University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I

Scene—A Wood near Amyclæ in Laconia.
AMPHIDAMAS and DYMAS—two Helots.
Amph.
What! Memnon told you!—Memnon! Sparta's spy!
Messenia's scourge! and will you trust to him?
A fabler! a barbarian! Slave of slaves!
Long galled by Persian bondage, and in scorn
Set over us, to aggravate our wrongs,
With the last insult to the Grecian name?
He told you that a casual quarrel caus'd
This cruel stroke that lops our strength away!
What was the circumstance? Repeat the tale!
And then, observe my comment!

Dym.
What I heard
Carries its own conviction on its face;
Nor would our magistrates at such a time,
Like gray-hair'd ideots, break in wanton sport
The laws themselves had made. Alcander's doom
(Ever lamented by Messenia's sons)
Rose from a casual quarrel, in the fane
Of Jove's immortal daughters. There, at noon,
When midst ascending fumes, the swelling hymn
Roll'd in long plaudits round the awful dome,
The fierce Androcles saw Alcander nigh,
Listning the chorus; and inflam'd with rage
At the intrusion of a branded slave
Amid the rites of freemen, in a tone
Of mingled rage and scorn, address'd the youth;
Who, too incautious, or inflam'd by wrongs,
Retorted with like scorn. The brother, then,
Of proud Androcles interpos'd to soothe
His rising rancour, and a transient calm
Promis'd fallacious peace, but night beheld
His smother'd passions kindle like the fires
That promise future tempest. By the moon
The savage trac'd his noble prey along,
Even to his native woods, and struck the blow.

Amph.
Time will detect the falsehood, or confirm
Its truth. If our proud masters meant to shew
Respect to their own laws, the legal sword
Had punish'd the assassin.

Dym.
This is certain,
Androcles has absconded; or (at least,
As Fame reports,) he has not since appear'd.—

Amph.
I trust no rumours; what I clearly know,
That I'll believe. But Rumour is suborn'd
(I fear) to soothe us in deceitful calm.
Spite of surrounding foes, and rude alarms;
Some dreadful machination is on foot
Some baneful damp, to quench the rising flame
Of Liberty, that kindles thro' our bands.
Else why, with all this semblance of regard,
This sanctimonious face of sympathy,
Why, when the council met to change the law
For our relief, was midnight nam'd the hour
Of dark decision? Why did they select
The Temple of the Furies for the seat
Of counsel? Did Humanity's soft laws
E'er take their birth from these detested walls?
Why were the Helot's try'd and constant friends
Excluded from the dark divan? And why
Are all Messenia's friends, where'er they rul'd,
In Lacedeamon's martial bands, cashier'd,
Despoil'd, at once, of all their crested pride,
And, in their room, our most inveterate foes,
The gloomiest bigots of their cruel code
Promoted? Say, my friend, are these the signs
Of lasting league, of amity, and peace?

Dym.
Be calm—methought I heard a rustling noise
At hand—I would not wish your words were heard.
My ear was not deceiv'd—'tis Memnon's self—
He must not find us here!

Amph.
I wish it not.
Of all the proud surveyors of our toils,
Tho' some are more imperious, none I dread
Nor hate so much as him, yet know not why.

Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Scene continues.
Enter ASPASIA in the Character of MEMNON.
Asp.
Ye kindred spirits! oft within those groves
Your tears of old for our repeated wrongs,
Perhaps, have fallen. But fate, with iron hand,
Long since has dry'd those tears, and laid the sigh
That in those glades rose frequent! still indeed
Perhaps, even in the blest Elysian plains
Ye mourn the fair occasion, ever lost,
When to the tomb ye sunk without a name!
I too could mourn like you, could wander on
Inglorious thro' those groves, and wail my lot.
—But I disdain this lot.—I too must fall
Like you; but whether lapse of lingering years
Shall lay me low, or some auspicious hour
Devote me for a people, on myself
Depends! I was not born to die a slave.—
And now the deed is done which lifts my name
Conspicuous to the nations. Hence—away
Vile habit! Stern Androcles' bloody steel
That laid the blooming Helot low, denies
Concealment! Like the flash that fires the dome
Of some proud temple, and discloses wide
The solemn shrine that holds the guardian god,
This blow detects me to their wond'ring tribes.
This is no common fate, like those who fell
Ignobly doom'd beneath the conscious night
To try the temper of a stripling's steel!
No Bacchanalian chorus wakes the groves,
No festal dance, no rural song! 'Tis rage,
Revenge, and loud rebellion! Let it come.
This arm shall point the lightning on the heads
Of our proud despots! This is near the spot,
Where, nightly, their divan the seniors hold;
There, in the moment, when their passions mount
In due ferment, my skilful hand shall throw
The last ingredient in, that bids them blaze,
Till in the billowy conflagration caught,
Yon haughty walls subside. What I have told
Has rais'd their wonder at my skill, that seems
Far, far above the sublunary range
Of human comprehension. Could I see
The afflicted father, ere the assembly meets
The train were surer laid. And lo! he comes;
See! where he wanders like a stricken deer,
The barbed shaft deep rankling in his side!
Yet thro' the cloud of sorrow that o'er-hangs
His brow, vindictive rage, with transient gleam
Illumes his reverend visage. Here I'll shrowd;
Still somewhat, even from him, may yet be learn'd

