 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
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Act 4th
Scene 1st
Xantippe, PlatoXantippe
Ye gods! what hath Xantippe done, to feel
This deep excess of misery?—Life! What art thou?
—A Curse—at least I've found thee so—the brute,
That knows no care but happily enjoys
The present hour, boasts nobler bliss than man.
He roves along the fields in joyous plight,
Selects his food, drinks free the christal stream,
And to the moment of his fate is happy.
But we, that vaunt ourselves superior beings,
That proudly talk of reason and her powers,
What bliss have we? incessant fears alarm us;
Incessant ills o'ertake us; and our joys
So thinly scatter'd, that they fleet unfelt,
Like empty bubbles on a watry mirror.
Plato
This springs from Heaven's peculiar love to man;
Too well he knows, how fond our hearts wou'd grow
Of mundane bliss; and therefore wisely mixes
The cup of life with gall. Sublimer joys,
Than what this life can furnish, he intends
In future, brighter Worlds; but, if our souls
Met here the full completion of their wishes,
They'd grow unfit for more exalted pleasures,
And cling to earth as to their only stay.
Xantippe
These are the idle rants of Socrates,
And he hath madden'd thee with his delusions.
Whence springs this knowledge or to him or thee?
Or why to you alone is given to know
The after-state of men? Tis all mere Rhapsody,
And he, inebriated with his whimsies,
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Of what his harmless, helpless children feel,
Knows not the anguish of parental tenderness,
Forgets the love he owes to his Xantippe,
And wraps himself in his ideal prospects
Of something, but of what he does not know:
While I, distracted with my sore distress,
Rave to the Gods in fruitless exclamation,
And have no glympse of hope t'allay my sorrows.
Plato
Yet may'st thou hope, that that Omniscient Power,
Whose will he hath ever sought, and taught to others,
Tho' in his boundless wisdom he ordain,
That Socrates must fall, may yet to you
And to your little ones extend his mercy.
He may have glorious reasons for his sufferings,
Beyond our ken; and wou'd exhibit forth
His chosen favourite, as a blest example
To shew to others, how the man of virtue,
The man of wisdom, like to his shou'd act.
You therefore he'll forsake not in affliction,
But still will raise you friends, to heal your griefs,
To aid your wants, and drive away despair.
Xantippe
Alass! thou talkest wildly, Plato; How!
Must Socrates, who boasts that he hath serv'd
This unknown Deity with strict sincerity,
Be given a victim up unto his foes,
And feel the vengeance of their villain-malice;
Yet I, who never had a thought about him,
But worshipped merely as our father worshipp'd,
Regardless how, or whom, I must forsooth!
Be the peculiar object of his favour?
Gods! this is worse that womanish reasoning,
And shews us, how absurdly man will argue,
When he pretends to fathom what he knows not.
Plato
'Twere vain, Xantippe, now to plead submission
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Thy soul, too much opprest with sore calamity.
But sure afflictions are not always evils,
And Socrates, me thinks, in future times
Will shine the brighter from his noble conduct
Under the pressure of his present woes.
Like yon gay sun that glads the world with day;
Sometimes a black invidious cloud conceals him,
When he emerging with redoubled vigour,
Darts all his beams with more resplendent glory.
Xantippe
No more of this—to me he's ever lost—
By Socrates, thou'rt gone—thou diest, my Socrates;
But a few hours, and death's unpitying hand
Gives the dread final stroke—O hear me, Heaven!
Hear a lorn widow's prayer—shower down, shower down
Thy deadliest curses on those villain-wretches,
That have bereav'd me of my Socrates:
O let them feel the pangs I suffer now;
Heap all thy vengeance on them, till they groan
In deepest anguish, till they're curs'd like me.
Plato
Restrain, thou consort of my god-like friend,
This mad disorder; yet, if thou'lt be calm,
And bear submissive what the Gods ordain,
Yet may some unexpected change disperse
Thy present woes, and thou again be happy.
Xantippe
Happy? I happy? No; I've long shook hands
With happiness; tis writ in heaven, that I
Must be the most unhappy of my kind.
O I am all affliction—Socrates!
Thou hast brought this misery on me—I forgive thee,
Yet hadst thou listen'd to me, hadst thou yielded
To my persuasions—but tis vain t'upbraid thee
Thou art lost, and I am—O support me, Heav'n!
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Scene 2d
PlatoHer killing griefs have so possest her soul,
That 'twere a needless task to speak to her.
