University of Virginia Library

[Scene I.]

Scene.—An open space in Sparta, before a prison.
EUDEMON—PHÆBIDAS.
Eud.
'Tis now, oh Phæbidas! we feel the loss
Of brave Androcles! By th'eternal gods
Some fiend with folly and pernicious-rage
Dashes our counsels! Both our kings at once
You know, are absent, on the frontier bounds
Watching at every pass the coming foe
Like some pale shepherd, on a rock, forlorn
With stunn'd ear list'ning to the land-floods roar
That threats to desolate the plenteous year!—
Our Ephori in mute despondence sit
Or with vile brawls disturb the deep debate—
By heaven! to abject Helots all are turn'd!—
Some god has robb'd us of our better minds
And given them to our slaves!—In yonder woods
Like nobler savages they growl for freedom
And Athens listens to their awful voice
Delighted! Nay, they say, her envoys there
Manage, with skill refin'd, the dreadful strain
And pitch the horrid note so loud and shrill
That nations tremble at the din!—O thou
Great lion-tamer! teach thy torpid sons
How to subdue this monster of the groves
That yells for carnage!

Phæb.
From the northern hills
Messenia's exiles on the sounding shore
Of Helice and Bura, boldly spread
Their Ensigns to the wind, and, but some omens
Withhold them, it is fear'd, that, long ere now
By fatal instinct they had found their friends
Who spurn their chains in old Amyclæs vale!
O thou, that o'er the unseen world of horrors
Rulest paramount, and hurl'st thy dreadful spells
Thro' the scar'd soul, which, like the spreading plague
Catches from man to man, till armies fly
Before embattled nothings.—grant thine aid
Transfer thy terrours from the Spartan mind
And send them (like yon fogs that roll away
Over the dawning hills) upon our foes
Or all is lost!—

Eud.
By Jove it must not be!
Was it for this the Spartan glory rose
So formidable to the nations round
Like a red comet o'er the trembling world
That the vile hand of a revolted slave
Should pluck it from the stars, and tread it out
Like an extinguish'd lamp whose oil is spent?
—And now, I know, some cold-blood compromise
Is our dull subject of debate!—for me
I always blamed the stern and rigid laws
Which, not content with unremitting toil
Prest from our groaning slaves the vital flood
Mixt with their tears,—but, to submit, to sue
For league with them, what is it; but to blend
The name of Lacedemon with the dregs
Of mankind, who along our fruitful fields
Clank the vile chain of bondage?—If we fall—
Why—let us fall like Spartans, like the lion
Which our brave father slew, and not like dogs
That crouch beneath the blow, and let their lords
Twist the suspending cord around their necks
And drag them to their doom—if by their aid
We face the war, oh! never let us hope
Again to bend them to their ancient state
Of tame fervility! for settled peace
And unassuming, calm timidity
That scarcely seem'd to writhe beneath the scourge
Expect the brow of bold rebellion rais'd
At every fancy'd wrong! our quiet groves
Profan'd with midnight meetings, when they deem
Some privilege infring'd, or right withheld—
—And shall we teach their sacrilegious eyes
To pry into the mystic things of state
To peep behind the scene, and find, that we
(Whom, with implicit reverence, like the gods,
For ages they have worship'd) are but men
Subject like them to fear, the common prey
Of every mutinous passion?

Phæb.
Is there aught
In kindness, love, and mutual offices
Of friendship, and of favour, to command
Their mutual confidence and love? If not
Society is but a rope of sand
To be untwisted by the coming breeze!
Had we, by nobler maxims, rul'd our slaves
They now had wall'd us, like a mound of brass
Or measur'd equal steps with you to meet
Th'insulting foe! But we, alas! forgetting
That we ourselves are men, and own'd, with them
A common nature, have deprav'd ourselves,
And them to savages, by uncouth deeds
Of cruelty, of wrong, and violence!

Eud.
Had these more friendly maxims been adopted
In other times! But now, what would they seem
But the result of abject fear? The state
Seems to prefer thy reasoning. Fare thee well.
We meet no more, till this important crisis
Is past, for on the winged moments ride
The doom of Lacedæmon!

[Exit,
Phæb.
Alone.
Now, may heaven
Second my purpose! If I reason right,
The means are yet my own, (if duly us'd)
To reconcile those fell domestic foes.
—God of Cyllene! teach my lips the art
Of soothing rage to harmony! Apollo!
With thine own magic numbers tune my voice,
Like thine own son's, who charm'd the silent woods
To listen and obey. O bid me touch
The sacred spring of sympathy, the source
Of every noble sentiment, and warm
To glorious growth, the full expanding mind
Like the blest touch of thy benignant beam!

[Exit.