 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
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[Act the 1st]
[Scene 2d]
[Melitus, Anitus][Melitus]
The heavenly powers no doubt entrust their secre[t]
With that vain wretch, who dared defy their godhead,
And slight their altars.
Anitus
Thus the bold Lysistratus
Won on the people by a like pretence;
He too had his Minerva to protect him,
To aid his counsels, and support his cause.
High on the shining car with him she rode;
And the gull'd commons, struck with stupid wonder,
Gaz'd on the feign'd divinity, till they
Lost their dear liberty, and hug[g]'d the chain
Of a foul tirant—Doubt not, Socrates
Hath the same view; and if the worthy Melitus,
With others that are wakeful for the state,
Use not the noble talents heaven has given them,
Their pow'rs of speech, their energy of sense,
In firm defiance 'gainst his guileful schemes,
And timely ward the fatal blow he aims,
What can ensue but slavery and ruin?
Melitus
Such slavery and such ruin as slate
Gall'd [illeg.] that villain traitor, Critias.
He lorded nobly o'er his fellow-citizens,
To death devoted ev'ry man of virtue,
And was indeed a tirant—such the ruin
The haughty son of Clinias had essay'd,
(Whose vile contemptuous usage of the god
That guards, benign, our doors still strikes our souls
With chilling terrors) had not Athens fear'd
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These are the youths that fondly listen'd to thee;
These had'st thou taught in all the secret arts
Of thy philosophy; conspicuous proofs
Of thy attachment to the publick weal!
Anitus
What wait we then? Why waste we still the hours
In vain complaint? And since our patriot hearts
Burn for the injuries our state hath suffer'd,
Why don't we rather haste to execute
What nobly we've resolv'd—th'applauded deeds
Of all the heroes that our Athens boasts,
However great, are poor, compar'd with this.
T'assert the dread divinities that guard us,
To shield their shrines, to vindicate their temples;
To free our youth from impious fallacies,
From vain illusions and destructive tenets;
Our freedom to establish on a base
That will be solid, these are godlike toils,
And, if we fall, our fate will yet be glorious,
Worthy the sons of Athens!
Melitus
And I'll dare it,
Whatever perils face me in the conflict.
But there's no peril—be we staunch and honest,
And all his subtleties and nice evasions
Can's stem the torrent that comes pouring on him.
My sister! hah!—I know her simple businesses—
Retire we for the present—Well-inform'd
Of our design, and stupidly enthral'd
In love's fond bondage, her romantick head
Thinks high of Socrates, and much she labours
To thawart my soul in her confirm'd resolves.
In vain! The cause is heav'n's, and I'll be steady.
I dearly love her, and she cou'd not ask
A second favor that I shou'd deny her.
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Scene 3rd
Apame
Thou fly'st me; ah! infatuated brother!
Thy sly insinuating Anitus
And the fool Lycon lead thee on to ruin.
Big with high notions of thy own desert,
Thy boasted eloquence, thy cry'd-up wisdom,
And proudly swol[le]n with their pernicious praise,
Fondly thou think'st to bear down all before thee,
To manage Athens, as thy own vain will
Suggests, and trample e'en beneath thy feet
All that oppose thee in thy windy schemes.
Thy sly insinuating Anitus
And the fool Lycon lead thee on to ruin.
Big with high notions of thy own desert,
Thy boasted eloquence, thy cry'd-up wisdom,
And proudly swol[le]n with their pernicious praise,
Fondly thou think'st to bear down all before thee,
To manage Athens, as thy own vain will
Suggests, and trample e'en beneath thy feet
All that oppose thee in thy windy schemes.
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'Cause thou art angry, and yet know'st not why.
The venerable Socrates must bleed;
That first of men, who mates a god in wisdom,
Sent surely as a blessing from above,
To teach sublimest truths, to rear the soul
'Bove earthly views, and form her, to embrace
Joys more than mortal, bright, etherial, pure
And yet this excellent, this peerless sage
Must fall the sacrifice of villain malice,
Of wicked men who hate him for his virtues.
The venerable Socrates must bleed;
That first of men, who mates a god in wisdom,
Sent surely as a blessing from above,
To teach sublimest truths, to rear the soul
'Bove earthly views, and form her, to embrace
Joys more than mortal, bright, etherial, pure
And yet this excellent, this peerless sage
Must fall the sacrifice of villain malice,
Of wicked men who hate him for his virtues.
Meanwhile, what sorrows swell my anguish'd bosome,
Rent 'twixt distressful passion and the tie
That binds me to my brother. Love for Phedon,
For Phedon, worthiest of the youths of Athens,
Whose truth wou'd shame the constancy of swains;
Phedon, adorned with ev'ry mainly grace,
That cou'd engage a virgin's tender heart,
Fills all my soul, and makes it his entire.
Alass! Dear, gen'rous youth! What boots the love,
The faithful fondness of thy charm'd Apame,
While still her brother with relentless hate,
Thwarts all the schemes thou form'st to save thy friend,
And aims the ruin of thy dear instructor,
The reverend sage thou lov'st to call thy father?
The dire result of this I well forebode,
And e'en anticipate that weight of woe,
That follows close his obstinate pursuit.
Rent 'twixt distressful passion and the tie
That binds me to my brother. Love for Phedon,
For Phedon, worthiest of the youths of Athens,
Whose truth wou'd shame the constancy of swains;
Phedon, adorned with ev'ry mainly grace,
That cou'd engage a virgin's tender heart,
Fills all my soul, and makes it his entire.
Alass! Dear, gen'rous youth! What boots the love,
The faithful fondness of thy charm'd Apame,
While still her brother with relentless hate,
Thwarts all the schemes thou form'st to save thy friend,
And aims the ruin of thy dear instructor,
The reverend sage thou lov'st to call thy father?
The dire result of this I well forebode,
And e'en anticipate that weight of woe,
That follows close his obstinate pursuit.
Scene 4th
Apame, PhedonPhedon
That pensive posture, and that tearful eye
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Of my Apame's pleadings with her brother.
Apame
O Phedon, Melitus, I fear, is doom'd
By the just gods to force his own destruction,
His strong inveteracy 'gainst Socrates
To them is painful; and for righteous ends
Tho' that great man may suffer, still my brother
Must feel the utmost fury of their vengeance:
For well I know, their justice yet will punish
The wretch, a foe to virtues like their own,
Phedon
Then he's resolv'd?
Apame
Resolv'd? he shuns his sister;
Soon as he saw me, from my sight he fled,
Like a base murderer, conscious of his guilt,
Who dreads each whisper'd nothing that he hears,
And flies the phantom that himself hath form'd.
Phedon
Then thou must fall, my Socrates: thy soul,
Great as hath yet e'er animated man,
I know, will bear this stroke of fate undaunted:
Will smile at all the malice of her foes,
And look with calm indifference on death.
Hence spring our fears: Were he like other men,
Had he the same weak frailties to lament,
Life wou'd appear to some importance to him,
And he'd be more sollicitous about her.
For, far from this, he thinks not of his danger,
As danger; but pursues his wonted course,
Directing others in the paths of truth,
As if no foes endeavour'd his destruction,
And all without was, like his own pure soul,
Sweet harmony and peace.
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This binds me to him,
Weak as I am, and of that thoughtless sex,
Who seek no further for their rule in life
Than the dull road their mothers trod before them;
Yet ever hath my heart leap'd at the name
Of Socrates; and scarce had reason dacon'd
In my young mind; but I grew fond to hear
The lessons that he taught; to learn from him
Truths, hid before in sophistry's dark guise,
And close to follow, where he led the way.
The more I knew, more was my joy athirst
For higher knowledge; and he still encreas'd,
Still as he hed me on, my love of wisdom.
But, more than all his wondrous eloquence,
His choice expression, and his flow of reason,
His practice pleads; unerring in his life,
He walks conspicuous in each godlike virtue,
And lives himself in the great good man he teaches.
Phedon
He is indeed the man thy justice speaks him.
Nor did he want a herald to his virtues,
Cou'd he employ a nobler tongue than thine;
For thou art even wanton in his praise,
And then shin'st loveliest, when his worth's thy subject.
Oh! my Apame! how unlike thy brother.
But I'll evade the contrast—he's thy brother,
And therefore to a softer theme I'll turn,
Such as demands the eloquence of gods,
Thy heav'nly beauties, thy divine perfections.
Apame
Forbear, presuming Phedon—
Phedon
Listen to me,
Nor with that frown indignant kill your Phedon.
Say rather; dearest object of my vows;
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Say, wilt thou now with kind relenting eye
Hear me pour forth the truest noblest passion
That ever swell'd a fond and faithful soul;
A soul that lives not but upon the hope,
The distant hope that goodness, nigh divine,
Will look with pity on the pangs she suffers.