I wou'd have told her of our friendly scheme—
To free her Socrates; but, shou'd it fail,
Shou'd he himself (as much I fear) obstruct
The honest mean we've taken to preserve him,
And, obstinate, resolve to die, her grief
Wou'd have return'd with double weight upon her,
And sunk her soul to utter desolation.
But why delay my friends? tis now the hour
They promis'd here to meet me with the gaoler.
If he is firm, and Socrates will hear us,
He'll yet escape, and triumph o'er the malice
Of his invet'rate foes—grant Heaven, he may!
Scene 3d
Plato, Phedon, Crito, Apame, GaolerPlato
Welcome, my mournful friends; tis then resolv'd
And you're unanimous t'attempt his rescue?
Phedon
Unanimous? Who wou'd not dare their fate,
To save the man who e'en the gods behold,
With rapturous wonder, from so base a death?
Crito
Yes, Plato, we're resolv'd; and Heaven in pity
To Athens, to relieve her from her shame,
Inspires this generous man to aid our purpose.
He blushes for his country, and determines
To share with us, the brave attempt, or die.
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Who, that beholds his great, his god like patience,
His nobleness of suffering, but wou'd join
With earnest resolution, to preserve him?
I am a stranger to philosophy,
Nor know her influence on the sons of men;
But this man's more than humane; his demeanour
Hath in it something of divinity.
Calm and serene he smiles at my compassion,
And bids me not to be concern'd for him;
That life and death he hath weigh'd in equal ballance,
And finds himself indifferent to either.
Oft, when I speak th'inveteracy of those
That work'd his cruel sufferings, strait he pities them,
And begs of Heaven that they may be forgiven.
I heard him with amaze; he won my soul;
And O, were I the humble mean to save him,
Methinks I cou'd forgive the gods, shou'd they
Ordain my death the moment he escap'd.
Plato
Thy honest heart! But doubt not but the gods
Will shower their blessings on thee. Thy regard
For virtue in affliction, claims their goodness,
And they will pay thee worthy recompence.
Why, my good friends, this looks as if the Powers
Above took care of him—let's seize th'occasion,
Spite of himself preserve him, and become
Th'asserters of exalted worth in Athens.
Apame
Yes, ye Athenians, dare the utmost perils,
Bid brave defiance to severest tortures,
Rather than he shou'd fall; the world hath not
In it's extended regions one that mates
With him in virtue. Hapless that I am,
To have my nearest relative his foe,
I'd dare for him above my feeble sex.
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O sweet Apame, worthiest, matchless maid!
How shall I praise thee, as thy worth deserves?
Thy dear esteem for Socrates demands
Our highest gratitude, and makes us almost
Forget, thy cruel brother sought his death.
O thou transcendant excellence! had he
But half thy virtue—O forgive the thought!
I see how it transports thy gentle soul.
Phedon
Gods! how she's mov'd! O Plato, thou hast rais'd
Tumultuous war within her—heavenly fair One,
Summon thy own great virtues to thy aid,
Calm thy afflicted soul—thy Phedon asks thee
Speak solace to thyself—support the conflict—
What can I say to ease thy strugling heart?
Apame
O the severe distress that hangs upon me!
You're all the friends of Socrates—be mine.
Ye know, how I revere him, how I love him;
And oh! if ye succeed (and grant, ye Gods,
They may succeed) have pity on Apame,
And give her back, if possible, her brother.
Scene 4th
Plato, Phedon, Crito, GaolerPlato
Her soul is deeply wounded—may the gods
Prosper our righteous scheme, and give her peace.
Crito
We must succeed; he cannot long withstand
Our earnest prayers and tears; do you, my friends
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From out the loathsome prison, I'll convey him,
Ere dawn beams forth, beyond the reach of malice.
A gen'rous band of youths, who mourn his fate,
Await our coming at the gate, that leads
To Thebes; They'll there receive the sage with transport,
And safe conduct him to the destin'd place
Of his concealment.
Gaoler
Hence an hour exact,
The prison-doors are open—you be there,
And I'll attend you to him.
Plato
You've our thanks
But that's but poor; you'll have the thanks of Athens.
Believe me, when their present madness leaves them,
And they reflect th'injustice of their conduct
To you illustrious prisoner, much 'twill please them
He hath escap'd their sentence; they will then
Heap with caresses, with assur'd applause,
All that have bravely ventur'd for his safety.
Gaoler
That as they list; the goodness of the deed
Weighs more than me, than e'en a world's applause.
Scene 5th
Anitus, Melitus, LyconLycon
The sacred ship is then return'd from Crete?
Melitus
She is; and now yon cool philosopher
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Ere he is reckon'd with the dead.
