-«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 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 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. \^RufB 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 This bcx)k is DUE on the last date stamped below LO U^[ APR2 8J965 D-URL aMJN^M9&5 '50(2555)47l 3 1 ii|ii|ili|ii 58 00233 8407 B 000 016 847 6 sr> i\ - 5- V ^