Oh! thou art all that fancy's self can paint—
All harmony, all excellence, all beauty!
Thy form so exquisite, that wou'd the maid,
Last of the gods that left our earth reluctant,
Once more forsake her natal plains above,
And with her presence gladden thankless man;
She'd sure shine forth in all the bright effulgence,
In the divine attractions of Apame,
O stay that killing look—forgive my rapture—
Indulge my wanton tongue while she essays
A task more arduous, to display the charms,
The heavenly beauties of thy matchless mind.
Apame
Say, is this Phedon, this the strenuous friend
Of Socrates, of Socrates the sage,
Form'd by his rules, and won by his example,
Who can thus poorly waste the precious hours
In wordy compliment and vain encomiums
On the mean trifle of a woman's beauty?
Now when thy friend, thy father, thy instructor
Walks on the verge of fate, can thy low soul
Sink in the soothings of an idle passion?
Phedon
Chide not, Apame, chide not; deep I feel
The pressing dangers of that virtuous man;
And oh! if I had twice ten thousand lives,
I'd part will all, nay, almost part with thee,
To save him from the direful fate that threats him;
For much I fear the pow'r of those that hate him.
For what inures my heart amid it's sorrows,
What firms my soul, but love of thee, my charmer,
Of thee the lover and the friend of Socrates?
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With manly fortitude, with intrepidity.
Forgive me then, nor blame thy faithful Phedon,
If in the fullness of his love he speaks
The glorious charms of that transcendant maid,
Which thus inspires him to sustain each shock,
To dare all danger for the friend he loves.
Apame
No more; but that I know thy honest heart,
This flattery wou'd be grating to my ear,
Harsh and discordant as an ill-tun'd instrument.
'Tis not by sounds like these I can be won.
Yet still forgive me, virgin—modesty—
I own thy worth, thy virtues, and thy truth
Have made my soul a sharer in thy griefs.
But oh! I leave it to thy thought to form
The various evils that will thwart our bliss.
Still be thyself, still be the friend of Socrates;
And if the gods join with thee in thy cares,
And crown thy filial friendship with success,
Apame then with honour—spare my blushes—
What have I said?—my maiden heart condemns me—
I dare not stay to tell thee, how I'd thank thee.
Scene 5th
PhedonTransporting sounds! O my enraptur'd soul!
Yes; I will be the friend of Socrates,
Will be myself, and will deserve Apame.
Thou shalt be mine; for sure the righteous powers
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With ev'ry happiness this earth can yield—
But talk'd she not of evils that might bar,
Might thwart our bliss? forbid it, heav'n!—the thought,
Shou'd I dwell longer on it, wou'd distract me.
I'll strive then to forget it, and away
To my expecting friends.
Scene 6th
Plato, Crito, PhedonPlato
Tis now the hour
That Phedon said he'd meet us.
Crito
He appears.
Phedon
Alass! My tiddings bear but slender hope:
The foes of Socrates resolve his Death:
Apame's not allow'd to see her brother;
Sullen he flies her presence, and in vain
She strives to turn him from his fatal purpose.
Plato
What frenzy hath possest the men of Athens?
Think they the gods will thank them for their hate
To that great man, whom only they allow
Sincerely wise? Have they so soon forgot
What dread Apollo from the sacred tripod
Divinely answer'd to th'enquiring Cherephon,
That Socrates was wise, and only Socrates?
And well the sage responds to the great character
The oracle bestows; for sure if wisdom
E'er dwell on earth, within his virtuous breast
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Sways ev'ry action, dictates all his words.
Well ye repay the pow'rs divine, Athenians,
To work his death, who forms your greatest glory,
And makes you foremost in the states of Greece
For true philosophy, for solid knowledge!
Lo! this is ample gratitude to heaven!
Crito
Such gratitude hath Athens ever shew'd
Where worth illustrious shone. In arts or arms
Whoe'er excell'd, but met the like return?
Thus Homer, thus Tirtous
The reference to Homer is unexplained in this context. Tirtous or Tyrateus was a seventh-century B.C. Spartan general and patriotic poet. Some claimed he was an Athenian schoolmaster before going to Sparta. Cradock's allusion seems to be to the Athenian belief than no Spartan could be a poet, so he had to be a former Athenian.
Thus Anexagoras was once condemn'd;
Miltiades thus languish'd in a prison,
And great Themistocles
Themistocles (c. 524-c. 460 B.C.) was the Athenian admiral who saved Greece from Persian domination as the result of the destruction of Xerxes' fleet off Salamis in 480 B.C. Exiled from Athens, he eventually served Xerxes' son as governor of some Greek cities in Asia Minor that were under Persian control.
For refuge to the monarch, 'gainst whose tiranny
His prudent counsels had preserv'd his country.
Phedon
Th'unruly populace, who're ever won
By the loud rhetorick of a noisy demagogue,
Forget the noble actions of their heroes.
Their city sav'd, their pow'r maintain'd, enlarg'd,
Their wives, their daughters snatch'd from direful rape,
And peace and affluence to their streets restor'd;
Their youth instructed in each patriot-duty,
And form'd to virtue from their infant-years;
All these plead vainly with a boistrous rout,
Who're giddy with th'authority they bear;
And call it glorious freedom to devote
Their worthiest citizens to death or exile.
Plato
Else Socrates who bends beneath the weight
Of seventy years, years spent in noblest toils
For his dear country's safety or her glory;
Might hope to wear away the few poor minutes
That yet remain of life, amid his friends,
In honourable ease, exempt from danger.
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And might he not, did not the 'unworthy Anitus,
Whose flagrant guilt can't bear the kind rebuke
Of one who but endeavors to reclaim
His soul from ruin, urge the prosecution?
For Melitus and Lycon are but tools
Anytus is considered to have instigated the proceedings against Socrates for worthy motives. His objective wasnot to execute Socrates but rather to exile him as a threat to political stability. Anytus chose an obscure, young religious fanatic named Melitus to prosecute the case. About Lycon very little is known. See A. B. Taylor, Socrates: The Man and His Thought (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1953), pp. 102–4.
To his iniquities and mean revenge.
Base, he gives up to an unmanly passion,
Beneath the soul that is not worse than brutal,
Revenge for good intended, such a man,
As Athens, if she yields to his delusions,
Will ne'er remember but with tears of repentant penitence.
Plato
Then be't our care to save her from her shame.
O friends, O youths, that have with me imbib'd
The sacred truths, which, like Hyblean sweets,
Flow'd on your souls from his mellifluous tongue;
Who've often with unutterable transport
Felt the glad influence of his blest instructions;
O let us know, unanimous, resolve
To thwart the machinations of his foes;
To stay the low'ring mischiefs that impend
Over our great preceptor. Much we owe
To his directing hand. If we are virtuous,
If for our country or our friend we feel,
If our hearts glow with love of ev'ry grace,
That can exalt us 'bove the groveling crowd,
Twas he that form'd us; he the sacred spring,
From whence our souls drank deep the cordial draught
Of heaven-born truth, of knowledge that aspires
'Bove sense, bove appetites, and penetrates
Yon empyrean heights; of rapturous wisdom,
That teaches us to scorn this lower scene
Of mean delights, beneth th'enlightened mind,
T'emerge from out the prison of the body.
And seek for our inheritance, amid
Etherial beings in the realms above.
Crito
Doubt not, my Plato, but our inmost souls
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Etherial beings in the realms above.
Crito
Doubt not, my Plato, but our inmost souls
Are link'd with his; and, if he falls, we feel
Griefs that wou'd dumb expression.—Name thou then
The means to save him, and we joy to dare them
E'en at the utmost peril of our lives.
Plato
Alass! that's only in the will of heav'n,
At least, what project can we form at present?
If he won't fly, he must submit to trial;
All therefore we can do, is to be active,
Strenuous, and resolute in his defence;
To plead with all the eloquence of tears,
To battle 'gainst his enemies, and rather
To die—
Phedon
Imortal gods! wou'd that preserve him,
I'd dare a tirant's tortures.
Crito
So wou'd I,
And bless the hand that took my life for his.
Plato
Bravely resolv'd, my friends! Methinks we are
Like a poor people, who beneath the rule
Of a just prince have long been blest and happy;
When the stern-fates the cruel mandate give
To close his precious life: the direful news
Link them in wild astonishment, they look
Aghast, and, struck with terror, deep they mourn,
Fly to their altars, with incessant prayer
Plead for his life, recount his gracious deeds,
Run o'er his gen'rous cares, his gentle reign;
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And, to retrieve their prince, will be themselves no more.
End of the 1st Act
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |