 tions were, therefore, made out on the 16th .January. These held out 
 the same indulgence to other clans, who should submit themselves at 
 the very last hour (a hypocritical pretext, for there existed none which 
 stood in such a predicament), but they closed the gate of mercy against 
 the devoted Mac Tan, who had already done all that was required of 
 othors. The words are remarkable : — " As for Mac Ian of Glencoe, 
 and that tribe, if they can be well distinguished from the rest of the 
 Highlanders, it will be proper, for the vindication of public justice, to 
 extirpate that set of thieves." 
 
 You will remark the hypocritical clemency and real cruelty of these 
 Instructions, which profess a readiness to extend mercy to those who 
 needed it not (for all the other Highlanders had submitted within the 
 limited time), and deny it to Glencoe, the only man who had not been 
 able literally to comply with the proclamation, though, in all fair con- 
 struction, he had done what it required. 
 
 Under what pretence or colouring King William's authority was 
 obtained for such cruel instructions, it would be in vain to inquire. 
 The Sheriff of Argyle's letter had never been produced before the 
 Council ; and the certificate of Mac lan's having taken tlie oath was 
 blotted out, and, in the Scottish phrase, deleted from the books of the 
 Privy Council. It seems probable, therefore, that the fact of that 
 chiefs submission was altogether concealed from the King, and that ho 
 was held out in the light of a desperate and incorrigible leader of ban- 
 ditti, who was the main obstacle to the peace of the Highlands ; but if
 
 272 APPENDIX. 
 
 we admit that "William acted under such misrepresentations, deep 
 blame will still attach to him for rashly issuing orders of an import so 
 dreadful. It is remarkable that these fatal instructions are both super- 
 scribed and subscribed by the King himself, whereas, in most state 
 papers, the sovereign only superscribes, and they are countersigned by 
 the Secretary of State, who is answerable for their tenor ; a respon- 
 fiibility which Stair, on that occasion, was not probably ambitious of 
 claiming. 
 
 The secretary's letters to the military oflScers, directing the mode of 
 executing the King's orders, betray the deep and savage interest which 
 he took personally in their tenor, and his desire that the bloody 
 measure should be as general as possible. He dwelt in these letters 
 upon the proper time and season for cutting off the devoted tribe. "The 
 winter," he said, " is the only season in which the Highlanders cannot 
 elude us, or carry their wives, children, and cattle to the moimtains. 
 They cannot escape you ; for what human constitution can then endure 
 to be long out of house ? This is the proper season to maul them, in the 
 long dark nights." He could not suppress his joy that Glcncoe had not 
 come in within the teim prescribed ; and expresses his hearty wishes 
 that others had followed the same course. He assured the soldiers that 
 their powers should be ample; and he exacted from them proportional 
 exertions. He entreated that the thieving tribe of Glcncoe might be 
 rootfd out in earnest ; and he was at pains to explain a phrase which is 
 in itself terribly significant. He gave directions for securing every pass 
 by which the victims could escape, and warned the soldiers that it w-ere 
 better to leave the thing imattcmptcd, than fail to do it to purpose 
 " To plunder tlicir lands, or drive oil" their cattle, would," say his 
 letters, " be only to render them desperate ; they must be all slaughtered, 
 and tlie manner of execution must be sure, secret, and eflcctual." 
 
 These instructions, such as have been rarely penned in a Christian 
 country, were sent to Colonel Hill, the Governor of Fort William, who, 
 greatly surprised and grieved at their tenor, endeavoured for some time 
 to evade the execution of them. At length, obliged by his situation to 
 render obedience to the King's commands, he transmitted the orders to 
 Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, directing him to talvc four hundred men 
 of a Highland regiment belonging to the Earl of Argyle, and fulfil the 
 royal mandate. Thus, to make what was intended yet worse, if possible, 
 than it was in its whole tenor, the perpetration of this cruelty was 
 committed to soldiers, who were not only the countrymen of the pro- 
 scribed, but the near neighbours, and seme of them the close connexions 
 of the Mac Donalds of Gloncoe. This is the more necessary to be remem- 
 bered because the massacre has imjuslly been said to have been com- 
 mitted by English troops. The course of the bloody deed was as follows : 
 
 Uefore the end of January, a party of the Earl of Aigyle's regiment, 
 commanded by Captain Campbell of Glenlyon, approached Glencoe. 
 Mac lan's sons went out to meet them with a body of men, to demand 
 whether they came as friends or foes. The officer replied, that they 
 came as friends, being sent to take up their quarters for a short time in 
 Glcncoe, in order to relieve the ganison of Fort AVilliam, which was 
 crowded with soldiers. On this they wers welcomed with all the hos-
 
 APPENDIX. 273 
 
 pitality which the chief and his followers had the means of extending 
 to them, and they resided for fifteen days aniong&t the unsuspecting 
 Mac Donalds, in the exchange of every species of kindness and civility. 
 That the laws of domestic affection might be violated at the same time 
 with those of hxmianity and hospitality, you are to understand that 
 Alaster Mac Donald, one of the sons of Mac Ian, was married to a niece 
 of Glenlyon, who commanded the pai-ty of soldiers. It appears also, 
 that the intended cruelty was to be exercised upon defenceless nun ; 
 for the Mac Donalds, though afraid of no other ill-treatment from their 
 military guests, had supposed it possible the soldiers might have a com- 
 mission to disarm them, and therefore had sent their weapons to a dis- 
 tance, where they might be out of reach of seizure. 
 
