^-r. 
 
 
 
 A 
 
 TRAGEDY, 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS NOON^TALFOURD 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 
 GEORGE DEARBORN & CO. GOLD STREET. 
 1837. ^^
 
 New-York: 
 
 f™tedbyScATCHKRB&Al,^„,, 
 
 No. 38 Gold Street. 
 
 1
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNU! 
 
 SANTA BABBAIU 
 
 
 ION; 
 A TR A GED Y
 
 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 Adkastus, King of Argos. 
 
 Medon, High Priest of the Temple of Apollo at Argos. 
 
 Crythes, Captain of the Royal Guard. 
 
 Phocion, son of Medon. 
 
 Ctesiphon, 
 
 noble Argive youths. 
 Cassander, 
 
 lojv, a foundling youth protected by Medon. 
 
 Agenor, "1 
 
 I 
 Cleon, J- sages of Argos. 
 
 TiMOCLES, J 
 
 Irus, a boy, slave of Agenor, 
 
 Clemanthe, Medon 's daughter.- 
 
 Abra, attendant on Clemanthe. ' i 
 
 Scene — Argos. 
 
 The Time of the Action is comprised in one day and 
 night, and the following morning.
 
 PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION. 
 
 We take great pleasure in placing this 
 beautiful tragedy before the American pub- 
 lic. We have, for some months past, been 
 looking with anxiety for its annunciation as 
 in press by one of the houses regularly en- 
 gaged in the re-public atlon of modern En- 
 glish works ; but, not having met with any 
 such, we have turned a little from our course 
 to gather this new perennial flower of dra- 
 matic literature * 
 
 "Ion" has gone through two editions, 
 printed for private distribution among the 
 author's friends, and the copy from which we 
 now publish, is of the second edition on sale 
 in England. We hope to see it pass through 
 as many editions in as short a period of time 
 here, not from any interested motive, — for 
 the profit attendant upon so small a volume is 
 
 ♦ We had not heard of a Philadelphia edition until after the 
 above was written, and our's was partly printed.
 
 iv PREFACE TO THE 
 
 next to nothing, — but from the pride (which 
 we must be allowed to share with all the 
 admu-ers of true poetry) of witnessing such an 
 indication of a pure taste in our country. No 
 production of the last five years has been 
 hailed with more general, more unqualified, 
 and more unbiased approbation than '' Ion." 
 It was even, contrary to the author's expec- 
 tation, as completely successful on the stage 
 as in the closet. It was not written with 
 any ^dew to mere stage-eflfect ; it has neither 
 trap nor tinsel ; an actor has no excuse in 
 any part for raving and ranting ; there is not 
 a single passion in it which will bear being 
 torn to tatters ; its movement is not startling 
 and rapid, but is slow, calm and majestic, 
 like a full strain of sacred music. There is 
 but one point which would elicit rounds of 
 applause from modern audiences ; the reader 
 will easily discover it ; it is so terrific in its 
 concentration of interest, that its perfect rep- 
 resentation on the stage would be thrilling 
 beyond conception. 
 
 " Ion " is a splendid attempt to recall in- 
 to the power of life and sympathy the long 
 buried genius of the antique Tragedy of 
 Fate. The plot moves and hinges upon
 
 AMERICAN EDITION. V 
 
 machinery similar to that of the old Greek 
 dramas. The author, in a preface to the 
 private edition, but which does not appear 
 in the public, for what reason we know not, 
 thus writes : " The idea of the principal char- 
 acter, that of a nature essentially pure and 
 disinterested, deriving its strength entirely 
 from goodness and thought, not overcommg 
 evil by the force of will, but escaping it by 
 an insensibility to its approach, vividly con- 
 scious of existence and its pleasures, yet wil- 
 ling to lay them down at the call of duty, 
 is scarcely capable of being rendered suffi- 
 ciently capable in itself, or of being subjected 
 to such agitations as tragedy requires in its 
 heroes. It was necessary, in order to in- 
 volve 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 or palpable motives 
 without, as its own elements would not sup- 
 ply the contests of tragic emotion, nor would 
 its sufferings, however accumulated, present 
 a varied or impressive figure. Recourse has 
 therefore been had, not only to the old Gre- 
 cian notion of Destiny, apart from all moral 
 1*
 
 VI 
 
 PREFACE TO THE 
 
 agencies, and to a iwophecij indicating its 
 purport in reference to the individuals in- 
 volved in its chains, but to the idea of fasci- 
 nation, as the engine by which Fate may 
 W'ork its purposes on the innocent mind, and 
 force it into terriljle action, most uncongenial 
 to itself, but necessary to the issue." 
 
 For the story of his tragedy, the autlior 
 seems to have drawn almost entirely from 
 his own invention. He is indebted for his 
 names, but for none of his facts, to the Clas- 
 sical Dictionary, — that supplying fountain 
 to all sciolists of Greek and Roman let- 
 ters. Some circumstances of Ion's posi- 
 tion indeed at the opening of the scene were 
 suggested by the beautiful " Ion " of Eurip- 
 ides. Like " the fatherless and motherless 
 boy " of the Greek tragedian, he is a found- 
 ling, who has been nursed and reared with- 
 in a temple, and is now employed in the 
 services of the place ; but with these excep- 
 tions, and that of a few scattered imasres, 
 the modern author has taken nothins: from 
 that particular play. We will not, however, 
 forestall the reader's opinions, but leave him 
 to make his own comparisons and draw his 
 own conclusions.
 
 AMERICAN EDITION. vii 
 
 After the production of "Ion," Serjeant 
 Talfourd, like Lord Byron, awoke one morn- 
 ing and found himself famous. No single 
 effort, with the exception of the great poem 
 of the noble bard, has placed its author more 
 immediately and more permanently in the 
 highest rank of literature. Mr. Talfourd, 
 by this tragedy alone, has made his name 
 perpetual, as one of the best poets of the 
 nineteenth century. As some acquaintance 
 with an author always imparts a new inter- 
 est to his productions, we will make no apo- 
 logy for detaining the reader upon an extract 
 from a late entertaining work,* which de- 
 scribes the first appearance in Parliament, 
 the intellectual character and the person of 
 this new and successful claimant for the ama- 
 ranth of fame. 
 
 " Among the new Liberal members returned at the 
 last election, Mr. Serjeant Talfourd was by far the 
 best known. I never knew a man enter Parliament 
 concerning whom I had higher expectations. I had 
 heard him speak repeatedly out of doors, and coupling 
 that with his acknowledged literary attainments, and 
 the burning enthusiasm with which he was known to 
 cherish his principles, I was fully persuaded, in my own 
 
 * Random Recollections of the House of Commons. American 
 edition, page 195.
 
 viii PREFACE T O THE 
 
 mind, that his first exhibition would dazzle and delight 
 the house. The event proved I had made a miscalcu- 
 lation. He made his debut the night after Sir William 
 FoUett, to whose speech his was chiefly a reply. He 
 spoke for about an hour, but did not, to any extent, gain 
 the attention of the house. Considerable noise, and 
 great listlessness, prevailed all the time. In short, his 
 dehui was a complete failure in so far as effect was 
 concerned, though the speech was one of great elo- 
 quence and ability. There were many accidental cir- 
 cumstances, it is true, which operated against him. He 
 was, in the first place, most unhappy in the time he 
 chose for addressing the house. It was so early as six 
 o'clock, an hour when no man of any note is ever ex- 
 pected to speak, and when, from the noise and confu- 
 sion, caused by members entering the house, even the 
 most popular and influential members could hardly insure 
 attention. Then, again, the house was remarkably thin 
 at the time ; and nothing can more seriously impair 
 the effect of a good speech, than its delivery when the 
 benches are empty. Lastly, he pitched his voice in 
 too low a key. He spoke no louder than he was ac- 
 customed to do in the courts of law, forgetting the 
 house was six times as large, and the members diffused 
 over eight or nine times the space ; for in courts of law, 
 all the persons present are generally congregated within 
 a few yards of the counsel. But besides these disad- 
 vantageous circumstances, there was something in the 
 matter of the speech, which militated greatly against its 
 enthusiastic, or even favourable reception. It was far
 
 AMERICAN EDITION, ix 
 
 too refined : it was one of the most elaborate and philo- 
 sophically reasoned I ever heard delivered in the house. 
 There were but few members who, even after the most 
 close attention, would have been able to follow the 
 speaker, and if once you lost the thread of his argu- 
 ment, the rest would have been in a great measure 
 unintelligible to you. It was exactly a speech of that 
 nature, which ought to have been delivered in a quiet, 
 sflug room, to a dozen or so of the most philosophical 
 men of the present day. In that case it would have 
 been appreciated : the admiration of it by such an au- 
 dience would have known no bounds. 
 
 Mr. Serjeant Talfourd is poetical and eloquent in the 
 highest degree. His matter almost cloys one with its 
 richness. In beautiful and appropriate imagery, he 
 excels all men I ever heard speak : — I mean in the 
 more carefully wrought passages when speaking on im- 
 portant questions. He is fond of introducing a great 
 deal of scriptural phraseology into his speeches. In his 
 maiden efforts in Parliament, there was much of this. 
 He talked of * quitting themselves like men,' of being 
 'knit together in love,' &c. &c. 
 
 His second, and I believe, only other speech in the 
 house, was in defence of the Municipal Corporation 
 Bill. It was very short. It did not occupy^bove ten 
 minutes in tlie delivery. It was much less refined than 
 the other, and was delivered at a more suitable hour of 
 the evening, and to a house in a more attentive mood. 
 It consequently told with better effect. Still, the recep- 
 tion he met with on the occasion, was not at all equal to
 
 X PREFACE, &c. 
 
 what would have been expected by those who have heard 
 him in the courts of law. 
 
 In person Mr. Serjeant Talfourd is about the middle 
 size, and well made. His hair is black, and his com- 
 plexion very dark. His features are small, and his face 
 round. He has the most piercing eyes I ever saw ; 
 they have much of what lovers call a languishing ex- 
 pression about them. His face has altogether much of 
 a soft and feminine appearance. He is a man of much 
 kindness of heart, and much affability of manner. I 
 question if there be a man of more cultivated mind in 
 the house. He is about forty years of age." 
 
 From the foregoing extract, it appears 
 that a resemblance may likewise be traced 
 between Serjeant Talfourd and Lord Byron 
 in this, — that he has been infinitely more 
 successful as a poet than as an orator. 
 
 G. D. & Co.
 
 ION; 
 A TRAGEDY 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Interior of the Teinple of Apollo, which is supposed 
 to be placed on a rocky eminence. Early morning. 
 The interior lighted by a single lamp suspended from 
 the roof. Agenor resting against a column ; — Irus 
 seated on a bench at the side of the scene. 
 
 Agenor comes forward and speaks. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Will the dawn never visit us ? These hours 
 Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear 
 To do the work of desolating years ! 
 All distant sounds are hush'd ; — the shriek of death 
 And the survivors' wail are now unheard, 
 As grief had worn itself to patience. Irus !. 
 I 'm loth so soon to break thy scanty rest, 
 But my heart sickens for the tardy morn ; 
 Sure it is breaking ; — speed and look — yet hold, 
 2
 
 2 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act I. 
 
 Know'st thou the fearful shelf of rock that hangs ."'•V 
 Above tlie encroaching waves, the loftiest point 
 That stretches eastward ? 
 
 IRUS. 
 
 Know it ? Yes, my Lord ; 
 There often have I hlcss'd the opening day, 
 Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste 
 In happy wandering through the forests. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Well, 
 Thou art not tlien afraid to tread it ; there 
 The earliest streak from the unrisen sun 
 Is to be welcomed ; — tell me how it gleams, — 
 In bloody portent or in saffron hope. 
 And hasten back to slumber. 
 
 IRUS. 
 
 I shall hasten : 
 Believe not that thj'- summons broke my rest ; 
 1 was not sleeping. \Exxi htu. 
 
 ' A6EN0R. 
 
 Heaven be with thee, child ! 
 His grateful mention of dcliglits, bcstow'd 
 On that most piteous state of servile childhood. 
 By liberal words chancc-dropp'd, hatli 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 
 Wliich day by day hatli gatiiered o'er my heart, 
 While, basely safe, within tliis column'd circle. 
 Uplifted far into the purer air 
 And by Apollo's partial love secured,
 
 Scene I.] I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 
 
 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 (itful wind 
 Hath borne from each sad quarter of the vale 
 Where life was. 
 
 Re-enter Irus. 
 Ktq there signs of day-break ? 
 
 None ; 
 The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom. 
 
 AOENOR. 
 
 It cannot surely be. Tliine 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? 
 
 Pardon me ; 
 I never thought at such a mournful time 
 To plead my Immble sorrow in excuse 
 Of poorly-render'd service ; but my brother — 
 Thou mayst have noted him, — a sturdy lad, 
 With eye so merry and with foot so light 
 That none could chide his gamesomeness — fell sick 
 But yesterday, and died in my weak arms 
 Ere I could seek for stouter aid : I hoped 
 That I had taught my grief to veil its signs 
 From thy observant care ; but when I stood 
 Upon the well-known terrace where we loved, 
 Arm link'd in arm, to watch the gleaming sails —
 
 4 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act. I. 
 
 His favourite pastime, — for he burn'd to share 
 A seaman's hardy lot, — my tears would flow. 
 And I forgot to dry them. But I see 
 Cleon is walking yonder ; let me call him ; 
 For sure 'twill cheer thy heart to speak with him. 
 