[Retires.
Enter ARISTODEMUS.
Arist.
Then all my vigilance, my cares were vain,
To check thy daring soul. Poor youth! I ought,
(If I had priz'd thy life) with double seal
The secret to have kept within my breast,
Untold even by a look. But that pure flame,
Deriv'd from him whose ashes slumber here,
Had mark'd thee out some prowling Spartan's prey,
And thou had'st fallen as now. In other realms,
When partial Heaven awakes the patriot fire,
It leads the blest possessor on to fame,
And kindles in the course! But here, alas!
It blasts the owner, as a bolt from Heaven,
And sets in blood! But let the vengeance come,
I have deserv'd it well! In every chance
And change of sad disaster, which befell
Our toiling tribes, when every night was mark'd
With blood, each day with violence and wrong,
I scap'd till now! I never felt at home
Till now! Oh, injur'd people! I, your lord,
For whom your dearest blood, if I requir'd,
Had stream'd, was too, too timid, too remiss,
Too patient, selfish, cold! Or if I felt,
'Twas not for you I felt, but for my son!—
I fear'd, I strove to ward his doom in vain,
But Fate has reach'd him now! O had his blood,
From gallant Aristomenes deriv'd,
Bedew'd some glorious field, I then had smil'd
Upon my boy's distinguish'd tomb! But now
He falls in blooming youth, yet falls in vain,
Like some unwarlike savage to his den,
Trac'd by the pack that snuff the tainted gale,
And hunt him to his covert. But shall I—
—Shame to the blood of Aristomenes!—
Shall I, thus like a woman, wail his loss,
And say, he fell in vain? No—not in vain
While I survive! What tho' the frost of age
Congeal my blood, my tongue that us'd to preach
Patience, shall trumpet now revenge and slaughter;
I have a son to tremble for no more!
Then rouse, ye quiet groves! Rebellion! come.
Awake! Sedition! Haste! ye gathering storms,
I'll point you to your prey! Alcander's blood
Has wash'd away my fears! Why should I linger
Thus on the trembling verge of life, while rage—
Athens—Messenia—and immortal fame,
Marshall me on to glory!—

[To him. Enter Memnon in a Persian habit.
Arist.
What art thou?
Art thou the soul of my brave ancestor
That comes to check my rage, or fan the flame?
Aerial visitant! Thou seest a man
Who dares to hear, whate'er thou dar'st to tell,
And execute whate'er thou bidst.

Memn.
Aside.
He thinks me
A spirit or a god, the midnight gloom
Favours the thought. He shall not know me yet. [To Aristodemus.

Whate'er I am, it is not mine to tell.—
But persevere! the gods are on thy side,
And favour freedom! I am sent to warm
Your bands with new desires, and give the glow
That lifts the slave to manhood; think not then,
That mangled form, which soon, with pious rites,
Thy slaves shall carry to the funeral pile,
Thy son! His better part survives, and walks
From soul to soul, with unseen steps, but not
Unfelt. Observe his motions, and adore
His holy footsteps! He will lead you on
To certain conquest! Fare thee well, and prosper.

[Exit.
Arist.
Is it even so!—Why, then, lamented youth!
Those eyes no more, with weak, effeminate drops,
Mean to profane thy glorious fall! Thou setst
And setst in blood! But, like the lamp of day,
That rises on the vernal morn, and brings
The zephyrs in his train for the rude blast
That swept the summer buds away, thou livest,
As ere few suns decline, the world shall know!

To him MEMNON again—PHILEMON and other Chiefs of the Helots.
Phil.
to Mem.
Thou hast astonish'd us! Where couldst thou learn
That Dorian dialect of perfect phrase.
Thou seem'st a native here! Could'st thou have gain'd
In Asia's melting climes among the hordes
Of willing slaves, such hardihood of thought,
Such glowing sentiments, as seem to shame
Athens, in all her independent pride?
Forgive us, if we doubt.

Arist.
Aside.
Is this the form
So lately seen by me?

Phil.
Thou seest us to the verge of ruin led,
Our recent hope of independence quench'd,
When brave Alcander fell. On Sparta's lords
Thou art dependant. Thou, perhaps, suborn'd
By them, the ready minion of their will,
Employ'st thy supple arts, thy fair pretext
Of generous sentiments to probe our hearts,
To try, if yet we feel; if aught remains,
Aught, not to be extinguish'd by our tears,
Aught yet unquell'd beneath the weight of woe,
Ready once more to catch the falling spark
And flame for liberty. We are not now
So lost to prudence, as to fall a prey
To such low machinations.

Mem.
That you doubt
My own assertions, till my proofs are given
To clear my conduct, no resentment breeds
In me, Philemon! nor suppose I scorn
To choose thee umpire of the test I bring,
When to this reverend sire I now appeal,
With grief deprest; yet still in him survives
Messenia's latest most endearing hope,
Scorning the frowns of Fate.

Arist.
O mock us not
With hopes! But why encroach upon the hour
Of sympathizing sorrow? Can you raise
The dead? Can you restore my gallant son?
Why didst thou, like a vision, come even now,
(For well I know 'twas thou, whom late I saw)
With mystic words to raise fallacious hope?
Say, Persian! do your native plains produce
Balm to the bleeding heart? You rather came,
I fear, with poison to foment the wound!
Yet pay some reverence to paternal woes!
Retire, and ye, my friends! let me entreat
Your absence, till the funeral rites begin!

Mem.
Be sorrow sacred. But, remember, sire,
To sorrow like a man! This woman's dew
But ill becomes the old, imperial stem
Of fallen Messenia!

Arist.
Who informed thee! say!

[Surprized.
Mem.
The same who told
Of things unknown to human ears, but mine,
Yet known in other worlds, where those, whose dust
In this long consecrated mold repose,
This instant are consulting on the doom
Of old Messenia.

Arist.
Ha! thou startst a thought
Might wake the dead! Who slumbers here? Unfold!
Some know the secret, but to alien ears
It is a secret still.

Mem.
Beneath this mold
Slumbers the last of your imperial line,
Who follow'd down Eurotas plaintive stream
With desolation, fell revenge, and blood,
For Sparta's wrongs! I need not add his name!—

Arist.
Here sleeps the dust of Aristomenes!
Amazement. Who informed thee?

Mem.
First declare
Whether I guess the number of the kings
That rest around their great progenitor
On everlasting guard, like yonder stars
That circle round the pole!

Arist.
What number, say!

Mem.
The number equals the celestial choir
Of Jove's harmonious daughters!

Arist.
Heaven and earth!—
Some god or demon told thee!

Mem.
Now recall
From memory's dormant stores, if e'er thou heardst
An uncouth saw, by antient prophet's sung
What should befall the tenth, if still he kept
His ancient regal honours unprofan'd
By Hope, by Interest, or by Fear!

Arist.
To him
Was the revival of Messenia's hopes
Assur'd; and hence, alas! my sad despair,
Since my Alcander's loss! To him I gave
My right!

Mem.
Despair not yet, there still remains
The tenth—thou liv'st for vengeance! Others still
Of the Herculean line survive, by thee
To be adopted. Rouse to vengeance! Rouse!
The frozen snake at Spring's reviving breath
Feels the return of life!

Phil.
Unequall'd man!
Heaven's favourite! Yet vouchsafe another glimpse
Of heaven's eternal counsels (if 'tis given
To mortal minds to know), why did the powers
Above, permit the spirit of the state
So long to dream away the rolling years
And why that mystic number chosen, that seems
A ninefold charm?

Mem.
Young man, you aim aright!
It is a ninefold charm: The holy choir
Of Pindus Fount, the lovely guardians still
Of Sparta's throne, with everlasting prayer
Long wearied their immortal sire, to grant
Each one, thy thrones depression, till the Fates
Had nine times spun the long empurpled thread
For nine of thine imperial ancestry,
From Aristomenes to thee deriv'd—
Each gain'd a royal sacrifice, a life
Of old Messenia's line, so long to save
Their favour'd Lacedæmon. Pheron fell
The last, thy royal sire!

Arist.
By all the gods
Then there are hopes! had not Alcander fallen!

Mem.
Mistaken man! thy son's lamented fall
Is life to old Messenia's cause!

Arist.
Explain,
Thou more than prophet! even the beating storm
Much more the tempest of the mind would calm
To hear thee ope the mysteries of heaven!—
How is the state advantag'd by the blood
Of fallen Alcander?

Mem.
Much afflicted sire!
Be it thy consolation to be told
Thy son was summon'd by the awful call
Of providence, to fire the general breast
With keen vindictive rage, to add revenge
To public spirit, to cement with blood
Messenia's combination: Have I given
A test of more than mortal reach?

Phil.
Thou hast!

Mem.
Then let the hopes of more than mortal aid
Expell despondence from your sinking hearts!
And, to assure you more, this instant hour
Rites, to your climes unknown, shall ope the gates
Of yon Empyrean, on this gloomy scene
To let in more than day. Then shall ye know
With due precision, what the gods require
And what they promise. Haste ye slaves, erect [To some of his own slaves.

The altar of the Magi. Light the flame
And meet the coming dirge with holy songs!—
—Break the deep gloom of yon funereal cloud
With heavenly splendours, like created light
With Hades old contending.

[The slaves prepare the altar, the holy fire, &c. the Helot chiefs with Aristodemus go to meet the funeral procession.
MEMNON
—ALONE.
Thanks to the knowlege from my sire deriv'd
Of old Messenia's story! To those swains
I seem a delegate from heaven! They take
My flowery fictions, my poetic tales
For dictates of the gods, immortal themes!
Yet of such prophecies I have been told
Or true or false. If true, why should not I
Avail me of that energy they breathe
To second my own views? Alcander's life
(Had he surviv'd,) had serv'd me as a base
To build my claims; on one congenial stem
Our titles might have grown to after times
In everlasting bloom. But he is gone!—
His sister still remains; her claims to mine
Are hostile; tho' alike. I must contrive
To break this bar, or move it from my way!
I would not dip my hands in regal blood!
It only then remains, by artifice
To spirit her away, or fright her hence
By fear of some impending ill,—they come!

[The funeral procession approaches, attended by Aristodemus, Philemon, and the rest of the Helot chiefs.
Phil.
There fell Messenia's glories! Thou art fled
Brave spirit! Who amidst the bellowing storm
(When prying curiosity, appall'd,
Dreaded to walk our vales, and murther slunk
Into her wolvish den, with blood embath'd)
Came like the spirit of the tempest forth
When, riding on the clouds, he calls to arms
His fiery factions in the angry air,
Then, when the loud revolt of nature seem'd
In Ithome's aspiring sons to rouse
Each independent passion, dormant long.
When to the waving woods and sobbing storm
Eurotas, swoln to rage, by watry moons
His solemn cadence join'd,—then—how he stood
Like some sage master of a powerful spell
Thro' the fermenting multitude around
Erecting their fallen hopes, and teaching slaves
To think and feel like men. But oh, ye shades
Of old Amyclæ! you, ye conscious groves!
The fatal secret was not kept! Ye storms!
Ye winds proclaim'd it! Every partial god
That favour'd Sparta, watch'd the gloomy hour
Pale Hecat watch'd, and mixt her midnight bane
To dash our sacred counsels—else, how dar'd
Those wolves of Sparta, crouching to their dens
Before the Attic hunter, they, who long
Have seem'd afraid to stain our peaceful cots
With moon-light massacre, or lust, again,
Thus to insult a people? Thus to shed
Our dearest blood?

Amph.
Alas! my friend, too sure
The mystic secret of his birth, so long
Our best palladium, and the charm, that kept
Whate'er of ancient manhood yet remain'd
Or loyalty alive, tho' known to few
Was certainly divulged—else why on him
(After a long deceitful pause) should Fate
Fasten at once, and bear our hopes away?

Phil.
Behold the slaughter'd son, and mourning sire.

[Enter Helots, bearing the body of Alcander, Aristodemus, &c.
Arist.
Here rest the lov'd Alcander's last remains!
That daring and intrepid soul, so late
Who might have rais'd Alcides' falling race
Now ranges in Elysian liberty,
No longer manacled to earth, compell'd
In painful post to combat with the tide
Of this bad world!—Thy virtues—noble youth!
Were splendid signs that led the venom'd shaft
With surer level to its mortal mark!—
Thy worth undid thee!—hadst thou been content
To slumber out the live-long, thoughtless night
Amongst thy fellow hinds without a dream
Of what thy ancestors once were,—I now
Like other sires had own'd a living son!—
But, oft when others slept, thy soaring soul
Took wing from this ignoble nook, and sped
Her way to other worlds, congenial climes
To hold high converse with thy mighty sires
And breathe that pure Ethereal flame, that lifts
The man to godhead! Why those splendid boons
This prodigality of heaven, and waste
Of worth, like some vile hind, to fall obscure
By a Laconian ruffian's hand, unless
To mock the hopes of Man?

Mem.
I thought, old sire.
Those earthly vapours had no longer power
To trouble thy clear intellect, so late
Admitted to the counsel of the gods
An earthly guest!—must I again repeat
The need of some uncommon sacrifice
Some deed of direst import, whose deep guilt
Devotes the bloody city to the power
Of him, who is the source of every ill?—
—To those lethargic spirits, long disus'd
To flame at common wrongs, some flagrant act
Was requisite, to fire plebeian souls
To thoughts of vengeance! Know, the heav'nly powers
Work not by human means, else man might think
All things the regular effect of Fate
Or rul'd by yon revolving orbs above
And quite forget their being! But full oft
Dreadful and devious, as the comet's course
By signal and astounding steps they move
To call us back, when wand'ring. Know besides
The two contending powers, who sway below
Great Orosmades, and the dreaded name
Of Arimanius, source of every ill
(Your Jove, and Pluto) oft in council dread
Meet on their frontiers, and with league unknown
Dispense the fortunes of this nether world
The scene of their alternate sway), like Sol
And his fair nightly sister, silver-thron'd.—
Oft, when the power beneficent is pleased
To raise some state, or bid a people breathe
Th'ambrosial air of dear bought liberty
He gives his dark competitor the power
To arm his red right hand with every plague
That humbles mortals, famine, fire and sword,
Inclement seasons, and the dreadful band
Of pestilential armies in mid air
Encamping on the settled gloom. By them
He wreaks his horrible intent, and deems
The subject world his own, but deems in vain
The friendly power permits his fell carreer
And over rules his rage. The dire extreme
Sharpens the human intellect, and calls
The manly virtues forth, calm Vigilance,
Devotion, Fortitude, the social tyes
That fasten man to man with links of love
And lists a band of heroes, fit to brave
The mortal menace of oppressive power.

Phil.
Interpreter of heaven! thou well hast prov'd
Thy mighty Mission by no vulgar signs!—
—Thy words might chear despondence, but, alas!
Had Jove design'd our freedom, he had left
The heir of Aristomenes to lead
Her loyal armies!—I am chill'd with years!
Without a son!

Mem.
But not without a child!
Thou hast a daughter, lovely as the morn
She has a lover, bold, aspiring, brave,
And one who shares the honour of thy blood
Adopt him to your line!

Arist.
His worth is witness'd
By the attachment of his fellow slaves
O be their love less perilous to him
Than to Alcander! heaven benights our views!

Mem.
To clear your doubts, (if any doubts remain)
An awful revelation, yet behind
Ripe for disclosure, labours to a birth!—

Amph.
Where will this end? I feel a sacred awe
As if some god in human shape, were near!

Phil.
A god or man he seems, the sent of heaven
Attend! he opes her lips to speak again.

Mem.
Know then! desponding men! on Persia's bounds
My youth, observant of the will of heaven
Was fixt to watch the never dying flame
To which th'imperial heirs of Cyrus bend.
Thence, when reliev'd at last, at early day
As, overwatch'd, I laid me down to rest
Where thro' the purple gates of morn ascend
Visions of true presage, methought I saw
The blush of early day, ascending still—
I seem'd to watch the mists that roll away
From fair Gedrosia's western hills, before
The coming god, to spy the first, faint beam
That gilds their lofty brows, and hail the power
With wonted hymns adoring:—Soon aslant
The misty curtain mov'd away in folds
Of gorgeous tissue, by the orient beam
Enrich'd with all heaven's drapery, that seem'd
To match the labour of cælestial looms—
The piny mounts umbrageous sides appear'd
In pomp of light and shade, disclosing full
His giant lineaments, as the light clouds
Mov'd over his majestic front, now hid
Now manifest, in morns resplendent vest.
Deep echo from the vales return'd the voice
Of morning flocks and herds, the ruffling groves
Swell'd with aerial minstrelsie and all
Was vernal life and joy! but, westward far
An hovering cloud, upon the mountain brow
Seem'd settling long, and oft was seen to poise
His grey extended wings to fleet away
And often seem'd, with light, fantastic toe
To spurn the heath-crown'd height, like the blue flame
That hovers o'er the dying taper's point.—
—At last, from every glade and thicket near
Each gulphy stream, and sedgy glen, it seem'd
Its kindred fogs to call—the kindred bands
In dim detachments up the channel'd sides
Of that steep wilderness ascend, and mount
Blotting the pure æthereal bounds.—Anon
The bands of ancient night, disperst so late
Seem'd rallying fast from their Tartarean caves
And wide encroaching on the golden edge
Of day, which, circumscrib'd, but lovely still
Skirted the rosy orient. Like the powers
Of Ariman they seem'd, when his proud hand
Unfurls the flag of darkness in the face
Of Orosmades, lord of life and love.—
But with the west wind soon the stormy south
His potent breath combin'd, and swept along
The rallying fogs, wide verging to the poles
In broad circumference around. The day
Seem'd to retire, and call its orient beams
Back to the fount of light. The fount of light
Was seen no more. But in its stead, forth lanc'd
The lurid lightning; in those peaceful bounds
Where fair tranquillity for ever smiles
The delegate of darkness seem'd to take
His gloomy post and sadden all the sky:
Then hurl'd his spells around; the last faint beam
Soon sicken'd into night. I saw with dread
The fearful portent, nor the portent long
Was unexplain'd, for soon a faded form
Desponding stood before my mental eye—
It bore th'undoubted ensigns of the god
Whose presence gilds our temples. But his looks
Were all eclips'd, his dazzling crown was lost
Shorn of his beams he stood, like one depos'd
From his celestial honours, and at length
In sighs began. “Those signs which late you saw
“Are ominous to Persia. From the west
“The hand of Ariman conducts a foe
“Portentous to her glory, as yon clouds
“That blot my beams—from fair Ionias isles
“The Doric bounds and Macedon they came
“Like night and darken all Choaspes shore!
“The heir of Cyrus from his noontide height
“Falls like proud Clymene's presumptuous son
“His safety is the discord of the foe
“His hope is Sparta's fall.”

Arist.
Mysterious heaven!
Her hope is Sparta's fall, and what is ours?

Mem.
After a solemn pause, he thus proceeds
“Even now great Orosmades lends the means.
“The Athenian squadrons, like the raging north
“Lay the proud honours of her forests low
“And in Amyclæ's groves a secret fire
“Kindles amain, and soon will lift its head
“O'er their devoted shades—the guardian god
“Of Thebes , who led his conquering squadrons on
“To Ganges from Ismenos; will not scorn
“To aid me, for of old my potent help
“Confirm'd his victories, my temper'd beam
“Foster'd his vines on India's palmy shore;
“Held in suspense the periodic rains
“Or gave the timely shower, with milky flow
“To call the power of vegetation forth.
“And, when the Naiad train, whose viewless bands
“Supply the springs of Ganges, and dispense
“To their calm votaries the limpid bowl
“(Deem'd sacred as the noctar of the Gods)
“To all the tribes of that religious land)
“Dreading the vines inspiring juice, of power
“To spread revolt among the sober swains
“With deep nocturnal orisons implor'd
“My sister goddess of the watry star
“With her cold influence, and malignant power
“To chill th'inverted year; to brew the rains
“With deep'ning inundations from the hills
“To sweep their summer glories all away
“To Ethiopia's main.—I soon perceiv'd
“The close confederacy, tho' wrapt in night—
“Then when the congregated vapours spread
“Dispensing wide their chill Tartarean steam
“To the deep cavern, where the sisters sate
“Prisoning the infant moons, I pointed full
“My burning beam—the scatter'd vapours fled
“And left the mountain's brow, the Naiad's band
“Felt my full glories scorch their sea-green hair
“And drop'd their tinkling urns, and fled away
“To hide them in the mines, among the stores
“Of unsunn'd silver, and forbid the fount
“Above the flowery bank to swell the stream
“Or drench, with ceaseless rain, the viny plant,
“In favour to the god who gave the boon—
“Go thou! I here divest thee of thy robes
“As priest of Mithras! Go! and seek the shore
“Where first he saw the light, approach the fane
“On Daulias lofty summit, and declare
“(After due Orisons) my urgent claims
“For his alliance, bought with friendship old.
“Bid him inspire his Thebans to the field
“Against the Spartans haughty race, who threat
“Even now, the throne of Cyrus! thence depart
“And seek in fair Amyclæs groves, the tribes
“Who boast the blood of old Messenia's line
“(Tho' now the name be gone, disgrac'd and sunk
“In that of Helot). If the swains receive
“Thy mission gladly, rouse the bolder youths
“To turn upon their lords, and nobly wrench
“From their slack hands, the old, paternal spear
“And face their cruel hunters.” Here he soar'd
Amid the gathering gloom. Suspense I stood,
Now wrapt in wonder, now in doubt involv'd
How best to win my way to Daulias bounds
Thro' warring nations. To Miletus thence
Many a long league, in many a quaint disguise
I shap'd my course at last, and thence embark'd
Aboard a ship of Samos for the strand
Of old Cithæron. Soon the black north west
Arose, and drove our fated barque along
To Malea's hostile bay, when soon we met
Lysander's martial brigandine, and struck
To his superior flag—the crew in chains
Were doom'd to various toils, but I was sent
(Thanks to the gods, who led my fated steps)
To join my lot with you.

Arist.
Propitious gods!
Could he, who sills his clay-cold bed, again
Arise, how would he soar above all dread
And coward doubt! How would he grasp the bolt
Of thund'ring Jove, in fancy, and disperse
His foes, with heaven's own lightning?

Mem.
Better thus!—
Perhaps, were he alive, his eager spirit
Burning for premature exploits, would lead
His Helots on to ruin, where the way
Seem'd to conduct to glory.—Let that thought
Be now thy solace! our revenge, tho' slow.
Is certain.

Arist.
Then! Laconian tygers! then!
I yet may live to thank you! not content
With simple murther, on his godlike form
Of matchless mold your savage malice stamp'd
A thousand wounds—ye meant it his disgrace.
It is his glory, that his worth provok'd
Such wolves as you, that bay the radiant moon
For shining on your fell misdeeds—ye marr'd
That beauteous face with wounds—the sovereign feat
Of manly beauty, where revenge and malice
Might look their rage away!—

Mem.
Old man! no more!
The time prohibits weak complaint—let all
Loud passions cease! and in this quiet grove
No accent of impatience taint the time
Due to religion.—You, the ministers
(Selected for the purpose,) light the lamp
The symbol of that radiant power, who leads
The golden day, whom Persia's tribes adore
At dead of night, and at the blushing dawn,
He led them on to glory—from the east
Inspiring godlike Cyrus to pursue
The flaming track of his diurnal car
Till Asia's western climes confest their lord
And Egypt sunk before him!—Call around
Your Helots to partake the solemn rite
And from the splendid shrine, with beating heart
Inhale the present god, while breathing high
Poetic rapture swells the solemn strain
Such as from Sparta's flute yet never flow'd:
Devoting Lacedæmon to the powers
Of Ariman and everlasting night
Others prepare Alcander's funeral pile.

[The sacred lamp is lighted and set on the urn over the tomb of Aristomenes.
Mem.
Chaos, and ancient night! Ye nameless powers
Who share the throne of darkness, and preside
Over the moonless realms, forgive the strain
That hails your luminous rivals, far remote!
Nor deem us rebels to your ancient sway
That thus we sing the god, whose orient beam
Pierc'd your primæval shadows, and expell'd
From half your bounds Oblivion's torpid reign.
Ye swarthy Satraps! from your ancient claims
We mean not to detract! But (if our vows
Merit acceptance in your gloomy realms,
Dishonour'd by creation) to send down
New colonies from these devoted plains,
Whose deeds of genuine darkness well have earn'd
The dire distinction. Now begin the hymn.

Mem.
Break off—break off—the bright symbolic sign
Burns ominous and dim, like Persia's god,
When Night's fair empress comes, with envy pale,
To intercept his glory. We must try
Some other charms. I shudder but to think
On those that still remain! For, what remains
But that, which cleaves the mundane shell, and calls
The weary ghost (new reconcil'd to night,
And all her solemn charms) to hated day
Again?—And one portentous bribe alone
Has weight to gain the gloomy Ariman,
To render back his purchase!

Arist.
What is that?
Say, Persian! thou, that hold'st with either world,
Thy dread communication, is it needful
That more of old Messenia's royal race
Should bleed? My gallant ancestor (whose name
Is now, alas! my only boast) when Sparta,
(Detested Sparta!) girt with direful siege
His capital; when thy resplendent god
(Our Delphian oracle) with sad response,
Demanded from the Herculean line
A spotless maid (to please the powers below,
And with her immolated blood atone
For thousands) soon o'ercame paternal fear.—
I have a daughter. Does that stern regard,
Say, I must also quell paternal fear?

Mem.
Aside.
Such is my aim, old man!—You guess aright,
But know not yet my motive nor my claim
To old Messenia's throne, were she remov'd,
Her fears, if nothing else, shall chace her hence.

Arist.
My child is dear as life—nay, dearer far.
Slavery had long ere now sunk this grey head
To seek a welcome grave. But love prolong'd
My days, in thraldom, and in shame. Yet say not
That she shall bleed! I have no hopes but her,
Nor other hope does now Messenia boast.—
—Some, it is true, of great Alcides line,
In bondage, or in exile, may survive,
But she alone is known the lineal heir
Of our Messenian stem! And, should she fall,
The bond, that holds our wretched tribes together,
Sinks with her to the ground, and what am I
To fill a nation's trust?

Mem.
Aside.
[To Aristodemus.
Aside.

Enter PHORBAS.
Arist.
Come, without preface,
Deliver what you bring! The time precludes
All ceremonious prelude!—

Phor.
Then I fear
We are betray'd. At least, that our proud lords
Suspect our purpose!

Mem.
On what grounds dost thou
Imagine this?

Phor.
When first I reach'd the fane,
At morn, I met Pausanias in the porch,
He spoke not; but with dark suspicious look
Survey'd me round, as if to read my soul,
And strait departed.

Arist.
We, alas! have felt
His fear, by marks more deadly. Oh! my son!
Thy fall too plainly spoke the Spartan dread!

Phor.
seeing the body.
Ha!—is Alcander fallen—Oh! mortal wound
To all our hopes!—Ye Helicean bands,
Ye now may stray, like flocks without a guide!
That youthful leader, whom your hopes pourtray'd,
Your dearest hopes beguiles!

Arist.
Enough of him.—
But say!—You nam'd the Helicean bands.
What bands of Helice?

Phor.
That unseen power,
Which bids alternate waves of night and day
Roll o'er this nether globe (while here ye mourn
In double depth of woe and midnight gloom)
Leads on the day-spring from Naupactus height,
In bright procession!

Arist.
From Naupactus coast?
Has Athens seiz'd the strait; and, from the shore
Of Pisa, pour'd her legions? Then her sword,
From either quarter lops the giant limbs
Of this new Typhon! Pylos, Pisa now
Confess th'Athenian sway!

Phor.
From Athens nought
I learn'd, but from the Delphian porch I saw
A noble youth, with looks of chearful haste
Returning.

Mem.
But those Helicean bands,
What are they, and from whence?

Phor.
Lament no more.
Forget your bonds! For oh! thou happy sire!
Thou yet mayst see Messenia lift her head,
Her crested head, proud as yon waving pines,
Proud as the sons of old Ithome, led
By godlike Aristomenes, to sweep
The haughty files of Sparta from the field,
Or send them trembling to their wolfish dens!
For know, my friends, on the Crissean shores,
Your nation still survives, that seem'd extinct,
For ever sunk on sandy Pylos coast.
It lives again, like that sulphureous mine,
That sinks, they say, in Etna's flaming gorge,
Then from Vesuvius, lances to the stars,
And frights fair Italy. These poor remains
Of Ithome, long hid, and foster'd long
Obscurely in Ætolia; have burst forth
Like yonder Pleiads from the wintry storm,
That takes a surly leave! But late they crost
In many a proud bark o'er the wond'ring wave
Of Crissa, clad in arms, and settle now
Round Helice and Bura, to the strand
Of western Elis. Like a band they come,
Of hornets, from our fields to drive away
Those monsters fed with gore! Their pæans loud
Peal to the sounding main. The sounding main
Sends them provisions, arms, and warlike stores
From rich Naupactus, and the ports around,
That skirt the long Crissean, and obey
Athenian influence, or Athenian power.

Arist.
This from report we learn'd before, but fear'd
It was some hostile stratagem, to lure
Our hopes to blossom, like untimely spring,
Check'd by the nipping North's invidious breath.

Phor.
Those eyes beheld them.

Mem.
Where?

Phor.
Even now—But now
That sun, whose steeds a few short hours ago
Plung'd in the broad Ionian, saw the scene,
Saw his red splendours as they rose, return'd
By old Messenia's far reflecting files
Doubling the day;—the purple main afar,
In hoarse applause, remurmur'd to the voice
Of early vows to the associate gods,
Latona's son, and Neptune. Either god,
From the blue empire and the burning throne,
Each other seem'd with mutual smiles to hail,
Mingling their glories!

Mem.
He that rules the day
From his bright station deals impartial light,
Both to the proud oppressor and the slave
Who drags the clanking chain. The tyrant scorns
Th'ætherial blessing, and the weary wretch
But wakes to curse his rising beam, that shows
A long variety of woe and pain.
But in the nightly visions of the just,
(After his radiant eyes have view'd the world,
Its miseries and wrongs) he deals around
That awful verdict oft, that seals the doom
Of thoughtless tyrants, tho' they bask secure
Beneath his blessed beam.

Phor.

Arist.
By all our wrongs
Thou bring'st an answer, worthy of a god!
And may the tide of time for ever bear
Our generations to oblivion's deep
If now we miss the fair occasion given
At once to seize, that lifts us to the view
On this wide theatre of gods and men
Applauding!

Phorb.
Hear the sequel, for the maid
Forsook not yet the tripod “Sons of Ithome”
In calmest mood she thus began “The means
“How to commence the dread carreer of fame
“Are yet to learn: the goal is in your view
“The first step gains the race, the conscious moon
“Must see you turn against the savage foe
“Who marks your tracks with blood! the coming night
“Soon in her shadowy retinue shall bring
“The wonted ruffian to your peaceful plains
“With wolvish spirit, prowling for his prey
“Him seize, and to the subterranean gods
“Pour his devoted blood! The manly deed
“By all partaken, will to all dispense
“Unshaken fortitude and firm resolve.
“Kindled by taste of hostile blood, despair
“Of pardon from their dire vindictive lords
“And settled purpose to succeed, or dye.”

Mem.
Aside.
Then I must haste to wake my rival's fears
And from th'imagin'd danger speed her flight.

[Exit privately.
Phil.
'Twas then that ruffian's shadow which obscur'd
The lamp of Mithras, when it burn'd so dim!
The prescient gods have sent the dark eclipse
To warn us of the prey, which now, perhaps
On this dread verge with blind unconscious tread
Is entring on our snares.—Begin the search.

Arist.
Then this alone remains.—Oh! had I learn'd
The secret sooner! had Apollo deign'd
To wake our fears before Alcander fell
And mark'd the ruffian as he walk'd our woods
Alcander yet had liv'd, or we, at worst,
Had seen the murth'rer pour his hated blood
To the dread queen of Vengeance!

Phorb.
Yet, perhaps
Flush'd with success, the ruffian of the night
Again may visit these sad groves; the blame
If then he scapes, will light on us. The gods
Have free'd themselves.

Arist.
Go Mardon! Cephatus!
Terpander! Pheron! Pyramus! and Dymas!
Each in your several districts, wake your friends
And bid their busy footsteps trace the dews
Till dawn—no common prey shall crown their toil.—
—Fair daughter of Latona, whose bright lamp
So oft has led the robber to his prey—
O thou, whose virgin ear was oft profan'd
With cries of violation. Thou whose shafts
On Tityus and Orion, veng'd of old
Their brutal purpose—pierce those envious clouds
Remove the veil of night, and give to view
The secret foe, that comes, with fell intent
To stain thy virgin walks with recent blood!