 Glenlyon's party had remained in Glencoe for fourteen or fifteen days, 
 when he received orders from his commanding oflQcer Major Duncanson, 
 expressed in a manner which shows him to have been the worthy af;ent 
 of the cruel Secretarj'. They were sent in conformity with orders of 
 the same date, transmitted to Duncanson by Hamilton, directing that 
 all the Mac Donalds, imder seventy years of age, were to be cut ofif, 
 and that the Government was not to be troubled icith prisuners. Dun- 
 canson's orders to Glenlyon were as follows :— 
 
 " You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels, and put all to the 
 sword under seventy. You are to have especial care that the old fox 
 and his cubs do on no account escape your hands ; you are to secure all 
 the avenues, that no man escape. This j-ou are to put in execution at 
 four in the morning precisely, and by that time, or very shortly after, 
 I will strive to be at you with a stronger party. But if I do not come to 
 you at four, you are not to tarry for me, but fall on. This is by the 
 King's special command, for the good and safety of the country, that 
 these miscreants be cut oflF root and branch. See that this be put into 
 execution without either fear or favoux, else you may expect to be 
 treated as not true to the King or Government, nor a man fit to carrj- a 
 commission in the Kin g's service. Expecting that you will not fail in 
 the fulfilling hereof, as you love yourself, I subscribe these with my 
 hand, " Robert Duncanson." 
 
 This order was dated 12th February, and addressed, " For their 
 Majesties' service, to Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon." 
 
 This letter reached Glenlyon soon after it was written ; and he lost 
 no time in carrying the dreadful mandate into execution. In the in- 
 terval, he did not abstain from any of those acts of familiarity which 
 had lulled asleep the suspicions of his victims. He took his morning 
 draught, as had been his practice every day since he came to the 
 glen, at the house of Alaster Mac Donald, JIac lan's second son, who 
 was married to his (Glenlyon's) niece. He, and two of liis cfticcrs 
 named Lindsay, accepted an invitation to dinner from Mac Ian himself, 
 for the following day, on which they had determined he should n, ver 
 see the sun rise. To complete the sum of treachery, (ilenly. n i>l;oed 
 at cards, in his ovra quarters, with the sons of Mac Ian, John and 
 Alaster, both of whom were also destined for slaughter. 
 
 About four o'clock, in the morning of 13th Fcbruarj-, the scene of 
 T
 
 274 APPENDIX. 
 
 blood began. A party, commanded by one of the Lindsays, came to 
 Mac lan's house and knocked for admittance, which was at once given. 
 Lindsaj', one of the expected guests at the family meal of the day, 
 commanded this party, who instantly shot Mac Ian dead by his o-wn 
 bed side, as he was in the act of dressing himself, and giving orders 
 for refreshments to be provided for his fatal visitors. His aged wife 
 was stripped by the savage soldiery, who, at the same time, drew off the 
 gold rings from her fingers with their teeth. She died the next day, dis- 
 tracted with grief, and tliebnital treatment she had received. Several 
 domestics and clansmen were killed at the same place. 
 
 The two sons of the aged chieftain had not been altogether so confi- 
 dent as theii- father respecting the peaceful and friendly purpose of their 
 guests. They observed, on the evening preceding the massacre, that the 
 sentinels were doubled, and the mainguard strengthened. John, the 
 elder brother, had even overheard the soldiers muttering amongst 
 themselves, that they cared not about fighting the men of the glen fairly, 
 but did not like the nature of the service they were engaged in ; while 
 others consoled themselves with the military logic, that their ofiicers 
 must be answerable for the orders given, they having no choice save 
 to obey them. Alarmed with what had been thus observed and heard, 
 the young men hastened to Glenlyon's quarters, where they found that 
 officer and his men preparing their arms. On questioning him about 
 these suspicious appearances, Glenlyon accounted for them by a story 
 that he was bound on an expedition against some of Glengarry's men ; 
 and alluding to the circumstance of their alliance, which made his own 
 cruelty more detestable, he added, " If anything evil had been intended, 
 would I not have told Alaster and my niece ? " 
 
 Reassured by this communication, the young men retired to rest, but 
 were speedily awakened by an old domestic, who called on the two 
 brothers to rise and fly for their lives. "Is it time for you," he said, 
 " to be sleeping, when your father is murdered on his own hearth ? " 
 Thus roused, they hurried out in great terror, and heard throughout 
 the glen, wherever there was a place of human habitation, the shouts 
 of the murderers, the reports of the muskets, the screams of the wounded, 
 and the groans of the dying. By their perfect knowledge of the scarce 
 accessible cliffs amongst which they dwelt, they were enabled to escape 
 observation, and fled to the southern access of the glen. 
 
 Meantime, the work of death proceeded with as little remorse as 
 Stair himself could have desired. Even the slight mitigation of their 
 orders respecting those above seventy years, was disregarded by the 
 soldiery in their indiscriminate thirst for blood, and several very aged 
 and bedridden persons were slain amongst others. At the hamlet 
 where Glenlyon had his own quarters, nine men, including his landlord, 
 were bound and shot like felons; and one of them, Mac Donald of 
 Auchintriaten, had General Hill's passport in his pocket at the time. 
 A fine lad of twenty had, by some glimpse of compassion on the part of 
 the soldiers, been spared, when one Captain Drummond came up, and 
 demanding why the orders were transgressed in that particular, caused 
 him instantly to be put to death. A boy, of five or six years old, clung 
 to Glenlyon's knees, entreating for mercy, and offering to become his
 
 APPENDIX. 275 
 
 servant for life, if he would spare him. Glenlyon was moved ; but the 
 same Drummond stabbed the child with his dirk, while he was in thi« 
 agony of supplication. 
 
 At a placed called Auchnaion, one Barber, a sergeant, with a party 
 of soldiers, fired on a group of nine >'Mac Donalds, as they were assem- 
 bled roimd their morning fire, and killed four of them. The owner of 
 the house, a brother of the slain Auchintriaten, escaped unhurt, and 
 expressed a wish to be put to death rather in the open air than within 
 the house. "For your bread which I liave eaten," answered Barber, 
 " I will grant the request." Mac Donald was dragged to the door 
 accordingly ; but he was an active man, and when the soldiers were 
 presenting their firelocks to shoot him, he cast his plaid over their 
 faces, and taking advantage of the confusion, broke from them, and 
 escaped up the glen. 
 
 The alarm being now general, many other persons, male and female, 
 attempted their escape in the same manner as the two sons of Mac Ian 
 and the person last mentioned. Flying from their burning huts, and 
 from their murderous visitors, the half-naked fugitives committed 
 themselves to a winter morning of darkness, snow, and storm, amidst 
 a wilderness the most savage in the West Highlands, having a bloody 
 death behind them, and before them tempest, famine, and desolation. 
 Bewildered in the snow-wreaths, several sunk to rise no more. But tho 
 severities of the storm were tender mercies compared to the cruelty of 
 their persecutors. The great fall of snow, which proved fatal to several 
 of the fugitives, was the means of saving the remnant that escaped. 
 Major Duncanson, agreeably to the plan expressed in his orders to 
 Glenlyon, had not failed to put himself in motion, with four hundred 
 men on the evening preceding the slaughter; and, had he reached the 
 eastern passes out of Glencoe by four in the morning, as he calculated, 
 he must have intercepted and destroyed all those who took that only 
 way of escape from Glenlyon and his followers. But as this reinforce- 
 ment arrived so late as eleven in the forenoon, they found no Mac 
 Donald alive in Glencoe, save an old man of eighty, whom they slew ; 
 and after burning such houses as were yet unconsumed, they collected 
 the property of the tribe, consisting of twelve hundred head of cattle 
 and horses, besides goats and sheep, and drove them ofif to the garrison 
 of Fort William. 
 
 Thus ended this horrible deed of massacre. The number of persons 
 murdered was thirty-eight ; those who escaped might amount to a 
 hundred and fifty males, who, with the women and children of tho 
 tribe, had to fly more than twelve miles through rocks and wilder- 
 nesses ere they could reach any place of safety or shelter. 
 
 '* Stoutlt/ have I /ought 
 Upon King James's sidr ,- hut with Dundee 
 His cause expired." — Page 222. 
 
 "Dundee himself," says Sir Walter Scott, " con trarj* to the advice of 
 the Highland chiefs, was in the front of the battle, .-^nd fatally conspi- 
 cuous. Observing the stand made by two English rtgimcota, ho
 
 276 APPENDIX. 
 
 galloped towards the clan of Macdonald, and was in the act of brmglng 
 them to the charge, with his right arm elevated, as if pointing the way 
 to victory, when he was struck by a bullet beneath the armpit, where he 
 was improtected by the cuirass. He tried to ride on, but being unable 
 to keep the saddle, fell mortally wounded, and died in the course of 
 that night. Such was the general opinion of his talents and courage, 
 and the general sense of the peculiar crisis at which his death took 
 place, that the common people of the low country cannot even now be 
 persuaded that he died an ordinary death. They say that a servant of 
 his own, shocked at the severities which, if triumphant, his master was 
 likely to accomplish against the Presbyterians, and giving way to the 
 popular prejudice of his having a charm against the efiFect of leaden 
 balls, shot him in the tumult of the battle with a silver button taken 
 from his livery coat. The Jacobites and Episcopalian party, on the 
 other hand, lamented the deceased victor as the last of the Scots, the 
 last of the Grahams, and the last of all that was great in his native 
 country."— Ta^a of a Grandfather, chap. 56. 
 
 r ONDON : 
 
 BRALECRY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHrXEFRIAl
 
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