 AGE>^OK. 
 
 Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep^ 
 
 Or, if thou wilt, to weep. [Exit Irus. 
 
 I envy thee 
 The privilege, but Jupiter forfend | 
 That I should rob thee of it ! 
 
 Enter Cleon. 
 
 ,> CLE0^^ 
 
 Hail, Agenor ! 
 Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet 
 .To find thy age unstricken. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Rather mourn 
 That I am destined still to linger here 
 In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me. 
 I chide these sinews that are framed so tough 
 Grief cannot palsy them ; I chide the air 
 Which round this citadel of nature breathes 
 With sweetness not of this world ; I would share 
 The common grave of my dear countrymen 
 And sink to rest, while all familiar things 
 Old custom has endear'd are failing with me, 
 Rather than shiver on in life behind them : 
 Nor should these walls detain me from the paths 
 Where death may be embraced, but that my word, 
 In a rash moment plighted to our host, 
 Forbids me to depart without his license, 
 Which firmly he refuses.
 
 Scene I.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 CLKON. 
 
 Do not chide me 
 If I rejoice to find the generous Priest 
 Means, with Apollo's blessing, to preserve 
 The treasure of thy wisdom ; — nay, he trusts not 
 To promises alone ; his gates are barr'd 
 Against thy egress : — none, indeed, may pass them 
 Save the youth Ion, to whose earnest prayer 
 His foster-father grants reluctant leave 
 To visit the sad city at his will : 
 And freely does he use the dangerous boon. 
 Which, in my thought, the love that cherish'd him, — 
 Since he was found within the sacred grove 
 Smiling amidst the storm, a most rare infant, — 
 Should have had sternness to deny. 
 
 AGENOK. 
 
 What, Ion 
 The only inmate of this fane allovv'd 
 To seek the mournful walks where death is busy ! — 
 Ion, our sometime darling, whom we prized 
 As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismiss'd 
 From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud 
 To make the happy happier ! Is he sent 
 To grapple with the miseries of this time, 
 Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears 
 As it would perish at the touch of wrong ? 
 By no internal contest is he train'd 
 For such hard duty ; no emotions rude 
 Have his clear spirit vanquish'd ; — Love, the germ 
 Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth, 
 Expanding with its progress, as the store 
 Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals 
 Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury. 
 To flush and circle in the flower. No tear 
 Hath fill'd his eye save that of thoughtful joy 
 When, in the evening stillness, lovely things 
 
 2*
 
 6 ION,ATRAGEDY. [Act I. 
 
 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 pictur'd speech, and others have wax'd loud 
 In righteous indignation, he hath heard 
 With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein 
 Of goodness, which surrounding gloom conceal'd, 
 Struck sunlight o'er it : so his life hath flow'd 
 From its mysterious urn a sacred stream. 
 In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure 
 Alone are mirror'd ; which, though shapes of ill 
 May hover round its surface, glides in light, 
 And takes no shadow from them. 
 
 Yet, methinks, 
 Thou hast not lately met him, or a change 
 Pass'd strangely on him had not miss'd thy wonder. 
 His form appears dilated ; in those eyes, 
 Where pleasure danced, a thoughtful sadness dwells. 
 Stern purpose knits the forehead, which till now 
 Knew not the passing wrinkle of a care : 
 Those limbs, which in their heedless motion own'd 
 A stripling's playful happiness, are strung 
 As if the iron hardship of the camp 
 Had given them sturdy nature ; and his step, 
 Its airiness of yesterday forgotten, 
 Awakes the echoes of these desok.^ courts, 
 As if a warrior of heroic mould 
 Paced them in armour. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Hope is in thy tale. 
 This is no freak of Nature's wayward course,
 
 Scenel.]. ION; A T R AGE DY. 
 
 But work of pitying Heaven ; for not in vain 
 The gods have pour'd into that guileless heart 
 The strengths that nerve the hero ; — they are ours. 
 
 CLEON. 
 
 How can he aid us ? Can he stay the pulse 
 Of ebbing life, — arrest the infected v/inds, 
 Or smite the hungry spectre of the arsve? 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Xnd dost thou think these breezes are our foes, — 
 The innocent airs that used to dance around us, 
 As if they felt tlie blessings they convey'd. 
 Or that the death they bear is casual ? No ! 
 'Tis human guilt that blackens in the cloud, 
 Flashes athwart its mass in jagged fire, 
 Whirls in the hurricane, pollutes the air, 
 Turns all the joyous melodies of earth 
 To murmurings of doom. There is a foe 
 Who in the glorious summit of the state 
 Draws down the great resentment of the gods. 
 Whom he defies to strike us ; — yet his power 
 Partakes that just infirmity which Nature 
 Blends in the empire of her proudest sons — 
 That it is cased within a single breast, 
 And may be pluck'd thence by a single arm. 
 Let but that arm, selected by the gods, 
 Do its great office on the tyrant's life. 
 And Argos breathes again ! 
 
 CLEON. 
 
 A footstep ! — hush ! 
 Thy wishes, falling on a slavish ear. 
 Would tempt another outrage : 'tis a friend — ' 
 An honest though a crabbed one — Timocles : 
 Something hath ruffled him. — Good day, Timocles ! 
 [Timocles passes in front. 
 He will not speak to us.
 
 8 ION- A TRAGEDY. [Act I. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 But he s7iall speak. 
 Tiraocles — nay then, thus I must enforce thee ; 
 
 [staying him. 
 Sure thou wilt not refuse a comrade's hand 
 That may be cold ere sunset. 
 
 TiMocLES. [giving his hand. 
 
 Thoa mayest school me ; 
 Thy years and love have license ; but I own not 
 A stripling's mastery ; is 't fit, Agenor ? 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Nay, thou must tell thy wrong : whate'er it prove, 
 
 I hail thy anger as a hopeful sign. 
 
 For it revives the thought of household days, 
 
 When the small bickerings of friends had space 
 
 To fret, and Death was not forever nigh 
 
 To frown upon Estrangement. What has moved thee ? 
 
 TUIOCLES. 
 
 I blush to tell it. Weary of the night 
 
 And of my life, I sought the western portal : 
 
 It opened, when ascending from the stair 
 
 That through the rock winds spiral from the town, 
 
 Ion, the foundling cherish'd by the Priest, 
 
 Stood in the entrance : with such mild command 
 
 As he has often smilingly obey'd, 
 
 I bade him stand aside and let me pass ; 
 
 When — wouldst thou think it ? — in determined speech 
 
 He gave me counsel to return : I press'd 
 
 Impatient onward : he, with honied phrase 
 
 His daring act excusing, grasp'd my arm 
 
 With strength resistless ; led me from the gate ; 
 
 Replaced its ponderous bars ; and, with a look 
 
 As modest as he wore in childhood, left me.
 
 Scene I.] ION; A TRAGEDY 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 And thou wilt thank him for it soon ; he comes — 
 Now hold thy angry purpose if thou canst ! 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 ION. 
 
 I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore 
 
 Again thy pardon. I am young in trust, 
 
 And fear lest, in the earnestness of love, 
 
 I stayed thy course too rudely. Thou hast borne 
 
 My childish folly often, — do not frown 
 
 If I have ventur'd with unmanner'd zeal 
 
 To guard the ripe experiences of years 
 
 From one rash moment's danger. 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 Leave thy care. 
 If I am weary of the flutterer life. 
 Is mortal bidding thus to cage it in ? 
 
 And art thou tii'ed of being ? Has the grave 
 
 No terrors for thee 1 Hast thou sunder'd quite 
 
 Those thousand meshes which old custom weaves 
 
 To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films 
 
 With airy lustre various ? Hast subdued 
 
 Those cleavings of the spirit to its prison. 
 
 Those nice regards, dear habits, pensive memories. 
 
 That change the valour of the thoughtful breast 
 
 To brave dissimulation of its fears ? 
 
 Is Hope quench'd in thy bosom? Thou art free, 
 
 And in the simple dignity of man 
 
 Standest apart untempted : — do not lose 
 
 The great occasion thou hast pluck'd from misery. 
 
 Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair, ^ 
 
 But use it nobly !
 
 10 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act I. 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 What, to strike ? to slay ? 
 loy. 
 
 No ! — not unless the audible voice of Heaven 
 
 Call thee to that dire office ; but to shed 
 
 On ears abused by falsehood, truths of power 
 
 In words immortal, — not such words as flash 
 
 From the fierce demagogue's unthinking rage 
 
 To madden for a moment and expire, — 
 
 Nor such as the rapt orator imbues 
 
 With warmth of facile sympathy, and moulds 
 
 To mirrors radiant with fair images, 
 
 To grace the noble fervour of an hour ; — 
 
 But words which bear the spirit of great deeds 
 
 Wing'd for the Future ; which the dying breath 
 
 Of Freedom's martyr shapes as it exhales, 
 
 And to the most enduring forms of earth 
 
 Commits — to linger in the craggy shade 
 
 Of the huge valley, 'neath the eagle's home, 
 
 Or in the sea-cave where the tempest sleeps, 
 
 Tdl some heroic leader bid them wake 
 
 To thrill the world with echoes ! — But I talk 
 
 Of things above my grasp, which strangely press 
 
 Upon my soul, and tempt me to forget 
 
 The duties of my youth ; — pray you forgive me. 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 Have I not said so ? 
 
 AGENOE. 
 
 Welcome to the morn ! 
 The eastern gates unfold, the Priest approaches ; 
 
 [As Agenor speaks, the great gates at the back of the 
 scene open ; the sea is discovered far beneath, — the 
 dawn breaking over it ; Medon, the Priest, enters at. 
 iended-l
 
 Scene I.] ION;ATRAGEDY. 11 
 
 And lo ! the sun is struggling with the gloom, 
 Whose masses fill the eastern sky, and tints 
 Its edges with dull red ; — but he will triumph ; 
 Bless'd be the omen ! 
 
 God of light and joy, 
 Once more delight us with thy healing beams ! 
 If I may trace thy language in the clouds 
 That wait upon thy rising, help is nigh — 
 But help achieved in blood. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Sayst thou in blood ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Yes, Ion ! — ^why, he sickens at the word, 
 Spite of his new-born strength ; — the sights of woe 
 That he will seek have shed their paleness on him. 
 Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 I pass'd the palace where the frantic king 
 Yet holds his crimson revel, whence the roar 
 Of desperate mirth came, mingling with the sigh 
 Of death-subdued robustness, and the gleam 
 Of festal lamps 'mid spectral columns hung, 
 Flaunting o'er shapes of anguish, made them ghastlier. 
 How can I cease to tremble for the sad ones 
 He mocks — and him the wretchedest of all ? 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 And canst thou pity him ? Dost thou discern, 
 Amidst his impious darings, plea for him ?
 
 12 lONjATRAGEDY. [Act I. 
 
 Is he not childless, friendless, and a king ? 
 He's human ; and some pulse of good must live 
 Within his nature — have ye tried to wake it ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Yes ; I believe he felt our sufferings once ; 
 When at my strong entreaty, he 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. AVhen 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 muttered a decree that he wiio next 
 Unbidden met the tyrant's glance should die. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 I am prepared to brave it. 
 
 CLEON. 
 
 So am I. 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 And I— 
 
 O Sages, do not think my prayer 
 Bespeaks unseemly forwardness — send me ! 
 The coarsest reed that trembles in the marsh/ 
 If Heaven select it for its instrument,
 
 Scenel.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 13 
 
 May shed celestial music on the breeze 
 As clearly as the pipe whose virgin gold 
 Befits the lip of Phcebus ; — 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. 
 
 Ion, no sigh ! 
 
 Forgive me if I seem'd 
 To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if I fall ; 
 Nor would I tax thy love with such a fear. 
 But that high promptings, which could never rise 
 Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead 
 Thus boldly for the mission. 
 
 My brave boy ! 
 It shall be as thou wilt. I see thou 'rt call'd 
 To this great peril, and I will not stay thee. 
 When wilt thou be prepared to seek it ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 Now. 
 Only before I go, thus, on my knee, 
 Let me in one word thank thee for a life 
 Made by thy love a cloudless holiday ; 
 And O, my more than father ! let me look 
 Up to thy face as if indeed a father's, 
 And give me a son's blessing.
 
 14 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act L 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Bless thee, son ! 
 I should be marble now ; let 's part at once. 
 
 ION. 
 
 If I should not return, bless Phoclon from, me ; 
 And, for Clemanthe — may I speak one word, 
 One parting word with my fair playfellow ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 If thou wouldst have it so, thou shalt. 
 
 Farewell then ! 
 Your prayers wait on my steps. The arm of Heaven 
 I feel in life or death will be around me. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 O grant it be in life ! Let 's to the sacrifice. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 An apartment of the Temple. Enter Clemanthe, 
 followed by A bra. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Is he so changed ? 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 His bearing is so alter'd, 
 That, distant, I scarce knew him for himself;
 
 Scenell.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 15 
 
 But, looking in his face, I felt his smile * 
 
 Gracious as ever, though its sweetness wore 
 Unwonted sorrow in it. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 He will go 
 To some high fortune, and forget us all, 
 Reclaim'd (be sure of it) by noble parents; 
 Me he forgets already ; for five days. 
 Five melancholy days, I have not seen him. 
 
 Thou know'st that he has privilege to range 
 The infected city ; and, 'tis said, he spends 
 The hours of needful rest in squalid hovels 
 Where death is most forsaken. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Why is this ? 
 Why should my father, niggard of the lives 
 Of aged men, be prodigal of youth 
 So rich in glorious prophecy as his ? 
 
 ABRA. . 
 
 He comes to answer for himself. I '11 leave you. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Stay ! Well my heart may guard its secret best 
 By its own strength. 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 ION. 
 
 How fares my pensive sister ? 
 
 CLEMANTHE. • 
 
 How should I fare but ill when the pale hand
 
 ,^. ION: A TRAGEDY. [Act I. 
 
 Draws the black foldings of the eternal cur'ain 
 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 slmrp 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 
 I\Iore exquisite than when nectarean juice 
 Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. 
 It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
 Of common comfort which by daily use 
 Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear 
 Of him who thought to die unmourn'd 'twill fall 
 Like choicest music ; fill the glazing eye 
 With gentle tears ; relax the knotted hand 
 To know the bonds of fellowship again ; 
 And shed on the departing soul a sense 
 More precious than the benison of friends 
 About the honor'd deathbed of the rich, 
 To him who else were lonely, that another 
 Of the great family is near and feels. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Oh, thou canst never bear those mournful offices ! 
 So blithe, so merry once ! Will not the sight 
 Of frenzied agonies unfix thy reason. 
 Or the dumb woe congeal tliee ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 No, Clemanthe ; 
 They are the patient sorrows that touch nearest !
 
 Scene II.] I O N; A T R A G E D Y. 17 
 
 If thou hadst seen the warrior, when he writhed 
 In the last grapple of his sinewy frame, 
 With conquering anguish, strive to cast a smile 
 (And not in vain) upon his fragile wife. 
 Waning beside him, — and, his limbs composed. 
 The widow of the moment fix her gaze 
 Of longing, speechless love, upon the babe, 
 The only living thing which yet was hers, 
 Spreading its arms for its own resting-place, 
 Yet with attenuated hand wave off 
 The unstricken child, and so embraceless die, 
 Stifling the mighty hunger of the heart ; 
 Thou couldst endure the sight of selfish grief 
 In sullenness or frenzy ; — but to-day 
 Another lot falls on me. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Thou wilt leave us ! 
 I read it plainly in thy alter'd mien ; — 
 Is it for ever ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 That is with the gods ! 
 I go but to the palace, urged by hope, 
 Which from afar hath darted on my soul, 
 That to the humbleness of one like me 
 The haughty king may listen. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 To the palace ! 
 Knowest thou the peril — nay, the certain issue 
 That waits thee ? Death ! — The tyrant has decreed it, 
 Confirmed it with an oath ; and he has power 
 To keep that oath ; for, hated as he is, 
 The reckless soldiers who partake his riot 
 Are swift to do his bidding. 
 3*
 
 18 
 
 ION- A TRAGEDY. [Act T. 
 
 ION. 
 
 I know all ; 
 But they who call me to the work can shield me, 
 Or make me strong to suffer. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Then the sword 
 Falls on thy neck ! O Gods ! to think that thou, 
 Who in the plenitude of youthful life 
 Art now before me, ere the sun decline, 
 Perhaps in one short hour, shalt lie cold, cold, 
 To speak, smile, bless no more ! — Thou shalt not go ! 
 
 Thou must not stay me, fair one ; even thy father, 
 Who (blessings on him !) loves me as his son. 
 Yields to the will of Heaven. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 And he can do this ! 
 
 I shall not bear his presence if thou fallest 
 By his consent ; so shall I be alone. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Phocion will soon return, and juster thoughts 
 Of thy admiring father close the gap 
 Thy old companion left behind him. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Never ! 
 What will to me be father, brother, friends. 
 When thou art gone— the light of our life quench'd— 
 Haunting like spectres of departed joy 
 The home where thou wert dearest ?
 
 Scene II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. -I9 
 
 ION. 
 
 Thrill me not 
 With words that, in their agony, suggest 
 A hope too ravishing, or my head will swim, 
 And my heart faint within me. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Has my speech 
 Such blessed power ? I will not mourn it then, 
 Though it hath told a secret I had borne 
 Till death in silence : — how affection grew 
 To this, I know not ; — day succeeded day, 
 Each fraught with the same innocent delights, 
 Without one shock to ruffle the disguise 
 Of sisterly regard which veil'd it well, 
 Till thy changed mien reveal'd it to my soul. 
 And thy great peril makes me bold to tell it. 
 Do not despise it in me ! 
 
 With deep joy 
 Thus I receive it. Trust me, it is long 
 Since I have learn'd to tremble midst our pleasures, 
 Lest I should break the golden dream around me 
 With most ungrateful rashness. I should bless 
 The sharp and perilous duty which hath press'd 
 A life's deliciousness into these moments, — 
 Which here must end. I came to say farewell, 
 And the word must be said. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Thou canst not mean it ! 
 Have I disclaim'd all maiden bashfulness. 
 To tell the cherish'd secret of my soul 
 To my soul's master, and in rich return 
 Obtain'd the dear assurance of his love. 
 To hear him speak that miserable word 
 I cannot — will not echo ?
 
 20 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act I. 
 
 Heaven has call'd me, 
 And I have pledged my honour. When thy heart 
 Bestow'd its preference on a friendless boy, 
 Thou didst not image him a recreant ; nor 
 Must he prove so, by thy election crown'd. 
 Thou hast endowed me with the right to claim 
 Thy help through this our journey, be its course 
 Lengthen'd to age, or in an hour to end, 
 And now I ask it ! — bid my courage hold. 
 And with thy free approval send me forth 
 In soul apparell'd for my office ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Go! 
 I would not have thee other than thou art. 
 Living or dying — and if thou shouldst fall — 
 
 Be sure I shall return. 
 
 CLE>I,\NTHE. 
 
 If thou shouldst full, 
 I shall be happier as the affianced bride 
 Of thy cold -ashes, than in proudest fortunes — 
 Thine — ever thine — [she faints in his arms. 
 
 ION. [calls.] 
 
 Abra ! — So best to part — [Enter Abra. 
 Let her have air ; be near her through the day ; 
 I know thy tenderness — should ill news come 
 Of any friend, she will require it all. 
 
 (iVbra bears Clemanthe out. 
 Ye Gods, that have enrich'd the life ye claim 
 With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 i
 
 Scenel.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 21 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Terrace of the Palace. 
 Adrastus, Crythes. 
 
 adrastus. 
 
 The air breathes freshly after our long night 
 Of glorious revelry. I '11 walk awhile. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 It blows across the town ; dost thou not fear 
 It bear infection with it ? 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Fear ! dost talk 
 Of fear to me ? I deem'd even thy poor thoughts 
 Had better scann'd their master. Prithee tell me 
 In what act, word, or look, since I have borne 
 Thy converse here, hast thou discern'd such baseness 
 As"makes thee bold to prate to me of fear ? 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 My liege, of human might all know thee fearless, 
 But may not heroes shun the elements 
 When sickness taints them ?
 
 22 ION, A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 ADRASTtTS. 
 
 Let them blast me now ! — 
 I stir not ; tremble not ; these massive walls, 
 Whose date o'erawes tradition, gird the home 
 Of a great race of kings, along whose line 
 The eager mind lives aching, through the darkness 
 Of ages else unstoried, till its shapes 
 Of armed sovereigns spread to godlike port, 
 And, frowning in the uncertain dawn of time. 
 Strike awe, as powers who ruled an elder world, 
 In mute obedience. I, sad heriter 
 Of all their glories, feel our doom is nigh ; 
 And I will meet it as befits their fame ; 
 Nor will I vary my selected path 
 The breadth of my sword's edge, nor check a wish, 
 If such unkingly yielding might avert it. 
 
 CRYTUES. 
 
 Thou art ever royal in thy thoughts. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 No more — 
 I would be private. [Exit Crytlies. 
 
 Grovelling parasite ! 
 Why should I waste these fate-environ'd hours, 
 And pledge my great defiance to despair 
 With flatterers such as thou ; — as if my joys 
 Required the pale reflections cast by slaves 
 In mirror'd mockery round my throne, or lack'd 
 The aid of reptile sympathies to stream 
 Through fate's black pageantry 1 Let weakness seek 
 Companionship : I '11 henceforth feast alone. 
 
 Enter a Soldier. 
 
 SOIiDIKR. 
 
 My liege, forgive me.
 
 Scene I.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 23 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Well ! Speak out at once 
 Thy business, and retire. 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 I have no part 
 In the presumptuous message that I bear. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Tell it, or go. There is no time to waste 
 On idle terrors. 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 Thus it is, my lord : — 
 As we were burnishing our arms, a man 
 Entered the court, and when we saw him first 
 Was tending towards the palace ; in amaze, 
 We hailed the rash intruder ; still he walked 
 Unheeding onward, till the western gate 
 Barr'd further course ; then turning, he besought 
 Our startled band to herald him to thee, 
 That he might urge a message which the sages 
 Had charged him to deliver. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Ha ! the greybeards 
 Who, mid the altars of the gods, conspire 
 To cast the image of supernal power 
 From earth its shadow consecrates. What sage 
 Is so resolved to play the orator 
 That he would die for 't ? 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 He is but a youth, 
 Yet ui'ged his prayer with a sad constancy 
 Which could not be denied.
 
 24 ION, A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Most bravely planned ! 
 Sedition worthy of the reverend host 
 Of sophist traitors ; brave to scatter fancies 
 Of discontent midst sturdy artisans, 
 Whose honest sinews they direct unseen, 
 And make their proxies in the work of peril ! — 
 'Tis fit, when burning to insult their king, 
 And warned that pleasure must be bought with life, 
 Their valour send a boy to speak their wisdom ! 
 Thou know'st my last decree ; tell this rash youth. 
 The danger he incurs ; — then let him pass, 
 And own the king more gentle than his masters. 
 
 We have already told him of the fate 
 
 Which waits his daring ; courteously he thank'd us. 
 
 But still with solemn accent urged his suit. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Tell him once more, if he persists, he dies — 
 
 Then, if he will, admit him. Sliould 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 mtist fall, 
 Or the great sceptre, which has sway'd the fears 
 Of ages, will become a common staff 
 For youth to wield or age to rest upon, 
 Despoil'd of all its virtues. He 77iust fall, 
 Else they who prompt the insult will grow bold. 
 And with their pestilent vauntings through the city 
 Raise the low fog of murky discontent, 
 Which now creeps harmless through its marshy birth- 
 place,
 
 Scene I.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 25 
 
 To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd ; 
 And if he cross yon threshold, he shall die. 
 
 Enter Cryihes and Ion. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 The king ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Stranger, I bid thee welcome ; 
 We are about to tread the same dark passage, 
 Thou almost on the instant. — Is the sword 
 
 \To Crytlies. 
 Of justice sharpen'd and the headsman ready ? 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 Thou mayst behold them plainly in the court ; 
 Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground ; 
 The steel gleams on the altar ; and the slave 
 Disrobes himself for duty. 
 
 ADRASTUS. \To lon.^ 
 
 Dost thou see them ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 I do. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 By Heaven, he does not change ! 
 If, even now, thou wilt depart and leave 
 Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free. 
 
 ION. 
 
 I thank thee for thy offer ; but I stand 
 Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich 
 in all that makes life precious to the brave ; 
 4
 
 26 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 Who perish not alone, but in their fall 
 Break the far-spreading tendrils that they feed, 
 And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me 
 For them, I am content to speak no more. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes ! till yon dial 
 Cast its thin shadow on the approaching hour, 
 I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant, 
 Come without word, and lead him to his doom. 
 Now leave us. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 What, alone ? 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Yes, slave ! alone. 
 He is no assassin ! [Exit Crythes, 
 
 Tell me who thou art. 
 What generous source owns that heroic blood. 
 Which holds its course thus bravely ? What great wars 
 Have nursed the courage that can look on death, 
 Certain and speedy death, with placid eye ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 I am a simple youth, who never bore 
 
 The weight of armour, — one who may not boast 
 
 Of noble birth or valour of his own. 
 
 Deem not the powers — which nerve me thus to speak 
 
 In thy great presence, and have made my heart 
 
 Upon the verge of bloody death as calm, 
 
 As equal in its beatings, as when sleep 
 
 Approach'd me nestling from the sportive toils 
 
 Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial dreams 
 
 Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows 
 
 Of soft oblivion, — to belong to me ! —
 
 Scene I.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 27 
 
 These are the strengths of Heaven ; to thee they speak 
 
 Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry, 
 
 Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 I know it must ; so mayst thou spare thy warnings. 
 
 The envious gods in me have doom'd a race, 
 
 Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts, 
 
 Whence their own dawned upon the infant world ; 
 
 And I shall sit on my ancestral throne 
 
 To meet their vengeance ; but till then I rule 
 
 As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel. 
 
 I will not further urge thy safety to thee ; 
 
 It may be, as thou sayst, too late ; nor seek 
 
 To make thee tremble at the gathering curse 
 
 Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall : 
 
 But thou art gifted with a nobler sense — 
 
 I know thou art, my sovereign ! — sense of pain 
 
 Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls. 
 
 And in whose fathers' souls, thou and thy fathers 
 
 Have kept their cherish'd state ; whose heartstrings, still 
 
 The living fibres of thy rooted power, 
 
 Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn 
 
 From heavenly justice on them. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 How ! my crimes ? 
 
 Yes ; 'tis the eternal law, that where guilt is. 
 Sorrow shall answer it ; and thou hast not 
 A poor man's privilege to bear alotie. 
 Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen, 
 The penalties of evil, for in thine
 
 m 
 
 28 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act 11. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ADKASTtrS. 
 
 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 know that we should pity — 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Pity ! dare 
 To speak that word again, and torture waits thee ! 
 I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on — 
 Thy time is short, and I am pledged to hear. 
 
 ION. 
 
 If thou hast ever loved — 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Beware ! beware ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 Thou hast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not marble,
 
 Scenel.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 29 
 
 And thou shalt hear me ! — Think upon the time 
 'When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul 
 Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy, 
 As if some unseen visitant from heaven 
 Touch'd the calm lake and wreath'd its images 
 In sparkling waves ; — recall the dallying hope 
 That on the margin of assurance trembled, 
 , As loth to lose in certainty too bless'd 
 Its happy being ; — taste in thought again 
 Of the stolen sweetness of those evening walks, 
 When pansied turf was air to winged feet, 
 And circling forests by ethereal touch 
 Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky. 
 As if about to melt in golden light 
 Shapes of one heavenly vision ; and thy heart. 
 Enlarged by its new sympathy with one, 
 Grew bountiful to all ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 That tone ! that tone ! 
 Whence came it ? from thy lips ? It cannot be — 
 The long-hush'd music of the only voice 
 That ever spake unbought affection to me. 
 And waked my soul to blessing ! — O sweet hours 
 Of golden joy, ye come ! your glories break 
 Through my pavilion'd spirit's sable folds ! 
 Roll on ! Roll on ! — Stranger, thou dost enforce me 
 To speak of things unbreathed by lip of mine 
 To human ear : — wilt listen ? 
 
 ION, 
 
 As a child. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Again ! that voice again ! — thou hast seen me moved 
 As never mortal saw me, by a tone 
 
 .4*
 
 30 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 Which some light breeze, enamourM of the sound. 
 
 Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice 
 
 Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth 
 
 This city, which, expectant of its Prince, 
 
 Lay hush'd, broke out in clamorous ecstacies ; 
 
 Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups 
 
 Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun. 
 
 And welcome thundered from a thousand throats. 
 
 My doom was seal'd. From the hearth's vacant space, 
 
 In the dark chamber where my mother lay. 
 
 Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness. 
 
 Came forth, in heart-appalling tone, these words. 
 
 Of me, the nurseling — " Woe unto the babe ! 
 
 " Against the life which now begins shall life 
 
 " Lighted from thence be arm'd, and, both soon 
 
 quench'd, 
 " End this great line in sorrow !" — Ere I grew 
 Of years to know myself a thing accursed, 
 A second son was born, to steal the love 
 Which fate had else scarce rifled : he became 
 My parent's hope, the darling of the crew 
 Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery 
 To trace in every foible of my youth — 
 A prince's youth ! — the workings of the curse ; 
 My very mother — Jove ! I cannot bear 
 To speak it now — look'd freezingly upon me ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 But thy brother — 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Died. Thou hast heard the lie, 
 The common lie that every peasant tells 
 Of me his master, — that I slew the boy. 
 'Tis false ! One summer's eve, below a crag 
 Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb, 
 He lay a mangled corpse : the very slaves. 
 Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart,
 
 Scene!.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 31 
 
 Now coin'd their own injustice into proofs 
 To brand me as his murderer. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Did they dare 
 Accuse thee ? 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Not in open speech : — they felt 
 I should have seized the miscreant by the throat, 
 And crush'd the lie half-spoken with the life 
 Of the base speaker ; — but the tale look'd out 
 From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank 
 When mine had met them ; murmur'd through the crowd 
 That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game 
 Stood distant from me ; burnt into my soul 
 When I beheld it in my father's shudder ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 Didst not declare thy innocence ? 
 
 ADKASTUS. 
 
 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 ?
 
 32 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act 11. 
 
 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 liope to cool 
 My spirit's fever — struggled with the oak 
 In search of weariness, and learn'd to rive 
 Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung 
 Might mate in cordage with its infant stems ; 
 Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest 
 Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air 
 Headlong committed, clove the water's depth 
 Which plummet never sounded ; — but in vain. 
 
 lOX. 
 
 Yet succour came to thee ? 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 A blessed one ! 
 Which the strange magic of thy voice revives, 
 And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps 
 Were in a wood-encircled valley stayed 
 By the bright vision of a maid, whose face, 
 Most lovely, more than loveliness reveal'd 
 In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd 
 Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine. 
 With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth 
 The body of her aged sire, whose death 
 Left her alone. I aided her sad work. 
 And soon two lonely ones by holy rites 
 Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months, 
 In stream-like unity flow'd silent by us 
 In our delightful nest. My father's spies — 
 Slaves, whom my nod should have consign'd to stripes 
 Or the swift falchion — track'd our sylvan home 
 Just as my bosom knew its second joy. 
 And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son.
 
 Scene!.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 33 
 
 ION. 
 
 Urged by thy trembling parents to avert 
 That dreadful prophecy ? • 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Fools ! did they deem 
 Its worst accomplishment could match the ill 
 Which they wrought on me ? It had left unharm'd 
 A thousand ecstacies of passion'd years, 
 Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain 
 Fate's iron grapple ! Could I now behold 
 That son with knife uplifted at my heart, 
 A moment ere my life-blood followed it, 
 I would embrace him with my dying eyes, 
 And pardon destiny ! While jocund smiles 
 Wreathed on the infant's face, as if sweet spirits 
 Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul, 
 The ruffians broke upon us ; seized the child ; 
 Dash'd through the thicket to the beetling rock 
 'Neath which the deep wave eddies : I stood still 
 As stricken into stone : I heard him cry, 
 Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe, 
 Severer ill unfearing — then the splash 
 Of waters that shall cover him for ever ; 
 And could not stir to save him ! 
 
 And the mother — 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 She spake no word, but clasped me in her arms, 
 And \a.y her down to die. A lingering gaze 
 Of love she fixed on me, none other loved — 
 And so passed 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.
 
 34 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 Enter Cryilies and Guards. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Why art thou here ? 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 The dial points the hour. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd ? 
 Hast thou no heart — no sense ? 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 Scarce half an hour 
 Hath flown since the command on which I wait. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Scarce half an hour ! — years — years have roU'd since 
 
 then. 
 Begone ! remove that pageantry of death — 
 It blasts my sight — and hearken ! Touch a hair 
 Of this brave youth, or look on him as now 
 With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band 
 Shall not expect a fearful show in vain. 
 Hence without word. [^Exit Crythes. 
 
 What wouldst thou have me do ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 Let thy awaken'd heart speak its own language ; 
 Convene thy Sages ; — frankly, nobly meet them ; 
 Explore with them the pleasure of the gods, 
 And, whatsoe'er the sacrifice, perform it. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Well ! I will seek their presence in an hour ;
 
 Scene II.] I ON; A TRAGEDY . 35 
 
 Go summon them, young hero : hold ! no word 
 Of the strange passion thou hast witness'd here. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Distrust me not. — Benignant Powers, I thank ye ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Yet stay — he 's gone — his spell is on me yet ; 
 What have I promised him ? To meet the men 
 Who from my living head would strip the crown 
 And sit in judgment on me ? — I must do it — 
 Yet shall my band be ready to o'erawe 
 The course of liberal speech, and, if it rise 
 So as too loudly to offend my ear, 
 Strike the rash brawler dead ! — What idle dream 
 Of long-past days had melted me ? It fades — 
 It vanishes — I am again a king ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Interior of the Temple. 
 
 [Same as Act I. Scene I.] 
 
 [Clemanthe seated — ^Abka attending her. ] 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 Look, dearest lady ! — the thin smoke aspires 
 In the calm air, as when in happier times 
 It show'd the gods propitious ; wilt thou seek 
 Thy chamber, lest thy father and his friends 
 Returning, find us hinderers of their council ? 
 She answers not — she hearkens not — with joy
 
 36 / ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 Could I believe her, for the first time, sullen ! 
 Still she is wrapt. 
 
 [Enter Agenor.] 
 
 O speak to my sweet mistress ; 
 Haply thy voice may rouse her. 
 
 AGE NOB. 
 
 Dear Clemanthe, 
 Hope dawns in every omen ; we shall hail 
 Our tranquil hours again. 
 
 Enter Medon, Cleon, Timocles, and others. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Clemanthe here ! 
 How sad ! how pale ! 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 Her eye is kindling — ^hush ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Hark ! hear ye not a distant footstep ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 No. 
 Look round, my fairest child ; thy friends are near thee. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Yes ! — now 'tis lost — 'tis on that endless stair — 
 Nearer and more distinct — 'tis his — 'tis his — 
 He lives ! he comes ! 
 
 [Clemanthe rises, and rushes to the back of the stage, 
 at which Ion appears and returns with her-l 
 
 Here is your messenger,
 
 Scenell.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 37 
 
 Whom Heaven has rescued from the tyrant's rage 
 Ye sent him forth to brave. Rejoice, old men, 
 That ye are guiltless of his blood ! — why pause ye, 
 Why shout ye not his welcome ? 
 
 Dearest girl, 
 This is no scene for thee ; go to thy chamber, 
 I'll come to thee ere long. 
 
 [Exeunt Clemanthe and Abra. 
 She is o'erwrought 
 By fear and joy for one whose infant hopes 
 Were mingled with her own, even as a brother's. 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 Ion! 
 How shall we do thee honour ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 None is due 
 Save to the gods .whose gracious influence sways 
 The king ye deem'd relentless ; — he consents 
 To meet ye presently in council : speed ; 
 This may be nature's latest rally in him, 
 In fitful strength, ere it be quench'd for ever ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Haste to your seats ; I will but speak a word 
 
 With our brave friend, and follow : though convened 
 
 In speed, let our assembly lack no forms 
 
 Of due observance, which to furious power 
 
 Plead with the silent emphasis of years. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Medon and Ion, 
 Ion, draw near me ; this eventful day 
 Hath shown thy nature's graces circled round 
 With firmness which accomplishes the hero ; — 
 
 5
 
 38 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 And it would bring to me but one proud thought — 
 That virtues which required not culture's aid 
 Shed their first fragrance 'neath my roof, and there 
 Found shelter ; — but it also hath reveal'd 
 What I may not hide from thee, that my child, 
 My blithe and innocent girl — more fair in soul, 
 More delicate in fancy than in mould — 
 Loves thee with other than a sister's love. 
 I should have cared for this : I vainly deem'd 
 A fellowship in childhood's thousand joys 
 And household memories had nurtured friendship 
 Which might hold blameless empire in the soul ; 
 But in that guise the traitor hath stolen in, 
 And the fair citadel is thine. 
 
 ION. 
 
 'Tis true. 
 I did not think the nurseling of thy house 
 Could thus disturb its holiest inmate's duty 
 With tale of selfish passion ; — but we met 
 As playmates who might never meet again, 
 And then the hidden truth flashed forth, and show'd 
 To each the image in the other's soul 
 In one bright instant. 
 
 Be that instant blest 
 Which made thee truly ours. My son ! my son ! 
 'Tis we should feel uplifted, for the seal 
 Of greatness is upon thee ; yet I know 
 That when the gods, won by thy virtues, draw 
 The veil which now conceals their lofty birthplace, 
 Thou wilt not spurn the maid who prized them lowly. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Spurn her ! My father !
 
 Scenell.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 39 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Ctesiphon ! — and breathless — 
 Art come to chide me to the council ? 
 
 CTESIPHON.' 
 
 No; 
 To bring unwonted joy ; thy son approaches. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Thank Heaven ! Hast spoken with him ? Is he well ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 I strove in vain to reach him, for the crowd, 
 Roused from the untended couch and dismal hearth 
 By the strange visiting of hope, press'd round him ! 
 But, by his head erect and fiery glance, 
 I know that he is well, and that he bears 
 A message which shall shake the tyrant. [Shouts.] See ! 
 The throng is tending this way — now it parts, 
 And yields him to thy arms. 
 
 Enter Phocion. 
 
 Welcome, my Phocion — • 
 Long waited for in Argos ; how detain'd 
 Now matters not, since thou art here in joy. 
 Hast brought the answer of the god ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 I have : 
 Now let Adrastus tremble ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 May we hear it ?
 
 40 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 I am sworn first to utter it to him. 
 
 CTESIPHON. * 
 
 But it is fatal to him ! — Say but that ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Ha, Ctesiphon ! — I mark'd thee not before ; 
 How fares thy father? 
 
 ION. [To Phocion.l 
 
 Do not speak of him. 
 
 CTESIPHON. [overhearing /on.] 
 
 Not speak of him ! Dost think there is a moment 
 When common things edipse the burning thought 
 Of him and vengeance ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Has the tyrant's sword — 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 No, Phocion ; that were merciful and brave 
 
 Compared to his base deed ; yet will I tell it 
 
 To make the flashing of thine eye more deadly, 
 
 And edge thy words that they may rive his heart-strings. 
 
 The last time that Adrastus dared to face 
 
 The Sages of the state, although my father. 
 
 Yielding to nature's mild decay, had left 
 
 All worldly toil and hope, he gather'd strength, 
 
 In his old seat, to speak one word of warning. 
 
 Thou know'st how bland with years his wisdom grew, 
 
 And with what phrases, steep'd in love, he sheath'd 
 
 The sharpness of rebuke ; yet, ere his speech 
 
 Was closed, the tyrant started from his throne,
 
 ScenelL] ION; A TRAGEDY. 41 
 
 And with his base hand smote him ; — 'twas his death- 
 stroke ! 
 The old man totter'd home, and only once 
 Raised his head after. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Thou wert absent ? Yes ! 
 The royal miscreant lives ! 
 
 CTESIPUON. 
 
 Had I beheld 
 That sacrilege, the tyrant had lain dead, 
 Or I had been torn piecemeal by his minions. 
 But I was far away : when I return'd, 
 I found my father on the nearest bench 
 Within our door, his thinly silver'd head 
 Supported by wan hands, which hid his face 
 And would not be withdrawn ; — no groan, no sigh 
 Was audible, and we might only learn 
 By short convulsive tremblings of his frame 
 That life still flicker'd in it — yet at last, 
 By some unearthly inspiration roused, 
 He dropp'd his wither'd hands, and sat erect 
 As in his manhood's glory — the free blood 
 Flush'd crimson through his cheeks, his furrow'd brow 
 Expanded clear, and his eyes opening full 
 Gleam'd with a. youthful fire ; — I fell in awe 
 Upon my knees before him — still he spake not, 
 But slowly raised his arm untrembling ; clench'd 
 His hand as if it grasp'd an airy knife, 
 And struck in air : my hand was join'd with his 
 In nervous grasp — my lifted eye met his 
 In steadfast gaze — my pressure answer'd his — - 
 We knew at once each other's thought ; a smile 
 Of the old sweetness play'd upon his lips. 
 And life forsook him. Weaponless I flew 
 To seek the tyrant, and was driven with scoffs 
 
 5*
 
 42 
 
 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 From the proud gates which shelter him. He hves- 
 And I am here to babble of revenge ! 
 
 PHOCIOA. 
 
 It comes, my friend — haste with me to the king ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 Even while we speak, Adrastus meets his council ; 
 There let us seek him : should ye find him touch'd 
 With penitence, as happily ye may, • 
 
 O give allowance to his soften'd nature ! / 
 
 CTKSIPHON. 
 
 Show grace to him ! — Dost dare ? — I had forgot. 
 Thou dost not know how a son loves a father ! 
 
 I know enough to feel for thee ; I know 
 
 Thou hast endured the vilest wrong that tyranny 
 
 In its worst frenzy can inflict ; — yet think, 
 
 O think ! before the irrevocable deed 
 
 Shuts out all thought, how much of power's excess 
 
 Is theirs who raise the idol : — do we groan 
 
 Beneath the personal force of this rash man, 
 
 Who forty summers since hung at the breast 
 
 A playful weakling ; whom the heat unnerves. 
 
 The north wind pierces ; and the hand of death 
 
 May, in a moment, change to clay as vile 
 
 As that of the scourged slave whose chains it severs ? 
 
 No ! 'tis our weakness gasping, or the shows 
 
 Of outward strength that builds up tyranny, 
 
 And makes it look so glorious ; — If we shrink 
 
 Faint-hearted from the reckoning of our span 
 
 Of mortal days, we pamper the fond wish 
 
 For long duration in a line of kings : 
 
 If the rich pageantry of thoughts must fade
 
 Scene III.] I N; A T R A GE D Y. 43 
 
 All unsubstantial as the regal hues 
 
 Of eve which purpled them, our cunning frailty 
 
 Must robe a living image with their pomp, 
 
 And wreathe a diadem around its brow, 
 
 In which our sunny fantasies may live 
 
 Empearl'd, and gleam, in fatal splendour, far 
 
 On after ages. We must look within 
 
 For that which makes us slaves ; — on sympathies 
 
 Which find no kindred objects in the plain 
 
 Of common life — affections that aspire 
 
 In air too thin — and fancy's dewy film 
 
 Floating for rest ; for even such delicate threads, 
 
 Gather'd by fate's engrossing hand, supply 
 
 The eternal spindle whence she weaves the bond 
 
 Of cable strength in which our nature struggles ! 
 
 CTESIPHO^". 
 
 Go talk to others if thou wilt ; — to me 
 All argument, save that of steel, is idle. 
 
 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 ' 
 
 [Exeu7it. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The great Square of the City. Adrastus seated on a 
 throne; Agenor, Timocles, Cleox, and others, 
 seated as Councillors — Soldiers line the stage at a dis- 
 tance. 
 
 adrastus. 
 
 Upon your summons. Sages, I am here ; 
 
 Your king attends to know your pleasure ; speak it !
 
 44 ION;ATRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 AGENOK. 
 
 And canst thou ask ? If the heart dead within thee 
 
 Receives no impress of this awful time, 
 
 Art thou of sense forsaken ? Are thine ears 
 
 So charm'd by strains of slavish minstrelsy 
 
 That the dull groan and frenzy-pointed shriek 
 
 Pass them unheard to Heaven ? Or are thine eyes 
 
 So conversant with prodigies of grief, 
 
 They cease to dazzle at them ? Art thou arm'd 
 
 'Gainst wonder, while, in all things. Nature turns 
 
 To dreadful contraries ; — while Youth's full cheek 
 
 Is shrivell'd into furrows of sad years, 
 
 And 'neath its glossy curls untinged by care 
 
 Looks out a keen anatomy ; — while Age 
 
 Is stung by feverish torture for an hour 
 
 Into youth's strength ; while fragile Womanhood 
 
 Starts into frightful courage, all unlike 
 
 The gentle strength its gentle weakness feeds 
 
 To make affliction beautiful, and stalks 
 
 Abroad, a tearless, an unshuddering thing ; — 
 
 While Childhood, in its orphan'd freedom blithe, 
 
 Finds, in the shapes of wretchedness which seem 
 
 Grotesque to its unsadden'd vision, cause 
 
 For dreadful mirth that shortly shall be hush'd 
 
 In never-broken silence ; and while Love, 
 
 Immortal through all change, makes ghastly Death 
 
 Its idol, and with furious passion digs 
 
 Amid sepulchral images- for gauds 
 
 To cheat its fancy with ? — Do sights like these 
 
 Glare through the realm thou shouldst be parent to, 
 
 And canst thou find the voice to ask " our pleasure ?" 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Cease, babbler ; — wherefore would ye stun my ears 
 With vain recital of the griefs I know. 
 And cannot heal ? — will treason turn aside 
 The shafts of fate, or medicine Nature's ills ?
 
 Scene III.] ION;ATRAGEDY. 45 
 
 I have no skill in pharmacy, nor power 
 To sway the elements. 
 
 Thou hast the power 
 To cast thyself upon the earth with us 
 In penitential shame ; or, if this power 
 Hath left a heart made weak by luxury 
 And hard by pride, thou hast at least the power 
 To cease the mockery of thy frantic revels. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 I have yet power to punish insult — look 
 I use it not, Agenor ! — Fate may dash 
 My sceptre from me, but shall not command 
 My will to hold it with a feebler grasp ; 
 Nay, if few hours of empire yet are mine. 
 They shall be colour'd with a sterner pride. 
 And peopled with more lustrous joys than flush'd 
 In the serene procession of its greatness. 
 Which look'd perpetual, as the flowing course 
 Of human things. Have ye beheld a pine — 
 /That clasp'd the mountain-summit with a root 
 / As firm as its rough marble, and, apart 
 ' From the huge shade of undistinguish'd trees, 
 Lifted its head as in delight to share 
 The evening glories of the sky, and taste 
 The wanton dalliance of the heavenly breeze 
 That no ignoble vapour from the vale 
 Could mingle with — smit by the flaming marl, 
 And lighted for destruction ? How it stood 
 One glorious moment, fringed and wreathed with fii'e- 
 Which show'd the inward graces of its shape, 
 Uncumber'd now, and midst its topmost boughs, 
 That young Ambition's airy fancies made 
 Their giddy nest, — leap'd sportive ; never clad 
 By liberal summer in a pomp so rich
 
 46 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 As waited on its downfall, while it took 
 
 The storm-cloud roU'd behind it for a curtain 
 
 To gird its splendours round, and made the blast 
 
 Its minister to whirl its flashing shreds 
 
 Aloft towards heaven, or to the startled depths 
 
 Of forests that afar might share its doom ! 
 
 So shall the royalty of Argos pass 
 
 In festal blaze to darkness ! Have ye spoken ? 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 I speak no more to thee ! — Great Jove, look down ! 
 [Shouting without.'] 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 What factious brawl is this ? — disperse it, soldiers. 
 
 [Shouting renewed — As some of the soldiers are about 
 to march, Phocion rushes in, followed by Ctesiphon, 
 Ion, and Medon.] 
 
 Whence is this insolent intrusion ? 
 
 phocion. 
 
 King ! 
 I bear Apollo's answer to thy prayer. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Has not thy travel taught thy knee its duty ? 
 Here we had school'd thee better. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Kneel to thee ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Patience, my son ! Do homage to the king.
 
 Scene III.] 
 
 ION; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 47 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Never ! — thou talk'st of schooling — know, Adrastus, 
 
 That I have studied in a nobler school 
 
 Than the dull haunt of venal sophistry 
 
 Or the lewd guard-room ; — o'er which ancient heaven 
 
 Extends its arch for all, and mocks the span 
 
 Of palaces and dungeons ; where the heart 
 
 In its free beatings, 'neath the coarsest vest. 
 
 Claims kindred with diviner things than power 
 
 Of kings can raise or stifle — in the school 
 
 Of mighty Nature — where I learned to blush 
 
 At sights like this, of thousands basely hush 
 
 Before a man no mightier than themselves, 
 
 Save in the absence of that love that softeiB.v^ 
 
 ADRASTUS. •l\ 
 
 Peace ! speak thy message. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Shall I tell it here ? 
 Ol" shall I seek thy couch at dead of night. 
 And breathe it in low whispers ? — As thou wilt. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Here — and this instant ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Hearken then, Adrastus, 
 And hearken, Argives — thus Apollo speaks ! 
 
 [Reads a scroll.'\ 
 
 " Argos ne'er shall find release 
 
 *' Till her monarch's race shall cease." 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 'Tis nt)t God's will, but man's sedition speaks : —
 
 48 ION;ATRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 Guards ! tear that lying parchment from his hands, 
 And bear him to the palace. 
 
 Touch him not,— 
 He is Apollo's messenger, whose lips 
 Were never stain'd with falsehood. 
 
 rnocioN. 
 
 Come on, all ! 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Surround him, friends ! Die with him ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Soldiers, charge 
 Upon these rebels ; hew them down. On, on ! 
 
 [The soldiers advance and surround the people; they 
 seize Phocion. Ion rushes from the back of the 
 stage, and throws himself between Adrastus and 
 Phocion.'] 
 
 PHOCION to ADRASTUS. 
 
 Yet I defy thee. 
 
 [To Phocion.'] Friend ! for sake of all, 
 
 Enrage him not — wait while I speak a word — 
 
 [To Adrastus.] My sovereign, I implore thee do not 
 
 stain 
 This sacred place with blood ; in Heaven's great name 
 I do conjure thee — and in hers, whose spirit 
 Is mourning for thee nov/ !
 
 Scene III.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 49 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Release the stripling — 
 Let him go spread his treason where he will : 
 He is not worth my anger. To the palace ! 
 
 Nay, yet an instant ! — let my speech have power 
 
 From Heaven to move thee further : thou hast heard 
 
 The sentence of the god, and thy heart owns it. 
 
 If thou wilt cast aside this cumbrous pomp, 
 
 And in seclusion purify thy soul 
 
 Long fever'd and sophisticate, the gods 
 
 May give thee space for penitential thoughts : 
 
 If not — as surely as thou standest here. 
 
 Wilt thou lie stiff and weltering in thy blood. — 
 
 The vision presses on me now. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Art mad 1 
 Resign my state ? Sue to the gods for life, 
 The common life which every slave endures. 
 And meanly clings to ? No ; within yon walls 
 I shall resume the banquet, never more 
 Broken by man's intrusion. Councillors, 
 Farewell ! — go mutter treason till ye perish ! 
 
 [Exeunt Adrastus, Cryihes, and Soldiers, 
 
 Ion, wha stands apart leaning on a pedestal. 
 'Tis seal'd ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Let us withdraw, and strive 
 By sacrifice to pacify the gods ! 
 
 [Medon, Agenor, and Councillors retire; they leave 
 CtesipJion, Phocion, and Ion. Ion still stands apart, 
 as wrapt in meditation. '\ 
 
 6
 
 50 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act II. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 *Tis well ; the measure of his guilt is fill'd. 
 Where shall we meet at sunset ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 In the grove 
 Which with its matted shade imbrowns the vale. 
 Between those buttresses of rock that guard 
 The sacred mountain on its western side, 
 Stands a rude altar — overgrown with moss, 
 And stain'd with drippings of a million showers. 
 So old, that no tradition names the power 
 That hallow'd it, — which we will consecrate 
 Anew to freedom and to justice. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Thither 
 Will I bring friends to meet thee. Shall we speak 
 To yon rapt youth ? [ pointing to Ion. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 His nature is too gentle. 
 At sunset we will meet. — With arms ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 A knife — 
 One sacrificial knife will serve. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 At sunset ! 
 [Exeunt Ctesiphon and Phocion severally. 
 
 Ion comes forward. 
 
 ION. 
 
 O wretched man, thy words have seal'd thy doom !
 
 Scene III.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 51 
 
 Why should I shiver at it, when no way, 
 
 Save this, remains to break the ponderous cloud 
 
 That hangs above my wretched country ? — death— 
 
 A single death, the common lot of all, 
 
 Which it will not be mine to look upon, — 
 
 And yet its ghastly shape dilates before me ; 
 
 I cannot shut it out ; my thoughts grow rigid, 
 
 x\nd as that dim and prostrate figure haunts them, 
 
 My sinews stiffen like it. Courage, Ion ! 
 
