 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
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Act 2nd
Scene 1st
Socrates
How beauteous springs the morn! yon golden beams,
That burst all glorious from the rising sun,
To glad approaching day, and cheer mankind
In their repeated toils, but late were hid
Beneath night's dreary mantle, and black darkness
Shaded a sleepy world: and yet that sun
Rose yesterday as bright, and will tomorrow.
—Say, is not this to die and rise again
Each even and morn? for death itself's no more
Than the dark instant that removes the soul
From this world to a better, when she rises
More free, more active, to etherial life;
In this superiour to yon blazing orb,
That, when she once hath risen, she sets no more.
That burst all glorious from the rising sun,
To glad approaching day, and cheer mankind
In their repeated toils, but late were hid
Beneath night's dreary mantle, and black darkness
Shaded a sleepy world: and yet that sun
Rose yesterday as bright, and will tomorrow.
—Say, is not this to die and rise again
Each even and morn? for death itself's no more
Than the dark instant that removes the soul
From this world to a better, when she rises
More free, more active, to etherial life;
In this superiour to yon blazing orb,
That, when she once hath risen, she sets no more.
This to a listless, an ungrateful world
I long have taught aloud, and pointed forth
The way to solid wisdom. By that pow'r
Inspir'd, who long with unremitted goodness
Hath on my anxious, my enquiring mind
Beam'd heavenly knowledge,—such as ancient sages
In vain essay'd to learn,—have I to man
Laid ope the hidden stores of true philosophy,
And shew'd her plain and naked to the eye.
For this what worthy recompence is mine?
E'en taunt and despite: Man that will not know.
—His real good, insulting, thus repays
For him my gen'rous cares; nay more; grown tir'd
With being freely told ungrateful truths,
They scheme against me; 'gainst a weak old man,
Emaciated with toil, with pain, with indigence,
They level all th'artillery of their malice.
They work my ruin, merely 'cause I love them,
And labour for their welfare in Hereafter.
But be it so; be this their kind return;
Persist, my soul, in thy benevolence;
Be firm in doing good—Beneath thy thought
Are life's vain scenes, and death to thee but opens
A brighter prospect, rich with endless life,
With rich happiness! Not to be told,
Not to be thought, while thou art confin'd below!
I long have taught aloud, and pointed forth
The way to solid wisdom. By that pow'r
Inspir'd, who long with unremitted goodness
Hath on my anxious, my enquiring mind
Beam'd heavenly knowledge,—such as ancient sages
In vain essay'd to learn,—have I to man
Laid ope the hidden stores of true philosophy,
And shew'd her plain and naked to the eye.
For this what worthy recompence is mine?
E'en taunt and despite: Man that will not know.
—His real good, insulting, thus repays
For him my gen'rous cares; nay more; grown tir'd
With being freely told ungrateful truths,
They scheme against me; 'gainst a weak old man,
Emaciated with toil, with pain, with indigence,
They level all th'artillery of their malice.
They work my ruin, merely 'cause I love them,
And labour for their welfare in Hereafter.
But be it so; be this their kind return;
Persist, my soul, in thy benevolence;
Be firm in doing good—Beneath thy thought
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A brighter prospect, rich with endless life,
With rich happiness! Not to be told,
Not to be thought, while thou art confin'd below!
Scene 2nd
Socrates, Plato, Crito, PhedonSocrates
What gloom is this, my worthy youths, that sits
So heavy on the visage? You're no more
Lightsome and gay, as when you us'd to crowd
Around your old philosopher, to hear
The smooth and easy dictates he unfolded.
You seem distrest, as if some sudden evil,
Some unexpected blow, had stunn'd your souls,
And wretchedness and you were grown familiar.
Plato
Alass! we're now no strangers to each other.
Ah! Socrates, canst thou demand the cause
Why all thy friends have lost their wonted glee,
Why they look sunk in thought, in deep anxiety,
When thou, who long hast been their heart's best solace
Their dear-lov'd object of esteem and reverence,
Stands't tott'ring on the precipice of fate,
The horrid precipice, nor seem'st to hear
The gulph that roars beneath thee?
Socrates
Pho! my friends;
This all your cause? I am not worth your sorrows.
Too long already have I toil'd, deprest
By this dull clayey covering, this incumbrance,
That keeps me downward; while my soul aspires
To something higher, something that she whispers
As far exceeds what we call bliss below,
As man himself excells the vilest worm,
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This needless anguish? Wou'd you please your Socrates,
Be cheerful still, be gay, as you were wont,
And listen, blithe, to those important truths,
I'll never cease to speak, while life informs
This old and tottering fabrick.
