University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

[Before the gate of the city.]
[Phocion on guard.]
PHOCION.
Fool that I was to take this idle office
At most inglorious distance from the scene
Which shall be freedom's birth-place; to endure
The phantasies of danger which the soul
Uncheer'd by action coldly dallies with
Till it begins to shiver! Long ere this,
If Ion's hand be firm, the deed is past,
And yet no shout announces that the bonds
Of tyranny are broken.
[Shouts at distance.
Hark! 'tis done!—

Enter Ctesiphon.
All hail, my brother freeman!—is't not so?—
Thy looks are haggard—is the tyrant slain?
Is liberty achieved?

CTESIPHON.
The king is dead;
This arm,—I bless the vengeful Furies!—slew him.

PHOCION.
Did Ion quail then?

CTESIPHON.
Ion!—clothe thy speech
In phrase more courtly; he is king of Argos,
Accepted as the tyrant's long-lost son,
And in his person still the murderer reigns.

PHOCION.
It cannot be; I can believe his birth
Is royal, yet I know he will prefer
His own internal treasury of sweet thoughts
To all the frigid glories that invest
The loveless state in which the monarch dwells
A terror and a slave.

[Shouts again.
CTESIPHON.
Dost hear that shout?
'Tis raised for him!—the craven fools rejoice
To welcome a new master—the loose soldiers
From the base instinct of their slavish trade
Which must be deck'd and master'd; the slight people
In hunger for a holiday; the elders
Confounded by the wisdom of his speech;
Join in one prayer that he would set his foot
Upon their necks, and he is pleased to grant it.

PHOCION.
He shall not grant it! If my life, my sense,
My heart's affections and my tongue's free scope
Wait the dominion of a mortal will,
What is the sound to me—whether my soul
Bears “Ion” or “Adrastus” burnt within it
As my soul's owner? One, in cruel whim,
May shape new tortures for my quivering nerves,
Or strain my sinews to beguile an hour;
The other may be gracious in caprice,
And from the store great nature gave to all men
Dole out small bounties to adoring slaves;
If I must choose, give me the honest tyrant,
Whom in my dungeon I am free to curse,
Whose bounties seek not to immesh the soul,
And claim it his accomplice! Ion, king—
Never; I'll reason with his guileless heart,
Which has not known a selfish impulse yet,
And thou shalt see him smile this greatness from him.

CTESIPHON.
Go teach the eagle when in azure heaven
He upward darts to seize his madden'd prey,
Shivering through the death-circle of its fear,
To pause and let it 'scape, and thou mayst win
Man to forego the sparkling round of power,
When it floats airily within his grasp.

PHOCION.
Why dost thou argue this so sternly? thou
Carest not for general wrongs; and thy own grief
Is well avenged.

CTESIPHON.
Not while the son of him
Who smote my father reigns. I little guess'd
Thou wouldst require a prompter to awake
The memory of the oath of yesterday,
Or of the place assign'd to thee by lot,
Should our first champion fail to crush the race—
Mark me!—“the race” of him my arm has dealt with.
Now is the time; the palace all confused,
And the prince dizzy with strange turns of fortune
To do thy part.

PHOCION.
Have mercy on my weakness!
If thou hadst known this youth as I have known him,
One of the same small household which he cheer'd
With cloudless mirth;—vex'd him a thousand times,
And never felt the chiding of a glance;
Seen him anticipate thy wayward wishes
As by sweet instinct, and o'ertax his strength
To gratify them—if thou hast been stretch'd
Long weeks upon a couch of agony,
And felt the blessing of his gentle care,
Thou couldst not do it.—Hear me, Ctesiphon!—
I had a deadly fever once, and slaves
Shrunk trembling—he watch'd o'er me with patience
Which seem'd to draw enjoyment from its use,
And soothed my dull ear with discourse so sweet,
That lovely fancies throng'd about my soul,
And my sad room became a place enchanted,
Its darkness swarming with delightful shapes,
That almost stole away the sense of pain;—
And canst thou bid me slay him now?

CTESIPHON.
The task
Be mine. Thou wilt not play the traitor with me?

[going.
PHOCION.
Hold! If the compact of our dreadful league
Require that he should fall, I will not wait
At distance;—since my thought must be his stabber,
My arm shall not be absent.

CTESIPHON.
Thou wilt find him,
Haply upon the terrace and alone;
But hasten.

PHOCION.
O fear not that I should bear
The prospect of so sad an office long.

CTESIPHON.
That done, I'll meet thee at the temple.

PHOCION.
Well!
All places will be then alike to me.

[Exeunt severally.