 No spectral form is here ; all outward things 
 
 Wear their own old familiar looks ; no dye 
 
 Pollutes them. Yet the air lias 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 yawn before its victim. Gi-acious powers ! 
 
 If the great duty of my life be near, 
 
 Grant it may be to suffer, not to strike ! \^Exit. 
 
 END OF ACT II.
 
 52 lOU; A TRAGEDY. [Act III. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A terrace of the Temple. 
 Clemanthe, Ion. 
 
 clemain'the. 
 
 Nay, I must chicle this sorrow from thy brow, 
 Or 'twill rebuke my happiness ; — I know 
 Too well the miseries that hem us round ; 
 And yet the inward sunshine of my soul, 
 Unclouded by their melancholy shadows. 
 Bathes in its deep tranquillity one image — 
 One only image, which no outward storm 
 Can ever ruffle. ' Let me wean thee, then, 
 From this vain pondering o'er the general woe, 
 Which makes my joy look ugly. 
 
 ION. 
 
 No, my fair one, 
 The gloom that wrongs thy love is unredeem'd 
 By generous sense of others' woe : too sure 
 It rises from dark presages within, 
 And will not from me. 
 
 CLEMANTHp. 
 
 Then it is most groundless ! 
 Hast thou not won the blessings of the perishing 
 
 I
 
 Scenel.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 53 
 
 By constancy, the fame of which shall live 
 
 While a heart beats in Argos? — hast thou not 
 
 Upon one agitated bosom pour'd 
 
 The sweetest peace ? and can thy generous nature, 
 
 While it thus sheds felicity around it, 
 
 Remain itself unbless'd ? 
 
 I strove awhile 
 To think tlie assured possession of thy love 
 With too divine a burthen vveigh'd my heart 
 And press'd my spirits down ; — but 'tis not so ; 
 Nor will I with false tenderness beguile thee. 
 By feigning that my sadness has a cause 
 So exquisite. Clemanthe ! thou wilt find me 
 A sad companion ; — I, who knew not life. 
 Save as the sportive breath of happiness, 
 Now feel my minutes teeming, as they rise. 
 With grave experiences ; I dream no more 
 Of azure realms where restless beauty sports 
 In myriad shapes fantastic ; but black vaults 
 In long succession open till the gloom 
 Afar is broken by a streak of fire 
 That shapes my name — the fearful wind that moans 
 Before the storm articulates its sound ; 
 And as I pass'd but now the solemn range 
 Of Argive monarchs, that in sculptured mockery 
 Of present empire sit, their eyes of stone 
 Bent on me instinct with a frightful life 
 That drew me into fellowship with them, 
 As conscious marble ; while their ponderous lips — 
 Fit organs of eternity — unclosed, 
 And, as I live to tell thee, murmur'd " Hail ! 
 Hail ! Ion the Devoted !" 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 These are fancies, 
 
 6*
 
 54 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act III. 
 
 Which thy soul, late expanded with great purpose, 
 
 Shapes, as it quivers to its natural circle 
 
 In which its joys should lurk, as in the bud 
 
 The cells of fragrance cluster. Bid them from thee, 
 
 And strive to be thyself. 
 
 I will do so ! 
 I '11 gaze upon thy loveliness, and drink 
 Its quiet in ; — how beautiful thou art ! — 
 My pulse throbs now as it was wont ; — a being, 
 Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it, 
 Cannot show darkly. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 We shall soon be happy ; 
 My father will rejoice to bless our love. 
 And Argos waken ; — for her tyrant's course 
 Must have a speedy end. 
 
 ION. 
 
 It must ! It must ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Yes ; for no empty talk of public wrongs 
 Assails him now ; keen hatred and revenge 
 Are roused to crush him. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Not by such base agents 
 May the august lustration be achieved : 
 He who shall cleanse his country from the guilt 
 For which Heaven smites her, should be pure of soul, 
 Guileless as infancy, and undisturb'd 
 By personal anger as thy father is, 
 
 I
 
 Scene 1.] I O N ; A T R A G ED Y . 55 
 
 When, with unswerving hand and piteous eye, 
 He stops the brief life of the innocent kid 
 Bound with white fillets to the altar ; — so 
 Enwreathed by fate the royal victim heaves, 
 And soon his breast shall shrink beneath the knife 
 Of the selected slayer ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 'Tis thyself 
 Whom thy strange language pictures — Ion ! thou — 
 
 She has said it ! Her pure lips have spoken out 
 What all things intimate ; — didst thou not mark 
 Me for the office of avenger — me 1 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 No ; — save from the wild picture that thy fancy — 
 Thy o'erwrought fancy drew ; I thought it look'd 
 Too like thee, and I shudder'd. 
 
 ION. 
 
 So do I ! 
 And yet I almost wish I shudder'd more. 
 For the dire thought has grown familiar with me — 
 Qould I escape it ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 'Twill away in sleep. 
 
 No, no ! I dare not sleep — for well I know 
 / That then the knife will gleam, the blood will gush, 
 The form will stiffen ! — I will walk awhile 
 In the sweet evening light, and try to chase 
 These fearful images away.
 
 56 IOIS;ATRAGEDY. [Act III. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Let me 
 
 Go with thee. Oh, how often hand in hand 
 In such a lovely light have we roam'd westward 
 Aimless and blessed, when we were no more 
 Than playmates : surely we are not grown stranger 
 Since yesterday ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 No, dearest, not to-night : 
 The plague yet rages fiercely in the vale. 
 And I am placed in grave commission here 
 To watch the gates ; — indeed thou must not pass ; 
 I will be merrier when we meet again, — 
 Trust me, my love, I will ; farewell ! [Exiflon. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Farewell then ! 
 How fearful disproportion shows in one 
 Whose life hath been all harmony ! He bends 
 Towards that thick covert where in blessed hour 
 My father found him, — which has ever been 
 His chosen place of musing. Shall I follow ? 
 Am I already grown a selfish mistress, 
 To watch his solitude with jealous eye. 
 And claim him all ? Then let me never be — 
 Yet danger from within besets him now, 
 Known to me only — I will follow him ! [Exit. 
 
 I
 
 Scene II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 57 
 
 SCENE ir. 
 
 An opening in a deep tcood — in front an old grey altar. 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 O winding path\va5's, o'er whose scanty blades 
 
 Of unaspiring grass mine eyes have b^*t^ 
 
 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 aspect on a heart unchanged, 
 
 And melt the busy past to a sweet dream 
 
 As then the future was ; — why should ye now 
 
 Echo my steps with melancholy sound 
 
 As ye were conscious of a guilty presence ? 
 
 The lovely light of eve, that, as it waned, 
 
 Touch'd ye with softer, homelier look, now fades 
 
 In dismal blackness ; and yon twisted root 
 
 Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms 
 
 My thoughts grew humorous, look terrible. 
 
 As if about to start to serpent life. 
 
 And hiss around nie ; — whither shall I turn ? — 
 
 Where fly ? — I see the myrtle-cradled spot 
 
 Where human love instructed by divine 
 
 Found and embraced me first ; I '11 cast me down 
 
 Upon that earth as on a mother's breast, 
 
 In hope to feel myself again a child. 
 
 [Ion goes into the wood.
 
 58 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act III, 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and other Argive youths. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Sure this must be the place that Phocion spoke of; — 
 The twilight deepens, yet he does not come. 
 Oh, if instead of idle dreams of freedom, 
 He knew the sharpness of a grief like mine, 
 He would not linger thus ! 
 
 CASSANDER. 
 
 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. 
 
 eXESIPHON. 
 
 Thou know'st all here. 
 
 Welcome ! 
 
 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 I bring you glorious news. There is a soldier. 
 Who, in his reckless boyhood, was my comrade, 
 And though by taste of luxury subdued 
 Even to brook the tyrant's service, burns 
 With generous anger to avenge that grief 
 I bear above all others. He has made
 
 Scene II.] I O N; A T R A GED Y. 59 
 
 The retribution sure. From him I learnt 
 That when Adrastus reach'd his palace court, 
 He paused, to struggle 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 within completes the doom 
 Which Heaven pronounces. Nothing now remains, 
 But that as all would share this action's glory. 
 We join in one great vow, and choose one arm 
 Our common minister. Oh, if these sorrows 
 Confer on me the office to return 
 Upon the tyrant's shivering heart the blow 
 Which crush'd my father's spirit, I will leave 
 To him who cares for toys the patriot's laurel 
 And the applause of ages ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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 body to that glorious purpose 
 We live but to fulfil. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 And I! 
 
 CASSANDER. 
 
 And I !
 
 60 
 
 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act III. 
 
 [Who has advanced from the tcood, rushes to the altar, 
 and exclams^ 
 
 And I ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Most welcome ! The serenest powers of justice, 
 
 In prompting thy unspotted soul to join 
 
 Our bloody councils, sanctity and bless them ! 
 
 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 
 To step from the grim round of waking dreams 
 Into this fellowship which makes all clear. 
 Wilt trust me, Ctesiphon ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Yes ; but we waste 
 »The precious minutes in vain talk : if lots 
 Must guide us, have ye scrolls ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Cassander has them : 
 The flickering light of yonder glade will serve him 
 To inscribe them with our names. Bo quick, Cassan- 
 der ! 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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 Cassan- 
 der, who retires with it.]
 
 Scene II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. Ql 
 
 PHocioN. [to Ctesiphon.'] 
 
 He whose name 
 Thou shalt draw first shall fill the post of glory. 
 Were it not also well, the second name 
 Should designate another charged to take 
 The same great ofiice, if the first should leave 
 His work imperfect ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 There can scarce be need ; 
 Yet as thou wilt. May the first be mine ; 
 I will leave little for a second arm ! 
 
 [Cassander returns with the helmet. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Now, gods, decide ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon draws a lot from the lielmet, 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 The name ? Why dost thou pause ?, 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 'Tis Ion ! 
 
 Well I knew it would be mine ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon draws another lot. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Phocion ! it will be thine to strike him dead 
 If he should prove faint-hearted. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 With my life 
 I '11 answer for his constancy. 
 7
 
 62 ION; A TRAX3EDY. [Actlll. 
 
 CTESIPHON, [to Ion.'] 
 Thy hand ! 
 
 'Tis cold as death. 
 
 Yes ; but it is as firm. 
 What ceremony next ? 
 [Ctesipho7i leads Ion to the altar, and gives him a knife.] 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Receive this steel, 
 For ages dedicate in my sad home 
 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 brotlier, and no child. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Such words 
 The god hath used who never speaks in vain. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 There were old rumours of an infant born 
 And strangely vanishing ; — a tale of guilt, 
 Half-hush'd, perchance distcwted 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 toils. 
 Crimes grow unpunish'd which the pirates' nest. 
 Or want's foul hovel, or the cell which justice
 
 Scene II.] I O N; A T R A GE D Y. 63 
 
 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 poisbn.dews on joy. 
 
 [Ion approaches the altar, and, lifting up the knife, 
 speaks.^ 
 
 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 watch 
 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 faded battlements of tyranny 
 With blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe 
 Through the proud halls of tmie-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 ! O keep me pitiless ; 
 Expel all human weakness from my frame. 
 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 mv soul to shed it ! — 
 Was not that thunder 1 
 
 ^ CTESIPHON. 
 
 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
 
 64 ION; A TRAGEDY.' [Act III. 
 
 The city's eastern portal, lest the troops, 
 Returning from the work of plunder home, 
 Surround us unprepared. Be that thy duty. 
 
 [To Phocion. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 I am to second Ion if he fail. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 He cannot fail ; — ^I shall be nigh. What, Ion ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 Who spake to me ? Where am 1 1 Friends, your 
 
 pardon : 
 I am prepared ; yet grant me for a moment, 
 One little moment, to be left alone. 
 
 CTESIPHOIV. 
 
 Be brief then, or the season of revenge 
 
 Will pass. At yonder thicket we '11 expect thee. 
 
 [Exeunt all but 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 ought to hide 
 From any human eye. 
 
 [He conceals the knife in his vest. 
 
 Enter Clemanthe. 
 Clemanthe here ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Forgive me that I break upon thee thus : 
 
 I meant to watch thy steps unseen ; but night
 
 Scenell.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 65 
 
 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. 
 
 Death, sayst 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Not without 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 1 
 A knife ! Tell me its purpose. Ion ? 
 
 My oath forbids. 
 
 ION. 
 
 No; 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 An oath ! O 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 from me ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 Alas, I must. Thou wilt know all full soon — 
 
 [Voices call « Ion."] 
 Hark ! I am call'd.
 
 QQ ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act III. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Nay, do not leave me thus. 
 
 ION. 
 
 'Tis very sad [voices again] — I dare not stay — farewell ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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 I to the palace, 
 
 And, as the price of my disclosure, claim 
 
 His safety ? 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 ; 
 
 Whatever destiny his generous soul 
 
 Shape for him, 'tis its duty to be stili, 
 
 And trust him till it bound or break with his. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE ni. 
 
 A Chamber in the Temple. 
 
 Enter Medon, followed by Abba. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 My daughter not within the temple say'st thou ? 
 Abroad at such an hour ? Sure not alone
 
 Scene III.] I ON; A T R AGED Y . 67 
 
 She wander'd : tell me truly, did not Phocioa 
 Or Ion bear her company ? 'twas Ion — 
 Confess ; — was it not he ? I shall not chide, 
 Indeed I shall not. 
 
 She went forth alone ; 
 But it is true that Ion just before 
 Had taken the same path. 
 
 It was to meet him. 
 I would they were return'd ; the night is grown 
 Of an unusual blackness. Some one comes — 
 Look if it be my daughter. 
 
 ABRA. [looJcing out.'\ 
 
 No ; young Irus, 
 The little slave, whose pretty tale of grief 
 Agenor with so gracious a respect, 
 This morning told us. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Let him come ; he bears 
 Some message from his master. 
 
 Enter Irus. 
 
 MEDON. [to Irus.l 
 
 Thou art pale : 
 Has any evil happened to Agenor ? 
 
 IRUS. 
 
 No, my good lord ; I do not come from him ; 
 I bear to thee a scroll from one who now
 
 68 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act HI. 
 
 Is nuraber'd with 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 chillness 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. 
 
 Me DON. [reading the scroll.'] 
 
 These are high tidings. 
 Abra ! is not Clemanthe come ? I long 
 To tell her all. 
 
 Enter Clemanthe. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Sit down, my pensive child. 
 Abra, this boy is faint ; see him refresh'd 
 With food and wine before thou lett'st him pass. 
 
 lEUS. 
 
 I have too long been absent from Agenor, 
 Who needs my slender help. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Nay, I will use 
 Thy master's firmness here, and use it so 
 As he would use it. Keep him prisoner, Abra, 
 Till he has done my bidding. 
 
 [Exeunt Abra and Irus.
 
 Scene III.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 69 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 It is of Ion ; — no — I do not blush. 
 
 But tremble. O my father, what of Ion ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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 : — with 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 returned to die. 
 
 That child is Ion. Whom dost guess his sire ? — 
 
 The first in Argos. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Dost thou mean Adrastus ? 
 He cannot — must not — be that tyrant's son !
 
 70 lOlN; A TRAGEDY. [Act III. 
 
 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 
 The suppliant of her bounty ; — thou art bless'd ; 
 Thus, let me bid thee joy. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Joy, say'st thou — ^joy ! 
 Then I must speak — he seeks Adrastus' life ; 
 And at this moment, while we talk, may stain 
 His soul with parricide. 
 
 Ion, the gentlest 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Impossible ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 It is true, my father ; 
 I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest : 
 I heard him called ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Shall I alarm the palace ? 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 No ; in the fierce confusion, he would fall 
 Before our tale could be his safeguard. Gods ! 
 Is there no hope, no refuge ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Yes, if Heaven 
 Assist us. I bethink me of a passage. 
 Which, fashion'd by a king in pious zeal,
 
 Scene III.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 71 
 
 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. 
 
 Shall I attend thee ? 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 O, make haste, my father ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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. 
 
 The gods protect thee ! 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 END OF ACT III.
 
 72 ION; A TRAGEDY. ^Act IV. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Royal Chamber. Adrastus on a couch, asleep. 
 Enter Ion, with the knife. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Why do 1 creep thus stealthily along 
 
 With trembling steps ? Am I not armed 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 ? — Can I be deceived, 
 
 By some foul passion, crouching in my soul. 
 
 Which takes a radiant form to lure me on ? 
 
 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 ? 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 ! 
 
 ADKASTUS. 
 
 Who dares disturb my rest ? Guards ! Soldiers ! Re- 
 creants !
 
 Scene I.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 73 
 
 Where tarry ye ? Why smite ye not to earth 
 This bold intruder ? — Ha ! no weapon here ! — 
 What wouldst thou with me, ruffian ? \^Rising. 
 
 I am none, 
 But a sad instrument in Jove's great hand 
 To take thy Ufe, long forfeited — Prepare ! 
 Thy hour is come ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Villains ! does no one hear ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 Vex not the closing minutes of thy being 
 With torturing hope or idle rage ; thy guards. 
 Palsied with revelry, are scatter'd senseless, 
 While the most valiant of our Argive youths 
 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. 
 
 ADKASTUS. 
 
 Thou ! — I know thee — 
 The youth I spared this morning, in whose ear 
 I pour'd the secrets of my bosom. Kill me, 
 If thou dar'st 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 spar'dst my life, and therefore do the gods 
 Ordain me to this office, lest thy fall 
 
 8
 
 74 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act IV. 
 
 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, 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 I have none on earth. 
 If thou hast courage, end me ! 
 
 Most piteous doom 
 
 ION. 
 
 Not one friend ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 kneels. '\ 
 
 ION. 
 
 Avert thy face !
 
 Scenel.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 75 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 No ; let me meet thy gaze ; 
 For breathing pity lights thy features up 
 Into more awful likeness of a form 
 Which once shone on me ; — and which now my sense 
 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, 
 As 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 kneeling^ 
 and gazes steadfastly upon him. The voice of Me- 
 DON is heard without, calling Ion ! Ion ! — Ion drops 
 his ar7n.'\ 
 
 adrastus. 
 
 Be quick, or thou art lost ! 
 
 [As Ion has again raised his arm to strike, Medon 
 rushes in behind him.^ 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Ion, forbear ! 
 Behold thy son, Adrastus ! 
 
 [Ion stands for a moment stwpified with horror, drops 
 the knife, and falls senseless on the ground.'] 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 What strange words
 
 76 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act IV, 
 
 Are these which call my senses from the death 
 They were composed to welcome ? Son ! 'tis false — 
 I had but one — and the deep wave rolls o'er him ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 That wave received, instead of the fair nurseling. 
 One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight 
 In wicked haste to slay ; — I '11 give thee proofs. 
 
 ADRASTtJS. 
 
 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 Avith 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 without, 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 The clang of arms \ 
 
 ION. [starring up.'\ 
 
 They come ! they come ! 
 They who are leagued with me against thy life. 
 Here let us fall ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 I will confront them yet. 
 Within I have a weapon which has drank
 
 •> Scene I.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 77 
 
 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, 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Have mercy on him, gods, for the dear sake 
 Of your most single-hearted worshipper ! 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and others. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 What treachery is this — the tyrant fled, 
 
 And Ion fled too ! — Comrades, stay this dotard, 
 
 While I search yonder chamber. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Spare him, friends, — 
 Spare him to clasp awhile his new-found son ; 
 Spare him as Ion's father ! 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Father ! yes — 
 That is indeed a name to bid me spare ; — 
 Let me but find him, gods ! 
 
 \He rushes into the inner chamber. 
 
 MEDON. [to Cassander and the others.li 
 
 Had ye but seen 
 What I have seen, ye would have mercy on him. 
 
 Crythes enters with soldiers. 
 
 Ha, soldiers ! hasten to defend your master ; 
 ^ That way 
 
 [As Crythes is about to enter the inner chamber, Ctesi. 
 PHON rushes from it with a bloody dagger, and stops 
 them.l 
 
 8*
 
 78 ION; A TRAGEDY. [ActlV. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 It is accomplished ; the foul blot 
 Is wiped away. Shade of my murder'd father, 
 Look on thy son, and smile ! 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 Whose blood is that ? 
 It cannot be the king's ! 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 Wretch ! thy life shall pay 
 The forfeit of this deed. 
 
 l^Crythes and soldiers seize Ctesiphon, 
 
 Enter Adrastus mortally wounded, supported by Ion, 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Here let me rest ; — 
 In this old -chamber did my life begin, 
 And here I'll end it : Crythes ! thou hast timed 
 Thy visit well, to bring thy soldiers hither 
 To gaze upon my parting. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 To avenge thee ; — 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Set him free at once : — 
 
 Here is the traitor !
 
 Scene I.] ION;ATRAGEDY. 79 
 
 Why do ye not obey me ? Ctesiphon, 
 
 I gave thee cause for this ; — beheve 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Farewell ! [Exit Ctesiphon. 
 
 ADRASTUS. [to Crythes and the soldier s.'\ 
 
 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 hut Ion and Adrastus, 
 
 ION. 
 
 O, my father ! 
 How is it with thee now ? 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 thy helplessness ! To me 
 The interval hath been a weary one : 
 How hath it pass'd with thee ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 But that my heart
 
 80 ION; A TRAGEDY, [Act IV, 
 
 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 I bless the gods 
 That they have strewn along thy humble path 
 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 staunch thy wound ; thou art strong yet, 
 And yet may live to bless me. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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, 
 Which 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 ?
 
 Scenel.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 81 
 
 ADKASTUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 io:s. 
 I will. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 ; [ did image then 
 Thy reign excelling mine ; it is fulfill'd, 
 And I die happy. Bless thee, King of Argos ! 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 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 aAvake 
 Throughout the lovely land that father'd me 
 In my forsaken childhood ? 
 
 [He sees the hnife on the ground, and takes it up. 
 Most vain dream ! 
 This austere monitor hath bid thee vanish 
 Ere half reveal'd. Come back, thou truant steel ;
 
 82 
 
 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act IV. 
 
 Half of thy work the gods absolved thee from — 
 The rest remains ! Lie there ! 
 
 [He conceals the knife in his vest. SJwuts heard 
 without.] 
 
 The voice of joy ! 
 Is this thy funeral wailing ? O my father ! 
 Mournful and brief will be the heritage 
 Thou leavest me ; yet I promised thee in death 
 To grasp it ; — and I will embrace it now. 
 
 Enter Agenor and others. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Does the king live ? 
 
 Alas ! in me. The son 
 Of him whose princely spirit is at rest, 
 Claims his ancestral honours. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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.
 
 Scenell.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 83 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Before the Gate of the City. 
 Phocion 011 guard. 
 
 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, 
 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 ? 
 Is liberty achieved ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 The king is dead ; 
 This arm — I bless the righteous Furies ! — slew him. 
 
 PHOCIOX. 
 
 Did Ion quail, then? 
 
 CTESIl'HON. 
 
 Ion ! — clothe thy speech
 
 84 10N;ATRAGEDY. [Act IV. 
 
 In phrase more courtly ; he is king of Argos, 
 Accepted as the tyrant's son, and reigns. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 It cannot be ; I can believe him born 
 
 Of such high lineage ; yet he will not change 
 
 His own rich treasury of unruffled thoughts 
 
 For aU the frigid glories that invest 
 
 The loveless store in which the monarch dwells 
 
 A terror and a slav«. [Shouts again. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Dost hear that shout ? 
 'Tis raised for him ! — the craven-hearted world 
 Is ever eager thus to hail a lord, 
 And patriots smite for it in vain. Our Soldiers, 
 From the base instinct of their slavish trade, 
 Which must be deck'd and master'd ; 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. 
 
 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 ? Ion tyrant? No ! 
 
 Grant me a moment's pleading with his heart, 
 
 Which has not known a selfish throb till now. 
 
 And thou shalt see him smile this greatness from him. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Go teach the eagle when in azure heaven
 
 ScenelL] . ION; A TRAGEDY. 85 
 
 He upward darts to seize his madden'd prey, 
 Shivering through the death-circle of its fear, \ / kA_^ 
 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 ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Why thus severe ! Our nature's common wrongs 
 Affect thee not ; and that which touch'd thee nearly 
 Is well avenged. 
 
 CTE SIPHON. 
 
 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 the prince dizzy with strange turns of fortune, 
 To do thy part. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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 his unfather'd nature in its nerve 
 Of agony, and felt no chiding glance ; — 
 Hadst thou 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, 
 
 9
 
 86 ION; A TRAGEDY.. • [ActlV. 
 
 Thou couldst not ask it. — Hear me, Ctesiphon ! — 
 I had a deadly fever once, and slaves, 
 Affrighted, fled me ; — he usurp'd their place. 
 And sooth'd my dull ear with discourse which grew 
 By nice degrees to ravishment, till pain 
 Seem'd an heroic sense, which made me kin 
 To the great deeds he pictured, and the brood 
 Of dizz)- weakness flickering through the gloom 
 Of my small curtain'd prison caught the hues 
 Of beauty spangling out in glorious change ; 
 And it became a luxury to lie 
 And faintly listen. Canst thou bid me slay him ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 The deed be mine. Thou .'it not betray me ? 
 
 [Going. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Hold ! 
 If by our dreadful compact he must fall, 
 I will not smite him with my coward thought 
 "Winging a distant arm ; I will confront him 
 Arm'd with delicious memories of our youth. 
 And pierce him through them all. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Be speedy, then ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Fear not that I shall prove a laggard, charged 
 With weight of such a purpose. — Fate commands, 
 And I live now but to perform her bidding. 
 
 [Exeunt severally.
 
 Scene III.] I O N; A T R A GE D Y, 87 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Terrace in the Garden of the Palace, by Moonlight. 
 Enter Ion aiid Agenor. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Wilt thou not in to rest ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 My 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? 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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 ! — give instant order, 
 The rites which shall confirm me in my throne 
 Be solemnized to-morrow. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 How ! so soon, 
 While the more sacred duties to the dead 
 Remain unpaid ?
 
 88 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act IV. 
 
 Let them abide my time — 
 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 will chill thee else. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Farewell, my lord ! [Exit, 
 
 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 ! — O lamp serene. 
 Do I lift up to thee undazzled eyes 
 For the last time ? 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 f 
 That shall contain my ashes, will no thought 
 Of all the sweet ones cherish'd by thy beams 
 Awake to tremble with them ? 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 
 Gleam'd palpable to sight as things of earth. 
 Who passes there ? 
 
 [Enter Phocion behind, who strikes at Ion with a dag- 
 ger.] 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 This to the king of Argos ! 
 
 [Ion struggles with him, seizes the dagger, which he 
 throws away.^
 
 Scene III.] ION; A TRAGEDY, 89 
 
 ^ 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— 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 I meant to take thy life, urged by remembrance 
 Of yesterday's great vow. 
 
 ION. 
 
 And couldst thou think 
 
 I had forffotten ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Thou? 
 
 ION. 
 
 Couldst thou believe, 
 That one, whose nature had been arm'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 : 
 Come, watch beside my throne, and, if I fail 
 In sternest duty which my country needs, 
 My bosom will be open to thy steel, 
 As now to thy embrace ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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." 
 
 9*
 
 90 ION; A TRAGEDY. [ActlV. 
 
 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, 
 Are in the rashness of a moment lost ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 I cannot look upon thee ; let me go, 
 And lose myself in darkness. 
 
 Nay, old playmate, 
 We part not thus — the duties of my state 
 Will shortly end our fellowship ; but spend 
 A few sweet minutes with 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 tha t 
 
 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 yesternight 
 We are to-night retracing. Come, my friend ! — 
 What, drooping yet ! thou wert not wont to seem 
 So stubborn — cheerily, my Phocion — come ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF ACT IV.
 
 Scene I.] I ON ; A TR A G ED Y . 91 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 TIME THE MORNING OF THE SECOND DAY. 
 
 The Terrace of the Palace — Two Soldiers on guard. 
 
 FIRST SOLDIER. 
 
 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 hurry, seize 
 
 The gaudy shows of power ! 
 
 SECOND SOLDIER. 
 
 '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. 
 
 FIRST SOLDIER. 
 
 No more ; he comes. 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Why do ye loiter here ?
 
 92 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act V. 
 
 Are all the statues decked with festal wreaths 
 As I commanded ? 
 
 FIRST SOLDIER. 
 
 We have been on guard 
 Here, by Agenor's order, since the nightfall. 
 
 ION. 
 
 On guard ! Well, hasten now and see it done ; 
 
 I need no guards. [Exeunt Soldiers, 
 
 The awful hour draws near ; 
 I am composed to meet it. — Phocion comes : 
 He will unman me ; yet he must not go. 
 Thinking his presence painful. 
 
 Enter Phocion. 
 
 Friend, good morrow ! 
 Thou play'st the courtier early. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Canst thou speak 
 In that old tone of common cheerfulness 
 That blithely promises delightful years. 
 And hold thy mournful purpose ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 I have drawn 
 From the selectest fountains of repose 
 A blessed calm : — when I lay down to rest, 
 I fear'd lest bright remembrances of childhood ' 
 Should with untimely visitation 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. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Oh, cherish them, and let them plead with thee
 
 Scenel.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 93 
 
 To grant my prayer, — that thou wouldst live for Argos, 
 
 Not die for her ; — thy gracious life shall win 
 
 More than thy death the favour of the gods, 
 
 And charm the marble aspect of grim Fate 
 
 Into a blessed change : I, who am vow'd, 
 
 And who so late was arm'd Fate's minister, 
 
 Implore thee ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 Speak to me no more of life i 
 There is a dearer name I would recall — 
 Thou understand'st me — 
 
 Enter Agenor. 
 
 AGENOK. 
 
 Thou hast forgot to name 
 Who shall be bidden to this evening's feast. 
 
 lOIV. 
 
 The feast ! most true ; I had forgotten it. 
 
 Bid whom thou wilt ; but let there be large store, 
 
 If our sad walls contain it, for the wretched 
 
 Whom hunger palsies. It may be few else 
 
 Will taste it with a relish. [Exit Agenor. 
 
 [loN resumes his address to Phocton, and continues it, 
 broken by the interruptions which follow.'] 
 
 I would speak 
 A word of her who yester-morning 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 heavy with the life-long pang 
 A widow'd spirit bears ! —
 
 94 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act IV. 
 
 Enter Cleon. 
 
 CliEON. 
 
 The heralds wait 
 To learn the hour at which the solemn games 
 Shall be proclaim'd . 
 
 ION. 
 
 The games ! — yes, I remembe r 
 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. 
 
 ION. 
 
 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. 
 
 CASSANDER. 
 
 Pardon me, 
 If I entreat thee to permit a few
 
 Scene!.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 95 
 
 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 leaves Phocion, and 
 comes to him.] • 
 
 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. [JExit Cassander. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 'Tis time we seek 
 
 The temple. 
 
 Phocion ! must I to the temple ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 There sacrificial rights must be perform'd 
 Before thou art enthron'd. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Then I must gaze 
 On things which will arouse the struggling thoughts 
 I had subdued — perchance may meet with her 
 Whose name I dare not utter. I am ready. [Exeunt.
 
 96 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act V. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 TAe Temple. 
 
 CLEMANTHE, ABRA. 
 ABRA. 
 
 Be comforted, dear lady ; — he must come 
 To sacrifice. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Recall that churlish word, 
 That stubborn *' must," that bounds my living hopes, 
 As with an iron circle. He 7iuist come ! 
 How piteous is affection's state, that cleaves 
 To such a wretched prop ! I had flown to him 
 Long before this, but that I fear'd my presence 
 Might prove a burthen, — and he sends no word, 
 No token that he thinks of me ! Art sure 
 That he must come ? The hope has torture in it ; 
 Yet it is all my bankrupt heart hath left 
 To feed upon. 
 
 I see him now with Phocion 
 Pass through the inner court. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 He will not come 
 This way, then, to the place for sacrifice. 
 I can endure no more : speed to him, Abra ;
 
 Scene II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. -97 
 
 .And bid him, if he holds Clemanthe's life 
 Worthy a minute's loss, to seek me here, 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 Dear lady ! — 
 
 CLEMANTHK. 
 
 Do not answer me, but run, 
 Or I shall give yon crowd of sycophants 
 To gaze upon my sorrow. ^Exit Ahra. 
 
 It is hard ^ 
 Yet I must strive to bear it, and find solace 
 In that high fortune which has made him strange. 
 He bends this way — but slowly — mournfully. 
 O, he is ill ; how has my slander wronged him ! 
 
 Enter Ion, 
 
 ION. 
 
 What wouldsl thou with me, lady ? 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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. 
 
 TON. 
 
 A goodly dream ; 
 But thou art right to think it was no more, 
 And study to forget it. 
 
 10 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 To forget it ?
 
 98 ION; A TRAGEDY, [Act V. 
 
 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 ti'oubled the deep quiet of thy soul 
 In that pure fountain which reflected heaven, 
 For a brief taste of rapture. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Dost thou yet 
 Esteem it rapture, then ? My foolish heart. 
 Be still ! Yet wherefore should a crown divide us ? 
 O, 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. 
 
 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 thoughts, free wanderer of the heavens, 
 For ever banish me ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Thou dost accuse 
 Thy state too hardly. It may give some room,
 
 Scene II.] lOiS"; A TRAGEDY. 99 
 
 Some little space, amidst its radiant cares, 
 For love and joy to breatlie in. 
 
 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 warm 
 The sceptral 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 ! 
 
 CI/EMANTHE. 
 
 O unkind ! 
 And shall we never see each other ? 
 
 loif. [after a pause.l 
 
 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 ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Bless thee for that name ; 
 Call nje that name again ; thy words sound strangely,
 
 100 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Aot V. 
 
 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 catclt 
 
 The falling music of a gracious word. 
 
 Or the stray sunshine of a smile, will be 
 
 Comfort enough : — do not deny me this j 
 
 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, 
 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^ 
 
 CLEMANTHfi. 
 
 Oh, I do ! I do 1 
 
 SON.. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Thou art mine own then still !
 
 Scene II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 101 
 
 I am thine own ! thus let me clasp thee ; nearer ; 
 
 joy too thrilling and too short ! 
 
 Enter Agenor. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 My Lord, 
 The sacrificial rites await thy presence. 
 
 ION. 
 
 1 come. — One more embrace — the last, the last 
 
 In this world ! Now farewell ! [Exit. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 The last embrace ! 
 Then he has cast me off! — No, 'tis not so ; 
 Some mournful secret of his fate divides us : 
 I'll struggle to bear that, and snatch a comfort 
 From seeing him uplifted. I will look 
 Upon him in his throne ; Minerva's shrine 
 Will shelter me from vulgar gaze ; I'll hasten, 
 And feast my sad eyes with his greatness there ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 10* 
 
 UBRAKt 
 imiVa^siTy OP CAUf-OKMB
 
 102 I0]\; A TRAGEDY. [Act V. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Great Square of the City — on one side a throne of 
 state prepared, — on the other an altar, — the statues de- 
 corated with garlands. 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon and Cassander. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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 
 Upon the throne the craven tyrant fiU'd, 
 Whose blood he boasts, unless some honest arm 
 Should shed it first. 
 
 CASSANDER. 
 
 Hast thou forgot the time 
 When thou thyself wert eager to foretell 
 His manhood's glory 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Thou dost forget 
 What has chill'd fancy and delight within me — 
 
 [Music at a distance. 
 Hark !— servile trumpets speak his coming — watch. 
 How power will change him. [They stand aside. 
 
 i
 
 Scenelll.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 103 
 
 The procession. Enter Medon, Agenor, Phocion, 
 TiMocLEs, Cleon, Sages and People ; Ion last, in 
 royal robes. He advances amidst shouts, and speaks. 
 
 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 1 am, for the business of this hour. 
 Must I sit here ? 
 
 Permit thy earliest friend, 
 Who has so often propp'd thy tottering steps, 
 To lead thee to thy throne, — and thus fulfil 
 His fondest vision. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Thou art still most kind — 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Nay, do not think of me — my son ! my son ! 
 What ails thee ? When thou shouldst reflect the joy 
 Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave 
 Marbles thy face. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Am I indeed so pale? 
 It is a solemn office I assume ; 
 Yet thus, with Phoebus' blessing, I embrace it. 
 
 [Sits on the throne. 
 Stand forth, Agenor! 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 I await thy will.
 
 104 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act V. 
 
 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, 
 To rule our councils ; fill the seats of justice 
 With good men not so absolute in goodness, 
 As to forget what human Irailty is; 
 And order my sad country. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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 revive 
 
 From its long anguish ; — it will not be long 
 
 If Heaven approve me here. Thou hast all power 
 
 Whether I live or die. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 I kneel to crave 
 Humbly the favour which thy sire bestow'd 
 On one who loved him well. 
 
 I
 
 Scene III.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 105 
 
 ION. 
 
 I cannot thank thee, 
 That wakest the memory 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. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 Dost intend 
 To banish the firm troops before whose valour 
 Barbarian millions shrink appall'd, and leave 
 Oar city naked to the first assault 
 Of reckless foes ? 
 
 No, Crythes ! — in ourselves 
 In our own honest hearts and chainless hands 
 Will be our safeguard : — while we seek no use 
 Of arms, 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 country'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 embark, Agenorj 
 Ere night.
 
 106 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act V. 
 
 My lord — 
 
 No more — my word hath pass'd. 
 Medon, there is no otfice I can add 
 To those thou hast grown old in ; thou wilt guard 
 Tlie shrine of 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 ! 
 
 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 afTections crush'd within. 
 
 And wrongs which frenzied him ; yet never more 
 
 Let the great interests of the state depend 
 
 Upon the thousand chances that may sway 
 
 A piece of human frailty ! Swear to me 
 
 That ye will 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 
 
 Which 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
 
 Scene III.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 107 
 
 Moulded together as a single form 
 
 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 ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Wherefore ask this now ? 
 Thou shalt live long ; — the paleness of thy face 
 Which late appall'd me is grown radiant now, 
 And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy 
 Of lustrous years. 
 
 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. 
 
 ME DON and others. 
 
 We swear it ! 
 
 Hear and record the oath, immortal powers ! 
 
 Now give me leave a moment to approach 
 
 That altar unattended. [He goes to the altar. 
 
 Gracious gods ! 
 In whose mild service 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
 
 108 ION; A TRAGEDY. [Act V. 
 
 In earth and heaven ; — to ye I offer up 
 This conscious being, full of life and love 
 For my dear couiitry's welfare. Let this blow 
 End all her sorrows ! 
 
 [Stabs himself, mid falls. CtesipJion rushes to support 
 him.l 
 
 Ctesiphon, thou art 
 Avenged, and wilt forgive me. 
 
 CTESIPHOX. 
 
 Thou hast pluck'd 
 The poor disguise of hatred from my soul, 
 And made me feel how shallow is the wish 
 Of vengeance. Could I die to save thee ! 
 
 Clemanthe rushes forward. 
 
 CLEMANTIIE. 
 
 Hold! 
 
 Let me support him — stand away — indeed 
 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 ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 And for this it was 
 Thou would'st have wean'd me from thee ? Couldst thou 
 
 think 
 I would be so divorced ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 Thou art right, Clemanthe, —
 
 Scene III.] lONjATRAQEDY. 109 
 
 It was a shallow and an idle thought ! 
 'Tis past ; no show of coldness frets us now ; 
 To vain disguise, my love. Yet thou wilt think 
 On that which, when I feign'd, I truly said — 
 Wilt thou not, sweet one ? 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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 1 
 
 The pestilence abates. 
 
 ION. [springs upon hisfeet.'] 
 
 Do ye not hear ? 
 Why shout ye not ? — ye are strong — think not of me ; 
 Hearken ! the curse my ancestry had 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 ! [Dies. 
 
 The curtain falls. 
 
 11
 
 r (. 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 STACK COLLECTION 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
 10>rt-6.'6C(C97J4s'l)476D
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A A 001 423 892 7