University of Virginia Library

Scene 6th

The Prison
Socrates 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
In this inclement season of the night,
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.

Plato
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
With that divine, that more than heavenly sapience
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,
Her heart now bleeding for her brothers cruelty,
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
The World's despite, in conscious worth secure:
And the like peace to our last hour ensure.