 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
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.
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |