University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Terrace of the Palace.
ADRASTUS, CRYTHES.
ADRASTUS.
The air breathes freshly after our long night
Of glorious revelry. I'll 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?

ADRASTUS.
Let them blast me now—
I stir not; tremble not; these massive walls,
Whose date o'erawes tradition, gird the home
Of a great race of kings, along whose line
The eager mind lives aching, through the darkness
Of ages else unstoried, till its shapes
Of armed sovereigns spread to godlike port,
And, frowning in the uncertain dawn of time,
Strike awe, as powers who ruled an elder world,
In mute obedience. I, sad heriter
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.

CRYTHES.
Thou art ever royal in thy thoughts.

ADRASTUS.
No more—
I would be private.
[Exit Crythes.
Grovelling parasite!
Why should I waste these fate-environ'd hours,
And pledge my high defiance to despair
With flatterers such as thou;—as if my joys
Required the pale reflections cast by slaves
In mirror'd mockery round my throne, or lack'd
The aid of reptile sympathies to stream
Through fate's black pageantry. Let weakness seek
Companionship: I'll henceforth feast alone.

Enter a Soldier.
SOLDIER.
My liege, forgive me.

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
Enter'd the court, and when we saw him first
Was tending towards the palace; in amaze,
We hail'd the rash intruder; still he walk'd
Unheeding onward, till the western gate
Barr'd further course; then turning, he besought
Our startled band to lead him to the king,
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, which it ennobles. What old rebel
Is so resolved to play the orator
That he would die for't?

SOLDIER.
He is but a youth,
Yet urged his prayer with a sad constancy
Which could not be denied.

ADRASTUS.
O bravely plann'd
This is sedition worthy of the herd
Of sophist traitors; brave to scatter fancies
Of discontent midst sturdy artisans,
Whose honest sinews they direct unseen,
And make their proxies in the work of peril!—
'Tis fit, when burning to insult their king,
And warn'd the pleasure must be bought with life,
Their valour send a boy to speak their wisdom!
Thou know'st my last decree; tell this rash youth
The danger he incurs;—then let him pass,
And own the king more gentle than his masters.

SOLDIER.
We have already told him of the fate
Which waits his daring; courteously he thank'd us,
But still with solemn accent urged his suit.

ADRASTUS.
Tell him once more, if he persists, he dies—
Then, if he will, admit him. Should he hold
His purpose, order Crythes to conduct him,
And see the headsman instantly prepare
To do his office.
[Exit Soldier.
So resolved, so young—
'Twere pity he should fall; yet he must fall,
Or the great sceptre, which hath sway'd the fears
Of ages, will become a common staff
For youth to wield or age to rest upon,
Despoil'd of all its virtues. He must 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 birthplace,
To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd;
And if he cross yon threshold, he shall die.

Enter Crythes and Ion.
CRYTHES.
The king!

ADRASTUS.
Stranger, I bid thee welcome;
We are about to tread the same dark passage,
Thou almost on the instant.—Is the sword
[To Crythes.
Of justice sharpen'd, and the headsman ready?

CRYTHES.
Thou mayst behold them plainly in the court;
Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground;
The steel gleams on the altar; and the slave
Disrobes himself for duty.

ADRASTUS.
[To Ion.]
Dost thou see them?

ION.
I do.

ADRASTUS.
By Heaven, he does not change!
If, even now, thou wilt depart and leave
Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free.

ION.
I thank thee for thy offer; but I stand
Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich
In all that makes life precious to the brave;
Who perish not alone, but in their fall
Break the far-spreading tendrils that they feed,
And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me
For them, I am content to speak no more.

ADRASTUS.
Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes! till yon dial
Cast its thin shadow on the approaching hour,
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—
These are the strengths of Heaven; to thee they speak,
Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry,
Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come!

ADRASTUS.
I know it must; so mayst thou spare thy warnings;
The envious gods in me have doom'd a race,
Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts,
Whence their own dawn'd upon the infant world;
And I shall sit on my ancestral throne
To meet their vengeance; but till then I rule,
As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel.

ION.
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 break out triumphant at thy fall;
But thou art gifted with a nobler sense—
I know thou art, my sovereign—sense of pain
Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls,
And in whose fathers' souls, thou and thy fathers
Have kept their cherish'd state; whose heartstrings, still
The living fibres of thy rooted power,
Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn
From heavenly justice on them.

ADRASTUS.
How! my crimes?

ION.
Yes; 'tis the eternal law that where guilt is,
Sorrow shall answer it; and thou hast not
A poor man's privilege to bear alone,
Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen
The penalties of evil, for in thine
A nation's fate is circled.—King Adrastus!
Mail'd as thy heart is with the usages
Of pomp and power, a few short summers since
Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless.
O, if maternal love embraced thee then,
Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet
Glare o'er their perishing children: hast thou shared
The glow of a first friendship, which is born
Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth
Smitten amidst its playthings;—let the spirit
Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity!

ADRASTUS.
In every word thou dost but steel my soul.
My youth was blasted;—parents, brother, kin—
All that should people infancy with joy—
Conspired to poison mine; despoil'd my life
Of innocence and hope—all but the sword
And sceptre—dost thou wonder at me now?

ION.
I knew that we should pity—

ADRASTUS.
Pity! dare
To speak that word again, and torture waits thee!
I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on—
Thy time is short, and I am pledged to hear.

ION.
If thou hast ever loved—

ADRASTUS.
Beware! beware!

ION.
Thou hast! I see thou hast! Thou art not marble,
And thou shalt hear me!—Think upon the time
When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul
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 etherial touch
Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky,
As if about to melt in golden light
Shapes of one heavenly vision; and thy heart
Enlarged by its new sympathy with one,
Grew bountiful to all!

ADRASTUS.
That tone! that tone!
Whence came it? from thy lips? It cannot be—
The long-hush'd music of the only voice
That ever spake unbought affection to me,
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
Which some light breeze, enamour'd of the sound,
Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice
Caught it to rive and mock 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 parents' hope, the darling of the crew
Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery
To trace in every foible of my youth—
A prince's youth!—the workings of the curse;
My very mother—God! 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,
Now coin'd their own injustice into proof
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 shrunk
When mine has met them; murmur'd through the crowd
That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game
Stood distant from me; burnt into my soul
When I beheld it in my father's shudder.

ION.
Didst not declare thy innocence?

ADRASTUS.
To whom?
To parents who could doubt me? To the ring
Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons,
Who should have studied to prevent my wish
Before it grew to language; hail'd my choice
To service as a prize to wrestle for;
And whose reluctant courtesy I bore,
Pale with proud anger, till from lips compress'd
The blood has started? To the common herd,
The vassals of our ancient house, the mass
Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil
A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it,
Or, deck'd for slaughter at their monarch's call,
To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd
In heaps to swell his glory or his shame?
Answer to them: No! though my heart had burst,
As it was nigh to bursting!—To the mountains
I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow
Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool
My spirit's fever—struggled with the oak
In search of weariness, and learn'd to rive
Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung
Might mate in cordage with its infant stems;
Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest
Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air
Headlong committed, clove the water's depth
Which plummet never sounded;—but in vain.

ION.
Yet succour came to thee?

ADRASTUS.
A blessed one!
Which the strange magic of thy voice revives,
And thus unlocks my soul: my rapid steps
Were in a wood-encircled valley stayed
By the bright vision of a maid, whose face
Most lovely more than loveliness reveal'd,
In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd
Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine.
With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth
The body of her aged sire, whose death
Left her alone. I aided her sad work,
And soon two lonely ones by holy rites
Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months,
In streamlike unity flow'd silent by us
In our delightful nest. My father's spies—
Slaves, whom my nod should have consign'd to stripes
Or the swift falchion—track'd our sylvan home
Just as my bosom knew its second joy,
And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son.

ION.
Commission'd by thy 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 follow'd it
I would embrace him with my dying eyes,
And pardon destiny! While crysome 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 murderers' gripe,
Severer ill unfearing—then the splash
Of waters that shall cover him for ever;
And could not stir to save him!

ION.
And the mother—

ADRASTUS.
She spake no word, but clasp'd me in her arms,
And lay her down to die. A lingering gaze
Of love she fix'd on me—none other loved,
And so pass'd hence. By Jupiter, her look!
Her dying patience glimmers in thy face!
She lives again! She looks upon me now!
There's magic in't. Bear with me—I am childish.

Enter Crythes and Guards.
ADRASTUS.
Why art thou here?

CRYTHES.
The dial points the hour.

ADRASTUS.
Dost thou not see that horrid purpose past?
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 roll'd since then.
Begone; remove that pageantry of death—
It blasts my sight—and harken! Touch a hair
Of this brave youth, or look on him as now
With thy cold hangman's eye, and yonder band
Shall not desire a spectacle 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, at however high a cost, perform it.

ADRASTUS.
Well! I will seek their presence in an hour;
Go summon them, young hero:—hold! no word
Of the strange passion thou hast witness'd here.

ION.
Distrust me not.—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—Abra attending her.]
ABRA.
Look, dearest lady!—the thin smoke aspires
In the calm air, as when in happier times
It show'd the gods propitious; wilt thou seek
Thy chamber, lest thy father and his friends,
Returning, find us hinderers of their council?
She answers not—she hearkens not—with joy
Could I believe her, for the first time, sullen!—
Still she is rapt.
[Enter Agenor.]
O, speak to my sweet mistress,
Haply thy voice may rouse her.

AGENOR.
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 the winding-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 him.]
Here is your messenger,
Whom Heaven has rescued from the tyrant's rage
Which ye permitted him to brave. Rejoice
That ye are guiltless of his blood!—why pause ye,
Why shout ye not his welcome?

MEDON.
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 mix'd with hers, even as a brother's.

TIMOCLES.
Ion!
How shall we do thee honor?

ION.
None is due
Save to the gods whose gracious influence sways
The king ye deem'd relentless;—he consents
To meet the sages presently in council;
And, linger not, lest this benign resolve
Prove the last rally of his nobler nature,
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;—
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 selfish aspirations;—but we met
As playmates who might never meet again,
And then the hidden truth flash'd forth, and show'd
To each the image in the other's soul
In one bright instant. Fear not lest my fortunes
So dim should hold a maiden in their thrall
Borne to be happy; I have that within
Which warns me that I shall not disturb them long.

MEDON.
Far be the presage!—do I hear aright
That in no gracious pity, but in love
Free as her own, thy plighted faith is hers?

ION.
Indeed! indeed! and canst thou love me still,
My rebel wish disclosed?

MEDON.
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!

[Enter Ctesiphon.]
MEDON.
Ctesiphon!—and breathless—
Art come to chide me to the council?

CTESIPHON.
No;
To bring unwonted joy; thy son has landed.

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.
MEDON.
Welcome, my Phocion—
Long waited for in Argos, how detain'd
Now matters not, since thou art here in joy.
Hast brought the answer of the god?

PHOCION.
I have:
Now let Adrastus tremble!

MEDON.
May we hear it?

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.]
Do not speak of him.

CTESIPHON.
[Overhearing Ion.]
Not speak of him! Dost think there is a moment
When common things eclipse the burning thought
Of him and vengeance?

PHOCION.
Has the tyrant's sword—

CTESIPHON.
No, Phocion; that were merciful and brave
Compared to his base deed; yet will I tell it
To make the flashing of thine eye more deadly,
And edge thy words that they may rive his heartstrings.
The last time that Adrastus dared to face
The sages of the state, although my father,
Yielding to nature's mild decay, had left
All worldly toil and hope, he gather'd strength,
In his old seat, to speak one word of warning.
Thou knowest how bland with years his wisdom grew,
And with what phrases, steep'd in love, he sheath'd
The sharpness of rebuke; yet, ere his speech
Was done, the tyrant started from his throne,
And with his base hand smote him;—'twas his death-stroke!
The old man totter'd home, and only once
Raised his head after.

PHOCION.
Thou wert absent? Fool!
How could I ask the question!

CTESIPHON.
Had I seen
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 open'd 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 dagger,
And struck in air; my hand was join'd with his
In nervous grasp—my lifted eye met his,
In stedfast 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: with unthinking rage
Unarm'd I sought the tyrant, to be driven
From his proud gates with mockery by the hirelings,
Who with their base swords circle him. He lives—
And I am here to babble of revenge!

PHOCION.
It comes, my friend—haste with me to the king!

ION.
Even while we speak, Adrastus meets his council;
There let us seek him; should ye find him touch'd
With penitence, as happily ye may,
O, give allowance to his soften'd nature!

CTESIPHON.
Show grace to him!—Dost dare?—I had forgot,
Thou dost not know what 'tis to love a father!

ION.
I know enough to feel for thee; I know
Thou hast endured the vilest wrong that tyranny
In its worst frenzy can inflict;—yet think,
O think! before the irrevocable deed
Shuts out all thought, how much of power's excess
Is theirs who raise the idol:—do we groan
Beneath the personal force of this rash man,
Who forty summers since hung at the breast
A playful weakling; whom the heat unnerves;
The north-wind pierces; and the hand of death
May, in a moment, change to clay as vile
As that of the scourged slave whose chains it severs?
No! 'tis our weakness gasping for the shows
Of outward strength that builds up tyranny,
And makes it look so glorious:—If we shrink
Faint-hearted from the reckoning of our span
Of mortal days, we pamper the fond wish
For long duration in a line of kings.
If the rich pageantry of thoughts must fade
All unsubstantial as the regal hues
Of eve which purpled them, our cunning frailty
Must robe a living image with their pomp,
And wreathe a diadem around its brow,
In which our sunny fantasies may live
Empearl'd, and gleam, in fatal splendor, far
On after ages. We must look within
For that which makes us slaves;—on sympathies
Which find no kindred objects in the plain
Of common life—affections that aspire
In air too thin—and fancy's dewy film
Floating for rest; for even such delicate threads,
Gather'd by fate's engrossing hand, supply
The eternal spindle whence she weaves the bond
Of cable strength in which our nature struggles!

CTESIPHON.
Go talk to others if thou wilt;—to me
All argument, but that of steel, is idle.

MEDON.
No more;—let's to the council—there, my son,
Tell thy great message nobly;—and for thee
Poor orphan'd youth, be sure the gods are just!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The great Square of the City. Adrastus seated on a throne; Agenor, Timocles, Cleon, and others, seated as Councillors—Soldiers line the stage at a distance.
ADRASTUS.
Upon your summons, Sages, I am here;
Your king attends to know your pleasure—speak it!

AGENOR.
And canst thou ask? If the heart dead within thee
Receives no impress of this awful time,
Art thou of sense forsaken? Are thine ears
So charm'd by strains of slavish minstrelsy
That the dull groan and frenzy-pointed shriek
Pass them unheard to Heaven? Or are thine eyes
So conversant with prodigies of grief
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 manly Sorrow steals
From fragile girlishness hysteric tears;—
While Womanhood, made hardy by despair,
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, roaming parentless and free,
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 of desire, and restless seeks,
'Mid images sepulchral, for the 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 cure the ills of nature?
I have no skill in medicine, and no power
To sway the elements.

AGENOR.
Thou hast the power
To cast away thy flatterers; to put on
Some show of pity for thy people's sorrows;
To throw thyself upon the ground with them
In lowly penitence; or, if this power
Hath left a heart made weak by luxury
And hard by pride, thou had at least the power
To cease the mockery of thy frantic revels.

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 colored 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 climb to mingle with,—in wild caprice
Of frolic, Jove, smit by the thunder's marl
And lighted for destruction? How it stood
One glorious moment, fringed and wreathed with flame
Which show'd the inward graces of its shape,
Uncumber'd now, and midst its topmost boughs
That young Ambition's airy fancies made
Their giddy nest, leap'd sportive;—never clad
By liberal summer in a pomp so rich
As waited on its downfall, while it took
The storm-cloud roll'd behind it for a curtain
To gird its splendors round, and made the blast
Its minister to whirl its flashing shreds
Aloft towards heaven, or to the startled depths
Of forests that afar might share its doom!
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.

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;—where the sky extends
Its arch for all, and mocks the petty span
Of earth-built palaces and dungeons; where
The heart, beneath the meanest vestment, claims
Alliance with diviner things than state
Of monarchs or their minions, I have found
My teachers—and their lessons make me blush
To see a thousand of my fellows cringe
Before a creature moulded like themselves
In all things save in pity and in love.

ADRASTUS.
Peace! speak thy message.

PHOCION.
Shall I tell it here?
Or shall I seek thy couch at dead of night
And breathe it in low whispers?—As thou wilt.

ADRASTUS.
Here—and this instant!

PHOCION.
Harken then, Adrastus,
And harken, Argives—thus Apollo speaks!
[Reads a scroll.]
“Argos ne'er shall find release
“Till her monarch's race shall cease.”

ADRASTUS.
'Tis not the god, but man's sedition speaks:—
Guards! tear that lying parchment from his hands,
And bear him to the palace.

MEDON.
Touch him not,—
He is Apollo's messenger, whose lips
Were never stain'd with falsehood.

PHOCION.
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.

ION.
[To Phocion.]
O my friend, forbear;
For thy dear father's sake—for sake of all—
Enrage him not—one moment while I plead—
[To Adrastus.]
My sovereign, pause in thy rash course: thou art
Here upon my entreaty, do not stain
This sacred place with blood; in Heaven's great name
I do conjure thee—and in hers, whose spirit
Perchance is mourning for thee now!

ADRASTUS.
Release him—
Let him go spread his treason where he will,
He is not worth my anger. To the palace!

ION.
Nay, yet an instant!—let my speech have power
From Heaven to move thee further: thou hast heard
The sentence of the god, and thy heart owns it;
If thou wilt cast aside this cumbrous pomp,
And in seclusion purify thy soul
Long fever'd and sophisticate, the gods
May give thee space for penitential thoughts;
If not—as surely as thou standest here,
Wilt thou lie stiff and weltering in thy blood.—
The vision presses on my soul.

ADRASTUS.
Art mad?
Resign my state! Sue to the gods for life,
The common life which every slave endures,
And meanly clings to? No; within yon walls
I shall resume the banquet, never more
Broken by man's intrusion. Councillors,
Farewell!—go mutter treason till ye perish!

[Exeunt Adrastus, Crythes, and Soldiers.
Ion,
who stands apart leaning on a pedestal.
'Tis seal'd!

MEDON.
Let us withdraw, and strive
By sacrifice to pacify the gods!

Medon, Agenor, and Councillors retire: they leave Ctesiphon, Phocion, and Ion. Ion still stands apart, as rapt in meditation.
CTESIPHON.
'Tis well; the measure of his guilt is fill'd.
Where shall we meet at sunset?

PHOCION.
In the grove
Which with its matted shade imbrowns the vale,
Between those buttresses of rock that guard
The sacred mountain on its western side,
Stands a rude altar—overgrown with moss,
And stain'd with drippings of a million showers,
So old, that no tradition names the power
That hallow'd it,—which we will consecrate
Anew to freedom and to justice.

CTESIPHON.
Thither
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!
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,
And as that grim and prostrate figure haunts them,
My sinews stiffen like it. Courage, Ion!
No spectral form is here; all outward things
Wear their own old familiar looks; no dye
Pollutes them. Yet the air has scent of blood,
And now it eddies with a hurtling sound,
As if some weapon swiftly clove it. No—
The falchion's course is silent as the grave
That yawns before its victim. Gracious powers!
If the great duty of my life be near,
Grant it may be to suffer, not to strike!

[Exit.