Lycon
My soul
Longs for th'important moment, much I fear'd,
His friends wou'd try their utmost power to save him.
Anitus
No doubt they have, and will; but won't succeed;
Their greatest obstacle will be himself;
The senate wou'd have wink'd at his escape;
And had been glad he had evaded punishment.
But here my anchor held; I knew his temper;
I knew he wou'd not fly; he laughs at dying,
And calls the apprehensions mortals form
Of death, the brain's delirium—how? he fly?
What inconsistence? No; that king of terrors
Affrights not him, he'll brave him to the last,
Or rather meet him as a friend.
Melitus
Absurd!
To spurn our gods, and so insult their powers,
And yet presume that, when he goes from hence,
Eternal wretchedness is not his lot!
Fine reasoning this! but so are fools deluded.
Had he, content with what his fathers knew
Liv'd as we liv'd, and, when his country call'd,
Fought, like ourselves, her battles, and been silent,
Nor sought presumptuous things above his sphere,
Of woful issue to the publick weal,
He might have liv'd for Melitus
Lycon
Or me.
Anitus
O say not, had he fought his country's battles;
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Yet still I'll do his virtues ample justice.
Myself have seen him—on that fatal day,
When fierce Beotia's sons in Delium's plain
Pour'd their victorious thousands on our troops,
And we, like timerous flocks, when wolves pursue,
Fled from them daunted; Socrates alone
Bravely maintain'd his post, or, if receded,
Twas as a lion, that disdains his hunters;
He turn'd and fac'd them, and repell'd their fury;
Till by his bold resistance he gave time
To the dishearten'd soldier to retreat,
And hide their shame in safety. Brave he stood;
Not Ajax nor Achilles match'd his force;
He dar'd them to the battle—they beheld him,
As a divinity that fought for Athens,
And, struck with reverence, check'd their full pursuit.
Melitus
Well; be his virtues what they will; no matter,
Fate has him now, and, thank the gracious powers,
Athens and we shall fear our foe no longer.
But I will curb my joy—my worthy Lycon,
My noble Anitus, good night to both,
And let our hearts be blithe—he dies tomorrow.
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Scene 6th
The PrisonSocrates discovered asleep; to him enter Plato, Phedon, Crito, and Gaoler
Gaoler
See, there he sleeps; thus ever hath he slept
When nature call'd; his troubles seem not his;
He feels them not; thus calm and thus resign'd,
He lays him down and takes his sweet repose,
As fate fear'd him, and he, her sovereign Lord,
Cou'd stay her progress, and controul her power.
Phedon
Who, that views him, wou'd envy Persia's monarch?
Surrounded by his guard, yet still embitter'd
Are all his hours, some sudden plot he fears,
And starts amid his slumbers, well aware
Of might mischiefs, brooding o'er his head,
And breaking quick upon him.
Plato
Tis not thus
With virtuous men; our great preceptor shews us,
E'en by that smile that now englads his face,
That in his sleep he's happy—O ye Gods!
Who wou'd not be that glorious man of virtue?
Tomorrow comes, and he is then a corse,
And yet—but see, he wakes—ye guardian powers,
Inspire us with your own blest energy,
To win him to our purpose, and to save him.
Socrates
awaking
Thanks to that gracious Being, that now supports me:
O this is heavenly rapture! Have I then
E'en now a foretaste, what I soon shall be?
Dear Melitus, I thank thee; thou wilt send me
Strait to the region of immortal Spirts
There to enjoy—my friends, what calls you forth
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To visit this dank dungeon? tis your love;—
But sure tomorrow is our own—the laws
Of Athens are not chang'd, that I must die,
Ere I cou'd take or give a last farewel.
Plato
No, Socrates, tomorrow yet is yours;
Spite of your cruel foes;—a noble cause
Now calls us hither; fate's a length propitious
And ere tomorrow dawns, are you secure
From all the villain-efforts of your foes.
Socrates
What means my friend?
Crito
Oh! he hath glorious meaning;
And wou'd the man, on whom our all depends,
The dearest solace of our lives on earth,
The nobler prospect of our joys hereafter,
But listen to his pleadings, Athens yet
May boast the blessing of her Socrates,
For years to come; and he may long continue
The pattern of all virtues of his Country.
Socrates
Unfold yourselves.
Phedon
The vessel is arriv'd
Socrates
I know it, and that I'm to die tomorrow.
Crito
aside
O how I fear that steadiness of look,
That firm demeanour—all our hopes are vain.