Crito
Chearful, say'st thou?
O Socrates, in vain wou'st thou instruct us
To bear serene the perils, that we fear.
While thus our big-swol[le]n hearts bleed inly for thee,
Too piercing is the anguish that we feel,
E'en to be sooth'd by thee.
Phedon
We mourn, we mourn
For thee our dear-lov'd friend, our blest instructor,
And therefore are we come once more to move thee,
To yield awhile to this thy pressing danger.
Well do we know the firmness of thy soul;
Dauntless she views the rancour of her foes,
And smiles at all the efforts of their fury.
But oh! forgive us, if we urge thy flight;
Evade at present what will else destroy thee:
The citizens will yet return to reason,
Soon will they wonder at their own mad folly,
And blush to think they e'er could hurt their Socrates.
Plato
Then to thy wishing friends mayst thou return,
With glory soon; again from thee they'll hear
The words of wisdom, nay, the words of life;
For what is life without that heavenly guide,
To lead us onward to eternal day?
Consider; Oh! reflect, if thou art lost,
We lose the hand that guides us, and again
Sink in that rayless state, wherein the world
Long time had grop'd in vain, till heaven sent thee
To drive the darkness, and illume our hearts.
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What means my Plato? how! must Socrates
Fly from his country like some villain—traytor,
Who bears within him all the guilt, for which
He fears the just resentment of his citizens?
Is life so very valuable, that he
Must give the lie to what himself had taught,
Poorly resign his yet-unsullied fame,
And bid farewel to all his peace of mind,
Meanly to save it? Never, friends, o never,
Shall your Preceptor thus condemn his Doctrines.
Plato
Sure when a desperate enemy resolves
To ruin worth, any by fallacious arts
Betray that virtue which he hates to death;
The guiltless sufferer can fear, no stain
Will soil his honest praise, if he awhile
Leaves his ungrateful country, and retires,
Till she at length recovers from her madness,
With tears calls back her dear, her injur'd patriot,
With open arms receives him to her bosome,
Owns her offence, and begs him to forgive her.
Socrates
The man, that flies the justice of his country,
Must have some inward reason for his conduct;
He wou'd not fly but that his conscious mind
Urges his flight;—he knows too well he's guilty,
And therefore he escapes; I know my innocence,
And therefore am resolv'd to stand my trial.
O friends, conceive the transport I must feel
To hear my foes with all their busy malice
Rack their poor thought to find one single circumstance,
Whereon to ground their cruel accusation.
How shall I smile, to hear the twist and torture
Each harmless word, and each indifferent action,
To mould them to their purpose, but in vain.
Plato
Alass! Thou wilt not see the fearful danger:
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Pleads 'gainst exalted merit, quick enflam'd
By his insidious, his bewitching eloquence,
Lose all destinction soon 'twixt right and wrong,
And madly vote to death the man they love,
The man by whom they live, by whom they're free.
Phedon
Hast thou forgot, how those unhappy chiefs,
Who fought victorious at the Arginuse,
And dyed the azure main with Spartan blood,
The blood of enemies that struck at Athens,
Fell victims to an inflam'd populace?
What was their crime? fatal necessity.
The winds, the waves, the very gods oppos'd them;
Yet still they suffer'd; nor their own high merit,
Nor even thou, tho' nobly didst thou plead
In their defense, cou'dst save them from their fate,
Crito
They perish'd—so wilt thou—remember yet;
Thy Alcibiades
Rather than face trial for impiety due to the multilation of the Hermae, Alcibiades fled in 415 B.C. to Sparta. See Act 1, Scene 2, note 4. His advice to the Spartans in the Peloponnesian War contributed significantly to their eventual victory over Athens. Alcibiades, an open traitor condemned to death by Athens and cursed for sacrilege, was a supposed pupil of Socrates. This association was a critical factor in public opinion relative to Socrates' alleged corruption of the youth of the city.
Equal to ev'ry danger; yet he thought
It well befitted his high fortitude
To avoid his partial trial, when he knew
His judges were his foes, and stood determin'd
To satiate their resentment with his blood.
Socrates
In vain are these examples urg'd—I still
Will front the danger, be it e'er so dreadful.
But why do I say, danger? Life to me
Long time hath worn indifference. Even now
Death hath not one poor terror to appall me:
And, if such base injustice sways my country,
Meanly to yield to my causeless foes,
Tho' well ascertain'd of my innocence;
I'll meet this death, this bug-bear to mankind
E'en as a courteous friend that kindly takes me
From a base world, which knows not how to value
A patriot-citizen, devoid of guile,
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Plato
Yet let Xantippe, let your children plead;
Yet live for them—your little innocents
Deserve your life, as long as heaven will grant it.
