University of Virginia Library

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.