University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A terrace of the Temple.
CLEMANTHE, ION.
CLEMANTHE.
Nay, I must chide 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.

CLEMANTHE.
Then it is most groundless!
Hast thou not won the blessings of the perishing
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?

ION.
I fain would think
That the assured possession of thy love
With too divine a freitage weigh'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
In sleep or mood serene, of azure fields
Which rainbow palaces invest, but vaults
In long succession open till the gloom
Afar is broken by a streak of fire
That shapes my name—the moaning wind that creeps
Prophetic of the tempest whispers it;
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
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.

ION.
I will do so!
I'll gaze upon thy loveliness, and drink
Its quiet in;—how beautiful thou art!—
Sure my pulse throbs as it was wont;—a being,
Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it,
Cannot show darkly.

CLEMANTHE.
Happiness will soon
Revisit us; my father will rejoice—
I feel he will, to bless our love; and Argos
Will breathe again, for her destroyer's course
Must have a speedy end.

ION.
It must! It must!

CLEMANTHE.
Yes; for no idle 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
When with unswerving hand and piteous eye
He stops the brief life of the innocent kid
Bound with white fillets to the altar;—so
Enwreath'd by fate the royal victim stands,
And soon his breast shall shrink beneath the knife
Of the selected slayer!

CLEMANTHE.
'Tis thyself
Whom thy strange language pictures—Ion! thou—

ION.
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?

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—
Could I escape it!

CLEMANTHE.
'Twill away in sleep.

ION.
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.

CLEMANTHE.
Let me
Go with thee. O, 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!
[Exit ION.

CLEMANTHE.
Farewell then!
How fearful disproportion shows in one
Whose life hath been all harmony! I fear
Some power malignant working on his soul
May drive him into frenzied act: he bends
Towards that thick covert where in blessed hour
My father found him, which has ever been
His chosen place of meditation; thither
I'll follow him:—indeed I would not grow
A selfish mistress jealous of his musings;
But when dark fancies trouble his clear spirit,
Sure 'tis my privilege to hover near him!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

An opening in a deep wood—in front an old grey altar.
Enter Ion.
ION.
O winding pathways, o'er whose scanty blades
Of unaspiring grass mine eyes have bent
So often when by musing fancy sway'd,
That craved alliance with no wider scene
That 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 even that, as it waned
Touch'd ye with softer, homelier look, now fades
In dismal blackness; and yon twisted roots
Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms
My thoughts grew humorous, look terrible
As if about to start to serpent life
And hiss around me;—whither shall I turn—
Where fly?—I see the myrtle-cradled spot
Where human love instructed by divine
Found and embraced me first; I'll 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.
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.
O, 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,
Sunk 'neath the leaden wave; but night steals on
With rapid pace to veil us, and thy thoughts
Are eager as the ominous darkness.

Enter Phocion.
CTESIPHON.
Welcome!
Thou knowest all here.

PHOCION.
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'll 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
The retribution sure. From him I learnt
That when Adrastus reach'd his palace court,
He paused, to struggle with some mighty throe
Of awful passion; then, as if resolved
To conquer thought, 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 sure 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. O, should my sorrows
Confer on me the office to return
Upon the tyrant's shivering heart the blow
Which crushed 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!

ION.
[Who has advanced from the wood, rushes to the altar and exclaims]
And I!

PHOCION.
Ion! thou art most welcome; sure the gods
In prompting thy unspotted soul to join
Our bloody councils, sanctify and bless them!

ION.
Yes; they 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 a 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. Be quick, Cassander!

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 Cassander, who retires with it.]
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 office, if the first should leave
His work imperfect.

CTESIPHON.
There can scarce be need;
Yet as thou wilt. May the first chance 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 helmet.
PHOCION.
The name? Why dost thou pause?

CTESIPHON.
'Tis Ion!

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'll answer for his constancy.

CTESIPHON.
[to Ion.
Thy hand!
'Tis cold as death.

ION.
Yes; but it is as firm.
What ceremony next?

[Ctesiphon 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 brother 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 distorted 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
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 poison-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 fated battlements of tyranny
With blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe
Through the proud halls of time-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 pityless,
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 my soul to shed it!—
Was not that thunder?

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
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 I? Friends, your pardon;
I am prepared; yet grant me for a moment,
Only a moment, to be left alone.

CTESIPHON.
Be brief then, or the season of revenge
Will pass. At yonder thicket we'll 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
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.

ION.
Death, sayest thou? Death?
Is it not righteous when the gods decree it?
And brief its sharpest agony? Yet, fairest,
It is no theme for thee. Prithee go in,
And think of it no more.

CLEMANTHE.
Not without thee.
Indeed thou art not well; thy hands are marble,
Thy eyes are fix'd; let me support thee, love,—
Ha! what is that gleaming within thy vest?
A knife! Tell me its purpose, Ion!

ION.
No;
My oath forbids.

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?
Hast not install'd me in thy soul's high palace,
And wilt thou keep one churlish corner from me?

ION.
Alas, I must. Thou wilt know all full soon—
[Voices call Ion!]
Hark, I am call'd!

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!
'Tis fit the tyrant die, but not by him;
For black 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 still,
And trust him till it bound or break with his.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A chamber in the Temple.
Enter Medon, followed by Abra.
MEDON.
My daughter not within the temple, sayst thou?
Abroad at such an hour? Sure not alone
She wander'd: tell me truly, did not Phocion
Or Ion bear her company? 'twas Ion—
Confess;—was it not he? I shall not chide,
Indeed I shall not.

ABRA.
She went forth alone;
But it is true that Ion just before
Had taken the same path.

MEDON.
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
looking 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.
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
Is number'd with the dead; an humble man,
Who was the last akin to me on earth,
But whom I never saw until he lay
Upon his deathbed; he had 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 chilness 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.
Medon
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 he quit the temple.

IRUS.
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.
Now, Clemanthe,
Though thou hast play'd the truant and the rebel,
I will not be severe 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 uncle 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
Sunk 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 return'd to die.
That child is Ion; whom do'st guess his sire?
The first in Argos.

CLEMANTHE.
Dost thou mean Adrastus?
He cannot—must not—be that tyrant's son!

MEDON.
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. I have read
His inmost spirit from that hour, and feel
No change will make him tyrant to the state,
Or traitor to his love;—thou art bless'd, Clemanthe—
Thus, let me bid thee joy.

CLEMANTHE.
Joy, sayst thou—joy!
Then I must speak—he seeks Adrastus' life;
And at this moment, while we talk, may stain
His soul with parricide.

MEDON.
Impossible!
Ion, the gentlest—

CLEMANTHE.
It is true, my father;
I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest;
I heard him call'd!

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,
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.

CLEMANTHE.
O make haste, my father;
Shall I attend thee?

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.

MEDON.
The gods protect thee!

[Exeunt severally.