Tis sure not like a father, thus to waste it,
When their young tender years demand support
From thy directing hand—O think, think of them,
Think, what they lose, when they're bereav'd of thee.
Socrates
Xantippe and my children share my heart:
Forbid it, heaven, that shou'd want for them,
That strong affection, which our common mother
Enforces to the meanest of her offspring!
Yet still there is a more coercive law,
Which the mind will obey; and, when that tells me
To stay and face the malice of my foes;
I think, I'm well absolv'd, if to that pow'r,
Who ever guards the orphan and the widow
I leave them, with a firm and holy confidence,
That he will be to them a friend, a father.
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Scene 3d
Socrates, Xantippe, Plato, Phedon, CritoSocrates
Thy looks are wild, Xantippe, and thou tremblest—
Xantippe
Ah! Socrates, have I not cause to tremble,
When thy inveterate enemies combine
To take thee from me, and will sure succeed,
Merely 'cause thou art wanting to thyself;
When thou goest on in thy old beaten track,
Like one forsaken by the gods he scorns,
To teach those doctrines whence they form thy ruin,
And art indifferent to what ill betides
Thy little ones or me.
Socrates
You wrong me much,
To think youself or them to me indifferent.
I bear about me all the tender passions,
That throb the husband's and the parent's breast;
And wou'd be all an honest man can be
For your support. But tell me, wou'dst thou have me,
Now, that I'm tott'ring on the on the verge of fate,
And death by natural means must very soon
Divorce me from thee, meanly save a life;
That can't be long of much emoulment
To them or thee? I never can, Xantippe—
Haply my enemies may not succeed,
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Not to condemn an innocent old man,
Only because the wicked rage against him.
But if it is resolv'd that I must fall,
For thy dear sake, and for my children's sake,
I will not, must not finish with dishonour
A life, as yet unstain'd with guilt or baseness;
I must not meanly fly, but dare the danger,
And bravely suffer, as a good man ought.
Xantippe
Ridiculous! But such hath ever been
Thy life's wild conduct. Vainly dost thou boast
Thy wise philosophy, if this th'event,
Thou'lt suffer, how?—like a delirious fool,
Who in a fever's rage eludes his keepers
And plunges in the flood—the same thy madness;
Drunk with thy idle sistems, wild with notions
Of what thou can'st not know, thou hast brav'd our gods,
Derided our religion; warp'd our youth,
And made thyself obnoxious to the state;
And yet thou calmly talk'st of innocence!
They'll not condemn an innocent old man;
I'll bravely suffer, as a good man ought.
Stuff! stuff! mere stuff!—ah! Socrates, thou say'st
Thou art old; thou art so; for thou doatest Socrates;
And all thou say'st, is folly, mere, rank folly.
Socrates
Have patience, my Xantippe
Xantippe
Patience? preach it
To thy kind friends, to Melitus and Lycon;
They'll listen most attentive; yes; they'll hear thee
With most observant reverence—preach to them—
They'll be thy Platos, Phedons, Critos—all
Their passions will be sooth'd no doubt to peace,
When thou preach patience to them; they'll no more
Plot 'gainst a poor and innocent old man;
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Thy wondrous virtue, that can leave thy wife—
Thy children—in the most severe distress—
Thy wisdom, that can bid thee not t' evade
The ills that threat thee—Heavens! can this be wisdom!
Can this be virtue?—Curse such hair-brain'd maxims—
And yet I wou'd preserve thee—I shall rave—
Say, wilt thou save thyself?
Socrates
As how?
Xantippe
Why fly,
Fly till the storm is over.
Socrates
No, Xantippe,
I cannot fly—
Xantippe
Thou can'st not? Driveling wretch!
The gods are even with thee for thy madness;
They will repay thee for thy wild contempt;
They now laugh at thee; for their high abodes
They dart their vengeance, and thou diest their victim;
Infatuated fool! thou diest their victim.
O I cou'd tear myself to atoms—Thus
To see thee—Heavens? my brain—Curse on—O Socrates!
—Dull stupid wretch! Thou art not worth my tears.
Scene 4th
Socrates, Plato, Phedon, CritoSocrates
Strong is the virulence of female passion;
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And yet she loves me with sincere affection
'Mid all this tirant-madness that deforms her—
But tis beneath philosophy, to heed
A woman's idle rage.
Plato
O Socrates
Greatly she's worthy of your kind regard;
Her soul's bewilder'd in the killing fears
Of your approaching danger; and she knows not,
By nature violent, in her distress
To moderate her anguish.
Socrates
Therefore be she
No more the subject of our thoughts at present:
For you, for her, and for the tender pledges
Of our most holy loves, I will do all,
I will bear all the humane heart can bear.
But there's one rule I must constant follow;
The rule my soul imposes on herself:
I have already said, I can't transgress it.
Great are the transport of an honest conscience,
E'en in the severest trials! he that knows
That he means well; and by that inward law
Hath modell'd all his actions, stands secure,
Tho' all around is waste and desolation.
Tis this compels me to my present conduct:
Think not, tis vanity directs my heart;
I know too well our nature, to be vain.
I will be Socrates, will be the man
I've ever taught mankind; and if my foes
Prevail, and I'm unjustly doom'd to suffer,
I'll die as I have liv'd,—I will die Socrates.
Scene 5th
Apame, Melitus226
At length I've found you, Brother; long you've shunn'd me,
As if Apame's presence were unwelcome;
The cause yourself best knows; but sure you need not
Fear the reproaches of a simple sister.
Melitus
I own, I fled your presence for a while,
'Cause well I know your high attachment to
The man your brother hates—I blame you not—
Phedon's pathetick eloquence hath power—
But therefore I declin'd a conversation,
Guessing the mighty purport of your errand.
Apame
An errand, Melitus, that much concerns you:
For know, your malice 'gainst the godlike Socrates,
Rebounds upon yourself—You may succeed;
But sure, unhappy youth, you only work
Your own perdition; your insidious wiles
Will in the end ensnare you in a ruin
I dread to think of.
Melitus
Then e'en spare thy terrors
For me, dear sister, I despise that ruin,
But say, what ruin? Brave, don't I defend
Our country-gods, whom this vain man insults?
Will they desert me, when in their own honour
I firmly dare? When I assert their godhead,
And strive to save their temples from contempt?
No sister; they're themselves too much concern'd
T'expose the man, who fights their cause, to ruin.
Apame
Ah! brother; vainly dost thou urge a plea;
Which can't convince one single soul that knows thee.
The worship of the gods affect thee little.
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Their shrines neglected, their forsaken altars,
Did not thy own resentment trail thee in
To their assistance.—Socrate's friendship
His gen'rous candour, and his honest zeal
To wean thee from thy idle, fond amusements
The stupid figments of a poet's brain,
Words without meaning; and to lure thee thence
To solid studies, such as wou'd inform thee
In life's importance, and advance thy soul
To real pleasures—this his love for thee
Hath rais'd thy spleen, and drives thee to repay him
With such ingratitude as wants a name.
Therefore thou join'st the villain Anytus,
And ideot Lycon; one, a half-learn'd fool
Fraught with his empty self; the other, Heavens!
A wretch the meanest, guiltiest, most abandon'd
Of all that plagues our Athens—worthy fellowship!
Melitus
Well sister, hast thou learn'd thy sexes talent;
Thou bandiest purely; but pray I stope no more;
My friends will laugh at all thy woman's railing;
Nor think thy modest appellations worth
A wise man's notice—still, if thou art prudent,
Thou wilt forbear, and not provoke me farther—
I may perhaps forget I am thy brother.
Apame
These threats to me, dear Melitus, are idle;
I have, as well becomes me, all the love,
Nay, all the reverence, you can claim as brother.
Yet sure there's something due unto a sister,
The rather, when her tenderness alarms her,
And she forbodes some very sad event
From her dear brother's conduct. If he's angry
Merely because she fears he may regret
The steps he's blindly following, she will pity him,
But smiles—contemptuous at his empty threats.
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Well; my pert sister, I'll for once be calm,
And hear the wondrous lesson thou wou'dst teach me,
Tho' much compliance sits but awkward on me.
Apame
Away with this derision! More important
Is the sad subject of our present converse.
You're tempting your own fate; and, like the bestial,
That heedless roves the flow'ry plain along,
That feeds securely on the verdant herbage,
Nor views the dreadful precipice before him,
Till suddenly he tumbles down it's height;
Gaily you rush into your own destruction.
The cruel prosecution you intend
'Gainst Socrates, whatever flattering dream
Deludes you on, will have most woeful issue.
Say, you succeed—oft-times the gods permit
A good man's fall, for wise and secret ends,
Which puzzle man with all his boasted wisdom.
But be assur'd the wretched instruments
Of these their sacred counsels are by them
Devoted to inevitable ruin.
Melitus
Full learnedly, Apame, hast thou pleaded;
I fancy Phedon understands his business;
He tutors well; and, I will do thee justice,—
His charming pupil hath a coming genius.
Apame
Twice you've unkindly mention'd Phedon to me;
O Melitus, wou'd you but act like him,
Your sister's aching heart wou'd be at peace;
The horrid image that now strikes her soul
With fearful horrors, strait wou'd disappear,
And leave her calm and easy.
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What Enigma
Is this that thou wou'dst fain unravel to me?
Apame
It is my brother's pale and haggard carcase,
Drag'd by a ruthless mob along the street,
Spurn'd and insulted by each scoundrel citizen,
That now applauds thee; nay, while yet thou liv'st,
Me thinks e'en now I see thee scorn'd and loath'd;
Not one will speak to thee; they shun thee, like
The most abhor'd production of wild nature;
And thou at length will thank the executioner
For the kind blow that rids thee of thy being.
Say, can thy sister think this without horror?
And yet her fancy paints it to her view
In colours still more hideous.
Melitus
Well sayst thou
Thy fancy forms this to thee.—Pray, Apame,
No more of these imaginary terrors.
I stand resolv'd; and, were th'event to prove
As thy sick mind hath imag'd, such strong hate
My soul resentful bears thy idol, Socrates,
That I wou'd dare the horrors thou hast painted.
Away!—I'll hear no more thy wild surmises—
Why, thou hast rais'd such phantoms, as e'en shock
My firmest powers—Be gone, or I shall something
That—prithee, leave me.
Apame
Yes, I will be gone;
Unhappy Melitus, thou bidst me leave thee;
And oh! forgive a sister's pious prayer,
May the tumultuous passion, which now writches thee,
End in a fair resolve to quit thy purpose,
And free Apame from her killing fears.
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Scene the 6th
MelitusGods! how she hath unman'd me! She has drawn
A shocking pourtrait—say, shou'd it prove real?
Why, be it so;—the man, that dares a guilt,
Must have a soul like mine, which braves the gods
To thwart it's purpose.—Socrates, I hate thee;
And thou shalt pay me ample retribution.
My friends?—I thank them; they are come in time,
To firm me 'gainst the horrors she hath rais'd.
Scene the 7th
Melitus, Anytus, LyconMelitus
I've had a glorious lecture from my sister,
Why; the girl's grown a mere philosopher;
And mouths her maxims, out as well as Socrates;
Had not my soul been iron-proof against her,
I shou'd have faulter'd—
Anytus
Sure the noble Melitus
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The sex will oft assume a fancied power,
And rate it shrewdly; but they're tinsel arguers;
The man, whose soul is constant to herself,
Carries with ease the pretty things they say.
Melitus
Nay; had she spoke with sevenfold eloquence,
With all the energy of Hermes, still
Her eloquence were fruitless—I am determin'd,
Nor all the powers of heav'n or hell can move me.
Can shake my soul, or alter her resolve.
Lycon
Spoke like my friend, and now we soon shall see
How this sage reasoner, this intrepid Socrates,
This mighty man of wisdom will behave,
Aw'd by the solemn presence of a court,
And all his baleful schemes produc'd against him.
Tis well, if his philosophy supports him:
He'll then appear like other common mortals,
Sunk in his fears, and cover'd with confusion.
Anytus
No; Lycon, no; his philosophick pride
Will bear him up against us; we shall see him
E'en smile contempt upon us: 'Twere unworthy
Of the wise Socrates to hint a fear.
Therefore he'll summon all his hoard of maxims,
All he hath gather'd from a long experience,
To arm his haughty stubborn soul against us:
For tis the boast of madmen, like himself,
Not to confess their frenzy, but stand out
E'en Against the strongest Evidence.
Melitus
We'll prove him;
We'll work up all his patience; I'm deceiv'd,
Or we shall make him totter on the basis
Of his assum'd Integrity—Be it
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We'll undermine, till like a tumbling tower
It falls at length in hideous ruins on him,
And crushes him to atoms.
Anytus
Twill be so;
He ne'er can stand th'assault—he falls—he dies.
And then, my friends, our souls will be at ease;
Our virtues too our own without a monitor;
Our youth will tread the good old path
Of their forefathers; Heaven will have it's votaries;
Our sacred fanes, as usual, will be throng'd
With hallow'd victims; Athens rise anew
In wonted glory; horrid war forbear
To fright her matrons and her tender maids;
O'er distant realms supreme once more she'll reign,
And hold her envied empire o'er the main.
End of the second Act
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |