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