University of Virginia Library

Act 5th

Scene 1st

Melitus
What means this dreadful vision of the night?
Ha! Sure it was not fancy? fancy breeds
A thousand megrims in the brain, and loves
To tease her e'en to madness.—No; twas real;
I saw it plain, and horrid was it's figure;
It glar'd upon me with the eye of death;
And spoke too—sure it spoke—it mention'd Socrates,
And told me, heav'n was pouring down it's vengeance
On my accursed head—It was no dream;
My slumbers left me soon, and long I lay,
Stretch'd on the rack of conscience, when it came.
It came—I saw it stalk into my chamber.
How I'm distracted? Gods, was it for this,
That I maintain'd your godhead 'gainst the wretch
That wou'd have rob'd your temples of their worship?
O for that peace I once enjoy'd—tis gone,
And now I feel such tortures—I will feel them—
My sister, ha! I wou'd not see her now.

Scene 2d

Melitus, Apame
Apame
Alass! my brother, what uncommon terror
Speaks in your countenance? you look so wild,
So sternly sad; that you alarm your sister.

Melitus
Apame, you've succeeded in your wishes;
Your brother's lost; you pray'd the foes of Socrates
Might feel the pangs of fell remorse—I feel them,
And fall the victim of my own resentment.

Apame
Does Melitus relent? O heavely powers!
The venerable sage will yet find mercy;
My brother will retract the wrongs he did him,
And haste to save him from the fatal potion.

Melitus
No; by the gods, I'll have my dear revenge;
Save him? I save him? Were it possible
To have my tortures doubled, (and I feel
All that the most distracted mind can form)
So strong the hate I hear him, he shou'd suffer,
Shou'd die the death my vengeance draws upon him.

Apame
What horrid resolution? Are there gods?
You say, there are, and have yourself asserted
Their dread divinity. Say, will not they
(They must be just) inflict severest torture
On guilt like yours? O hear me, dearest brother;
Give to your soul her peace, implore their mercy,
To aid you in the justice you shou'd act;
To make you gentle, humble, mild, forgiving,
That you may yet—

Melitus
Ha! sayst thou? I implore
The gods?—they'll hear not me, or, if they wou'd,
I'll not implore them, for I'll not retract
All that my injur'd soul hath urg'd against him.
He merited my vengeance—I implore them?
No; I'll not ask the mercy they'll not grant me.
—Avaunt, foul spectre! What is Socrates
To thee? art thou his wife, his child, his friend,
That thus thou haunt'st me?—Well, I will be wretched;
Away! I tell thee, that I will be wretched—
O my pain'd heart!—Ha! hath he suffer'd, say you?
Thank heaven for that the dotard then is gone
To his reward—to what reward? Ay; there,
There lies the question—If he shou'd be right—
What's that to me? I'm sure, I must be wrong—
Apame—sister! how dar'st thou intrude
Upon thy brother's privacies? Phedon sent thee;
I know him—he's the friend of Socrates,
And he has sent thee to behold thy brother
Curst e'en beyond redemption—hold, my brain!
—Gods?—what Gods?—there are none—or if there are,
They are the gods of Socrates, not mine—
I'll have no Gods—Yes, roar, ye changeling crowd,
Drag, tear me e'en to atoms, if you will;
You're true Athenians, and I'm—horror, horror!

Scene the 3d

Apame
Unhappy Melitus! I mourn thy crimes,
I mourn thy punishment—alass! thou'st rack'd
With the most cruel torture, conscious guilt.
How wondrous sad thy fate? thou feel'st the pangs,
Without the blest result, of dear repentance.
Thou wou'dst be sorry for thy fault, but can'st not,
So harden'd is thy heart! In what strong chain,
The sinner's soul is bound? he wou'd be free;
Vain is his wish; stern fate's inexorable,
And holds him fast enfetter'd in his wretchedness.
Oh! poor ill fated brother! I will pray for thee;
Spite of my reverent love for Socrates,
—Tis nature's dictate—I will pray for thee—
With thee compar'd, he's happy, whilst thy soul
Feels even now the measure of it's woes.

Scene 4th

Apame, Phedon
Apame
Alass! I've heard your kind attempt was fruitless;
That all your eloquence, your prayers, your tears
Mov'd not the god-like sage. He'll not escape;
And Athens must receive a stain, which all
The tears of her repenting citizens
(For sure I am they will regret his death[)]
Will ne'er wash out.

Phedon
No, my Apame, no;
He will not hear us; he hath weigh'd it well,
And on the ballance finds it best for virtue
To quit at once a base and sordid world,
A world unworthy of the Good she offers.
We sued, as pious children to a parent,
On whose dear life hung all their future welfare;
In vain; he answer'd all our pleaded reasons,
Said, he must die; that it was Heaven's high will;
And he'd obey it: then with that authority
That firm, commanding, yet endearing aspect,
He wonted to instruct us, bad us leave him;
His seem'd the voice of Heaven; in wonder lost,
Sunk in our grief's distraction, we submitted.

Apame
O Phedon, what a day is this to Athens!
How will she rue—yet she deserves it all—
The dire result of her inhumane cruelty?
Indeed I pity her—she demands my pity—
Yes, O my country, I will pity thee.
But for the virtuous man she hath condemn'd,
Condemn'd unjustly; by his godlike firmness,
He shews he has made his peace with those above,
And only waits the destin'd hour for happiness;
Therefore, an object only now of wonder,
Rather, of envy, he's above our pity.

Phedon
I joy, my dear Apame's soul regains
Her wonted calm; you look resign'd, my charmer,
And quit your Socrates with that tranquillity,
As suits his great philosophy.

Apame
Ah, Phedon!
My soul is stunn'd;—it is indeed a calm—
But what th' event?—that we must leave to Heaven.
The death of Socrates, my brother's madness,
For oh! he hath lost—

Phedon
Your brother? say, Apame
What of your brother?

Apame
Now he left me, frantick,
Mad with his guilt, and sunk in desolation

Phedon
Good Heaven! how you surprise me!—but, no wonder—
When guilt like his recoils upon the soul
Tis then a dreary waste, a dreadful gloom,
And not one ray of comfort darts upon her
But I forbear—O pardon me, Apame.

Apame
Yes; I will pardon thee; thou say's no more,
Than what becomes the friend of Socrates;
Myself condemns him, tho' I am his sister;
A sister, that much loves and pities him.
O Heavens! What means my heart?—it seems too easy;
These two great evils, that shou'd sink her down
To deepest woe—

Phedon
Oh! add a third, my charmer,
A third, that, spite of all I feel for Socrates
Gives me more cruel pangs, our hapless loves.

Apame
Yes; Phedon: I must own, I once indulg'd
A fruitless hope, that thou and I were form'd
By Heaven's blest power, to give each other happiness,
But tis determin'd, tis above determin'd
That we must meet.

Phedon
Thus mortals oft
Plan to themselves their flattering schemes of bliss,
And, spite of all their vaunted art and forsight,
Drop from their airy hopes to dire despair.
What must I say? at this tremendous moment
What can I say? And yet I wou'd say something.
Alass! O can't—My soul distrest, desponding,
Wants e'en conception to describe the pangs,
That rack her now, and makes her more than wretched.

Apame
Say this; that thou art still Apame's friend
That thou wilt ever bear within thy breast
Her dear Idea

In Platonic philosophy, an idea is an archetype of which all real things are but imperfect imitations.

, as she will do thine;
That thou wilt still pursue the glorious track
Thy great Preceptor led thee; and endeavour
T'improve in ev'ry grace, in ev'ry virtue;
Say this; and thy Apame yet will promise
To love thee still, t'indulge the holy friendship
That flames her soul for thee, to weary Heaven
With prayers for Phedon, and to her last hour
Think on thee with affection and with rapture.

Phedon
Say this! O Heavens! My feeble tongue wants utterance
To tell thee—this is more than I durst hope;
To be subject of Apame's prayers,
The constant object of her tender thought,
The sole delight of her remaining hours!
What can't I promise thee? divinest maid!
Oh! I'll be all that thou wou'dst have me be;
And, if not here, yet sure in future worlds,
Transporting thought! our gentle souls shall meet,
Where no impetuous storms of fate shall part us.

Apame
Be that our hope; tis time we now retire,
You to the prison, to perform the last
Kind, filial service to your dying master.
Tell him, Apame never will forget
Th'important lessons that she learn'd from him;
Tell him she deeply mourns her loss, not his,
Much will she want him—but she hopes to see him
In better worlds, where she and thou and all
That lov'd him here, and listen'd to his lore,
Will yet attend him in an endless state
Of peace, of happiness.—farewel—my soul
Sinks to her heaviness—farewel, my Phedon.

Phedon
One kind embarce—Sure modesty forbids not
This last—forgive me; but my soul hangs on thee,
As o'er the body it's departing spirit,
Unwilling to forsake her long-lov'd mansion.
Do not refuse me—tis the last sad favour
Thy Phedon asks—
She inclines to him
O Heavens! and I must lose thee?
Farewel;—sure, sure, it will not be—for ever.

Scene 5th

The Prison
Socrates
Today I am to die—What art thou, death?
Some say, a dread, a formidable tirant,
That mak'st mankind thy quarry, and devourst them,
Till they're no more than what they were, ere first
The great Eternal call'd them into being.
Thou art not so; and such I shall not find thee.
I've noblest prospects far; and to my soul
So mild thy aspect, that I'll call thee friend.
Thou'lt lead me, where at least my better part
Will meet with perfect virtue, certain knowledge,
With all th'improvements that she sought in vain
In this low scene.—Her state is sure progressive,
She still went on each day acquiring something,
Yet still dissatisfied, met not completion,
And wanted something farther still to be.
Nay more; her innocence, her constant bent
To sweet philanthropy, to doing good,
Was given by that dread power for noblest ends.
Are those ends answer'd? No. I feel, I am not
Contented with the little I have done,
And wou'd do farther—but I must not here;
My judges have forbad me—Therefore, therefore,
I go from hence to where no vile incumbrance,
No base abuse of power, no impious malice
Will hinder me from doing all I can:
Where I shall still be virtuous; nay be all
What wisdom tells me, I have not been yet;
And feel each ardent faculty within me
Fully employ'd, and blest in it's attainments.

Scene 6th

Socrates, Plato, Phedon, Crito and others
Socrates
Socrates
Welcome, my faithful pupils; you are come
To bid your Socrates a last farewel.
A last? No sure; we yet shall meet again.
I've been debating with myself, my friends,
And find upon the upshot, I have gain'd.
Tis true, I might have liv'd a little longer;
But oh! that little longer I had liv'd
Had rob'd me just so much of happiness.

Plato
Thou peerless man! how I adore thy virtues!
Now on the confines of eternity,
Thy looks, thy words, thy gestures are so calm,
So full of inward peace, my soul admires thee.

Socrates
For what, my Plato? He that acts aright,
At such a time as this is ever easy.
It may be hard to know we act aright;
Yet, if no conscious thought within disturb us,
No nauseous bitter mingles with our sweet,
But all is peace and pleasantness, sure then
Death's a mere phantom, and must lose his terrors.

Phedon
Alass! so wretched is the state of man,
We know not what we must be; thou art right;
My soul assures me, Socrates is right;
And yet—forgive me—still my darken'd mind
[Is] lost in her surmises, and she knows not
How to unriddle these thy causeless sufferings.

Socrates
Phedon, I can't inform thee more than what
I know myself; I've yet no full conception
Of how it will be; but my soul forebodes
Joy 'bove expression: Heaven for noblest ends
May yet delay to great enquiring man
The knowledge of his future fate above.

Crito
That's our distress; we've view'd the constant tenor
Of thy applauded life; and to reflect
The vile indignities thou hast endur'd
The base, insidious villain schemes against thee,
The woful death that thou must die today,
Fills us with vain incertitude; we wonder—
What mean the powers above, that they shou'd yield thee
Thus to thy impious foes.

Socrates
You quite surprise me,
How, Crito, don't I tell thee I'm ascertain'd
Of being something nobler than I am
While I am here—but what—that lies beyond
The ken of present knowledge—God is good,
Is gracious ever—In some future time,
When man's prepar'd to hear the happy tidings,
Some blessed sage will rise t'instruct him, whither
He goes from hence, to teach the certain road
He must pursue to reach his destin'd goal.
Meanwhile tis but our duty to await
That glorious period; we not know it yet;
[But] if I bode aright, our after-race
Won't be bewilder'd in a fruitless search
Of this important question.

Plato
Be it so!
Be heaven thus gracious to his creature, man;
And let all those, who've learnt from thee the rule,
I had almost said, th'unerring rule to live,
Await that welcome instant—Ah! my Socrates,
Xantippe comes; she comes to bid forever
Adieu to her dear Socrates; look on her
With eyes of tenderness; she's deeply wounded,
And merits all the pity thou canst shew her.

Socrates
She is my best-belov'd; heaven only knows
The true esteem that warms my heart for her.

Scene 7th

Socrates, Xantippe, Plato, Phedon, Crito & c.
Xantippe
runs to him and embraces him
O Socrates!

Socrates
My dear, my best Xantippe.

Xantippe
And art thou going? have thy foes prevail'd
And must I lose thee? On this fatal day
Fore'er lose thee? O my bleeding heart!
My Socrates, do we now part for ever?

Socrates
So heaven ordains; and tho my soul reflects
[OMITTED]fondness all the happy hours
And yet—

[end of manuscript]