 | Philip |  |
Scene I.
—A mountain-top in the vicinity of Pella. Demetrius and Janira stand looking forth toward the east.Jan.
How long will't be before the sun comes forth?
Dem.
Even now he's at Heaven's portal. Dost not see
How all the eastern sky is touched with fire,—
While overhead, and westward is deep blue?
And there's one cloud,—the only one in th' heaven,
Floating upon the golden atmosphere
Like a huge rock of ruby.
Jan.
Beautiful!
Most beautiful!—Oh! have I lived till now,
And ne'er seen this?
Dem.
How men will haste and crowd
To see a monarch in his tawdry state!—
Yet the great king of light goes daily up
To his resplendent throne; and scarce an eye
Follows his rising.
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Demetrius—
Where is the glorious stretch of prospect round,
You talked of? All below us is dense mist—
Nought visible but this huge mountain's top,
And one or two below us, that scarce lift
Their bald heads through the fog. Our morning's toil
So far is lost;—yet I repent it not;—
For, tho' the earth be hid, yet this fair Heaven
Is beautiful, beyond the scope of thought,
To one that hath not known it:—and the air,—
How fresh and sweet!—and this most solemn stillness,
As tho' all life had bowed th' adoring head
In worship of heaven's King!—Demetrius—
Oh! is it not most beautiful?
Dem.
Go on
With thy sweet musings. All that's beautiful
In earth, or heaven, seems yet more beautiful
In thy loved praises. What, to man, were earth
With all its pomp of mountain and rich plain?
What ocean, with its ever-varying might?
What the bright ceiling of unbounded space—
The unapproachable glory of the sun,
Or midnight, myriad-starred?—Oh what, to man,
Were all, if woman were not? Her sweet voice
Gives fragrance to the sweetest breath of morn;
To noon gives brightness,—calmness to the eve,—
And cheerfulness unto the gloom of night.
Jan.
This is the tale you tell a thousand ears,—
And all believe it.
Dem.
Dost not thou?
Jan.
Be sure on't.
But answer now. Why all this sudden haste?
Why to this mountain-top,—this very morn,
No hour's delay permitted,—am I brought?
And what's the business clouds your forehead thus?
Nay—nay—I read it in your every look,
And hear it in each word. Come—no disguise:
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But cannot if we hide them. Speak your grief,
And, in the very utterance, half its pain
Shall pass away.
Dem.
Janira—to this hill,
In my young days a hundred times I came
To see yon sun get up. This morn's my last.
And I would take my leave on't ere I go.
Jan.
Your last?—What mean you?
Dem.
I must fly, my love.
Too well I feel here is no home for me:
A brother hates me,—and a father doubts:
One would destroy me,—th' other will not save.
Perseus, to take my life, sets daily snares;
Philip beholds him,—and almost abets.
I have no choice but an ignoble fate,—
And by a brother's hand;—a life ignobler,
Gained by that brother's death;—or else this flight.
Jan.
Where would you fly? Oh! is it come to this?
Dem.
To Rome, dear girl, where I have powerful friends,
And true ones. Perseus then may hate, and plot;
And my poor father rage and threat, in vain.
We shall be safe; and hear the distant storm,
Unheeding of the bolt.
Jan.
But, should your flight
Be intercepted . . .
Dem.
Have no fear of that.
The king will not return these four days yet.
Dymas will aid me thro' Pæonia; there
Lies all our difficulty; and his power,
As governor, can make it smooth and safe.
Jan.
Is Dymas honest?
Dem.
Honest? He's my friend:
Bound to me by a hundred services:—
He can't deceive me.
Jan.
But he's Philip's friend:
And high in trust.
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Yet sees where Philip errs:
And will not aid his crimes. From him I learn
What urges me to this. He counsels me,
For he knows well my danger, and the path
By which to 'scape it.
Jan.
Be his counsel good!
I like it not, and do not like the giver.
But I have no experience of man's heart,
And cannot judge,—or I should say—beware;—
Dymas is hollow.—Do not ask me why;—
I have no reason. When he speaks to me,
I feel a danger;—when he looks on me,
I shrink away,—yet have no cause to shew,—
If't be not instinct.
Dem.
I do think him true;
But now will mark him surer. Look, my love,
The mist is clearing off; and spots of green
Appear like islands in the vapoury flood.
Anon 'twill all pass off; and then I'll shew thee
A hundred places that are dear to me
From sweet remembrance.
Jan.
Look! Demetrius—look!
The sun is peeping, like a burning eye,
Above the far earth's rim. Oh! beautiful!
See—up into the sky a thousand rays
Shoot round . . .
Dem.
And all the mountain-tops are touched . . .
Jan.
And the green forest is all capp'd with gold.
Now he goes up. Oh! the whole world should wake
To see this majesty—Demetrius,
Let us behold it often;—for, methinks,
This sight might keep us virtuous more than aught
Philosopher or priest could talk to us.
Who, that saw this, could on that day do ill?
Look! look! But now I cannot look.
Dem.
Then hear.
This very eve with Dymas I shall sup;
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As,—setting pomp and ceremony by,—
Thou canst in private let our hands be joined;
That so, without a spot on thy fair name,
Thou mayst fly with me? Dost thou so far love?
Jan.
Oh! farther much,—or I loved not at all.
But think again before it be too late.
We must confer again, and yet again,
Before this step be taken. Show me now
The places that you spake of, for the mist
Is melting off, and gives to view a world,—
Or what might seem such. How magnificent!
Dem.
We'll mount our horses; for a hundred points
Give, each, a different prospect; and all grand.
Come, my beloved;—one happy morn we'll have,
Tho' sorrow come at eve.
Jan.
Oh! do not fear.
[Exeunt.
| Philip | |