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That you must die tomorrow? No, my father,
Good Heaven reserves you still for nobler purpose;
To make you yet his substitute below.
This earth is still too rank to lose her Socrates;
His lessons are too needful to her peace;
She must not want you; and in kind compassion
To erring mortals, he that wakes o'er all,
That gracious providence you've long ador'd,
Inspires this honest man to aid our counsels,
To free you from your fate, and ope the way
To your deliv'rance.—Some selected youths,
The pupils long of your divine instructions,
Are ready to convey you far from Athens,
From the ungrateful citizens, to life
To peace, to safety. O regard your friends,
Your family, mankind—fly hence, and give
Your future lessons to th'applauding world.
Socrates
How, Plato; this from you; from you, to whom
I've long unfolded all my inmost soul?
Is Socrates so little known by those,
Who from their infant-years have learn'd his lore,
That they shou'd think him meanly fond of life;
Shou'd think he'd fly the death his country dooms him?
My Country hath condemn'd me, her's the blame,
If causeless she condemn'd—for me, I glory,
That, innocent, I quit a thankless world,
And spring to regions of immortal joy;
To regions—cou'd my tongue express the rapture,
My soul conceives at her desir'd release,
My friends no more wou'd strive to stop her progress,
But kindly aid her in her flight to Heaven.
Plato
Full well we know that life hath lost it's relish,
That all it's glitter, all it's tinsel joys,
Have not one charm, to win you from that Heaven.
And yet—forgive the yearning of our souls—
We still wou'd keep you, still wou'd we be blest
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That flows so strongly from you, and leads on
By inpersceptible degrees, our hearts
To love of ev'ry virtue. Without thee
Darkling bewilder'd we shall madly wander
In life's vain errors, like the simple traveller,
Lost in the mazes of a devious wood,
Who knows no path to lead him on his way.
Socrates
Have then my precepts had so poor effect?
What say'st thou, Plato? have I toil'd so long
To guide you to your bliss, and toil'd in vain?
O no, my friends; you're rich in ev'ry virtue;
Form'd by my hand, you know each step is wisdom;
Charm'd with her beauty, you will ne'er desert her.
Tho' the world frowns, tho' wicked men exclaim,
Tho' tirants threaten, you will ne'er desert her.
And my glad soul presages, future times
Will learn the lessons you have heard from me,
Will copy from your page the fair example.
There's no occasion I shou'd violate
My country's laws by which I stand condemn'd,
Nor stain my soul by acting 'gainst their verdict.
Believe me, this would give me greater pangs,
Than e'en a thousand deaths, such as I'm doom'd to.
Phedon
Yet wou'd we save thee—
Crito
O forgive our love,
And yield thee to our prayers.
Plato,
pointing to the gaoler
View this good man;
Behold his honest eyes suffus'd with tears;
He speaks not, for his heart's too full to speak,
And yet his ev'ry gesture pleads thy pity,
On him, on us, on all. Apame too,
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Is wearying heaven—in vain? Must she in vain
Plead to heaven for thee?—And need I say
How thy Xantippe, how thy children—Oh!
Will nothing move thee? bend thy soul a little,
Be still a man, or soar above thy nature;
Struggle with thy perfection for a while,
And want thy happiness a little longer,
To sooth the sorrowing hearts of those that love thee.
Socrates
Indeed, my friends, you love grows painful to me;
The more, 'cause all your pleadings will be fruitless.
I stand resolv'd—tis sure the will divine
Which thus resolves me—I must die, my Plato,
Tomorrow I must die; and oh! might life
Be mine for yet a long, long round of years,
And spritely youth and vigour wou'd return,
New—string my nerves, and make me as I have been;
I wou'd not quit the hopes of what my soul
Assures herself that she shall be tomorrow.
Leave me—I thank you for your pious friendship,
But leave me—nature still demands repose,
She will claim her debt out—When the morn
Wakes to fresh life the tenants of the worlds,
Again I'll see you, give one kind embrace,
The last on earth—indeed I wou'd not grieve you,
But part we now—I find, whilst I am mortal,
I've all the weakness of a man about me—
I must submit—farewel—my eyes grow heavy.
Goes to his couch, and composes himself to rest; they continue fix'd for some time in amaze & sorrow, when at length
Plato
Tis vain to urge him farther—he's a determin'd:
His righteous soul won't in her own defence
Act 'gainst the hallow'd statutes of his country.
Good heavens! The godlike virtue of this man!
O let us have him ever in our eye;
Make him our precedent, like him support
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And the like peace to our last hour ensure.
End of the fourth act
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |