 | Songs of the sea, with other poems |  |
SCENE I.
The Palace Grounds in Syracuse. Enter Phormio.PHORMIO.
A respite! a reprieve! The gods be thanked,
I have escaped at last! O, Phormio, Phormio!
Did Fortune snatch thee from the howling waves
That gnash their white teeth on the rocks of Scylla,
160
To put thy patience to severer tests?
O, which way can I fly from Syracuse?
How rid me of the imminent infliction?
Enter Philoxenus.
PHILOXENUS.
Ho, Phormio! Is thy haste so very urgent,
Thou canst not tarry for a friend's embrace?
PHORMIO.
Philoxenus! Indeed I'm glad to see thee.
PHILOXENUS.
And I to welcome thee to Syracuse.
When didst leave Athens? Who bore off the prizes
At the Olympic games? Thou'rt out of breath:
Come, rest with me awhile beside this fountain.
PHORMIO.
Not there! Not on the palace steps! Remain;—
I shall be better instantly. O tyrant,
Remorseless in thy rancor!
PHILOXENUS.
Not so loud!
Thy dulcet compliments may reach the ears
161
Hast thou already felt his cruelty—
Thou, an Athenian?
PHORMIO.
Ay, and yet am doomed
To feel it more. O, torment most refined!
PHILOXENUS.
What! hath he tried his newly-fashioned scourge
Upon thy back?
PHORMIO.
O, something worse than that!
PHILOXENUS.
Say'st thou? Perhaps, then, he prescribed a bath
Of molten lead: I've known it efficacious
In checking many troublesome eruptions.
PHORMIO.
No: that were honey-dew to what I've suffered.
PHILOXENUS.
Thou wast not crammed into a cask of spikes,
And rolled down hill?
PHORMIO.
'Twere pastime, merry pastime,
Compared with the extreme barbarity!
162
Thy flesh has not been torn with red-hot pincers,
Nor peeled in crimson ribbons by his engines;
Thy limbs have not been stretched upon the rack,
Nor thine eyes seared by plates of heated steel:—
Which of his little toys of torture was it
He chose for dalliance in his cheerful mood?
PHORMIO.
Give thy imagination freer rein:
Sees it nought further in the realm of horrors?
PHILOXENUS.
Indeed, I cannot guess thy punishment,
Unless—but, no! there's life left in thee yet.
PHORMIO.
Unless what, would'st thou say?
PHILOXENUS.
I know of nothing
Beyond these charming hospitalities,
Unless he made thee hear his poetry.
PHORMIO.
Thou'st hit the mark!
PHILOXENUS.
My miserable friend!
163
Ah me! You poets have imagined tortures:—
The pool of Tantalus, Ixion's wheel,
Prometheus with the vulture at his vitals,
Procrustes' bed, the bull of Phalaris—
All these you may consider quite ingenious;
But, pshaw! they're bubbles, straws, and thistle-down,
To what your Dionysius has invented.
Gods! he did make me hear his tragedy—
Tragic in nothing save the dire infliction!
With all my nerves braced to the serious task,
I sat and listened; but, before the scroll
Was half completed, such an earthquake yawn
Burst from me, that the wordy tyrant started,
And shouted for his guards. As they rushed in,
Alastor, the young scribe, in hurried whispers,
Suggested an excuse that saved my life:
Kneeling before the monarch, I protested
That the strange pathos of the well-wrought scene
Had, by its art, so won upon my senses,
Most inadvertently I groaned aloud.
Ha, ha! Forgetting all his guilty fears
164
He raised me in his arms, and kissed my cheek:
Nor would he suffer me to quit the palace
Till I had promised to return to-night
To hear the rest of his vile tragedy.
My friend, shall I survive it?
PHILOXENUS.
Thou wilt have
At least a partner in thy misery:
Know that I too am summoned to the palace,
Doubtless to be a victim with thyself;
But, should this royal metromaniac ask
My poor opinion, frankly will I give it.
PHORMIO.
Nay, thou would'st only jeopardize thy life:—
His weakness 'tis to be esteemed a poet;
And, to sink irony, 'tis surely better
That he should murder metaphors on parchment
Than stain the block with massacres of men.
So, tell him, if thou wilt, that he's no soldier;
That he knows nothing of the art of war,
Nothing of all the useful arts of peace,
165
His duties to the gods, the state, the people;
But do not—do not criticize his verses.
PHILOXENUS.
Or I'll be silent or avow the truth.
Wilt thou be at the palace?
PHORMIO.
For thy sake
Will I be there. Heighho!
PHILOXENUS.
Nay, smile, my friend!
Great sorrows have their lessons; and the gods
Would teach us, by this dispensation, patience.
[Exeunt.
Enter Alastor and Xanthe.
ALASTOR.
There goes thy father, Xanthe! I implore thee,
Go try once more to change his stubborn purpose.
Tell him the king himself approves our nuptials,
And promises to grace them with his presence.
XANTHE.
Already once to-day I've sued to him;
But neither tears nor blandishments availed.
166
Obdurate parent!
XANTHE.
Do not call him so!
In all things is he liberal and most kind.
ALASTOR.
O! thou may'st think him kind—in all things kind—
Kind in his opposition to our nuptials;
But I, who love not in so cool a fashion,
Chafe at this unexplained impediment—
Nay, sweet! I meant not to be harsh. Look up!
XANTHE.
Why wilt thou vex me with thy doubts, Alastor?
ALASTOR.
Why not remove at once all cause for doubt?
Become in truth my own, without regard
To thy allegiance elsewhere?
XANTHE.
No, Alastor,
Not for my life would I deceive my father;
For, since I lost my mother, he hath been
Doubly a parent to me, and I owe him
Double devotion, gratitude, obedience.
167
Canst tell me wherein lies his enmity
To our alliance? Am I stamped by nature
With any vile deformity of person?
Have I disgraced my name, or marred my fortune?
Am I in any way unworthy of thee?
XANTHE.
No, no! Thou'rt all that honor could desire.
ALASTOR.
Then, say, what is this Pelion piled on Ossa,
That towers between our fates?
XANTHE.
My father tells me,
That 'tis not to thyself he has objection,
But to thy occupation.
ALASTOR.
Occupation!
Chief secretary to the king himself,
And yet the obstacle my occupation?
XANTHE.
Wert thou, he says, chief cook, or groom, or scullion,
So that we loved, he'd not oppose our union;
168
The hired transcriber of his fluent doggerel,
Is a disgrace, in which he cannot share.
There! I've dared tell thee all.
ALASTOR.
Thy father is—
Ah! 'tis a hinderance so delectable,
And thou proclaim'st it with such gravity,
That laughter gets the better of vexation.
XANTHE.
Thou tak'st it merrily.
ALASTOR.
Be not offended;
For I rejoice, with all my heart, at finding
The obstacle not insurmountable.
Go to thy father, Xanthe; and make known,
That, for thy dearest sake, I'll straight resign
My present post; and, should propitious fate
Break a groom's neck, or suffocate a scullion,
Or give some cook a surfeit that shall end him,
I'll instantly apply to Dionysius
For—for promotion.
169
Nay, I'll plead once more
In our behalf, nor urge that hard condition.
Farewell, Alastor.
ALASTOR.
May the gods protect thee!
Farewell, true heart! Bring back a gracious answer.
[Exeunt severally.
| Songs of the sea, with other poems | |