University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Periander, Leonidas.
Leonidas.
This way a distant sound alarm'd my ear.
Broken it seem'd to be; the voice of mourning,
And deep distress. Methought it rose just here,
From these deaf-sounding cliffs. But all is still!
Save the hoarse deep yet working from the storm.
Some Power direct my steps where I may find,
By this faint moon-light, my lov'd Master's corpse,
To save his sacred reliques from the rage
Of brutish tyranny.—Ha! what art thou?
A man, or fear-form'd Shadow of the night?

Periander.
Leonidas!

Leonidas.
The same. But speak again.

Periander.
Leonidas!

Leonidas.
Ha! can it be, ye Powers!
My royal Lord?

Periander
coming forward.
A wretch that has no name.

Leonidas.
Oh all ye Gods! may I believe my senses?
'Tis he! my Prince!—Just heaven to thee I kneel,
And thus adore thy gracious providence.
'Tis most amazing!

Periander.
Rise, Leonidas.
I am beneath thy care. Thou seest me here
The last of men, cast off by all good Powers;
Sav'd from the deep to be more lost on shore.

Leonidas.
My king and master, tho' my heart bleeds in me
With all your mighty ills, I must again
Bless that good heaven whose providence has sav'd you.
'Tis great! 'tis wonderous all! But how, oh how
Have you escap'd the Tyrant's jealous search?
His guards with strict survey rang'd every cliff,
And hollow of these rocks.

Periander.
I'll tell thee then.
We were in sight of Corinth, when at once
Broad darkness hid the sky: at once the winds
Roar'd with mad bluster o'er us, and the seas
In rowling mountains rose. A storm so fierce,
So big with ruine, baffled our best skill.
Despair struck every heart. The ship ran round
In giddy whirls, and bulg'd on some hid rock.
O dismal moment! still methinks I hear
The general, dying scream of multitudes
Just drowning in th'abyss. How poor a thing
Is a King then, Leonidas! I grasp'd
A floating wreck, the big sea roaring round me,
And bursting o'er my head; but, bury'd deep
Beneath the whelming tide, at once I lost
The light of heaven and life. A wave it seems
Lodg'd me within a cavern's secret depth,
Near yon tall mountain.

Leonidas.
Miracle of fate!
Sure God's immediate hand conducted it,
Severely merciful.—How shall I tell
What pangs, what agonies of soul I felt
At sight of your sad wreck?—But, Sir, the Prince,
What of his fate?

Periander.
I know not what to think:
But to be mine, it seems, is to be wretched.
Half of my fleet, yet riding in the port,
I left to his command, but with strict charge
To sail a few hours after. 'Twere in vain
To tell thee now the reason of my order.
This storm, I fear, may have surpriz'd him too,
Unhappy boy!

Leonidas.
Your own escape, my Lord,
So full of wonder, and beyond all hope,
Inclines me to strong faith that heaven is still
Concern'd for your affairs.—But to behold you,
So late the first and happiest of mankind,
Alone and wandering here at the dead hour;
No roof, but heaven's high cope to shelter you;
No couch, but this unhospitable earth
To rest your brine-drench'd limbs—it kills my heart.
Curse on the Tyrant!

Periander.
Prithee think me not
So poorly soul'd to stoop beneath the pressure
Of Fortune's hand. That were to merit it.
But there is still behind—O death to honour!
One crushing blow that lays me low indeed!
That sinks me in the dust!

Leonidas.
What do I hear!
Your words amaze me.

Periander.
How, Leonidas!
Surely thou art no stranger to my thought.
Procles—Eurydice—Wilt thou not speak
To save my shame. Say, tell me what thou know'st
Of that bad woman.

Leonidas.
With such watchful care
The Tyrant's trusted spies observe her steps,
That till this fatal evening, when by order
Of Procles, I inform'd her of your death,
I have not seen her once.

Periander.
Just what I fear'd.
That guilty secresy was well contriv'd
To cover crimes too foul for honest eyes,
And heaven's fair light to see. None, none but Procles
Could gain admittance: and to him my gates,
My fortress, nay my bed it self was open!

Leonidas.
O wrong her not, my Lord. Had you but seen
With what convulsive pangs of heart-felt anguish,
What bleeding agonies, she heard the tale
Of your imagin'd death, your soul would melt
In pity of her woes. This Procles too
Call'd down each Power of heaven to witness for him,
He meant her fair. Hers was the common cause
Of kings, he said; whose place and honour bound 'em
To scourge rebellion, in whatever shape,
Wherever found. And then what was her state?
Death in his ghastliest form, devouring famine,
Hung instant o'er her head. O think of this,
And add not to her wrongs.

Periander.
Ha! wrong her, say'st thou?
Answer me: has she not entail'd disgrace,
And vileness on my name? Has she not made me
The laughter of my foe, the scoff of Procles?
O curse! is there in all the wrath of heaven
A plague, a ruine, like that infamy!
Wrong her—I am too well inform'd of all;
Too certain of the blushful stain that cleaves
To me and mine for ever!

Leonidas.
Ah, my Lord,
By all good Powers, by your eternal quiet,
I beg you hear me—

Periander.
I have heard too much,
Too much, just Gods! to hope for quiet more.
Those fates inexorable, that pursue
My life with utmost rigor, would not spare me
The knowledge of my shame. From my best friend
Blushing I learnt it—But hast thou e'er felt
That heart of anguish stab'd by murderous fears,
And shuddering with ten thousand mortal thoughts!
That tempest of the soul that knows no calm;
Tossing from love to hate, from doubt to rage,
To raving agony!

Leonidas.
Alas! my Lord,
Trust me, I weep to hear so sad a tale.

Periander.
I'll tell thee all; for oh! my soul is full,
And must have vent. My aking memory,
Still fruitful to my torture, brings again
Those days, those months of horror I have known.
Abandon'd to distraction, I renounc'd
The commerce of mankind. I sought to vent
My ravings in the wildness of the woods;
To hide my shame in their profoundest night.
The morn still brought it back: the midnight-shade
Could not conceal it. Her lone echoes groan'd
Unceasing with my pangs: and her sad ghosts,
Forbid to rest even in the grave, in me
Beheld a soul more lost, more curst, than they.

Leonidas.
O Sir, no more—

Periander.
When I call'd back past time,
Life's vernal season, the soft hours of peace
And unsuspecting love; our growing joys
In rearing one lov'd son; that heaven of bliss
Which princes seldom find, and was all ours;
My soul dy'd in me. Solitary, wild,
I wept, I groan'd, in bitterness of heart.
But when curst Procles flash'd on my remembrance,
My known, my deadly foe—that he of all,
That he had made her vile! 'twas then, 'tis now
Rage, fury, madness.—You at last arrous'd me
To thoughts of vengeance. With all speed I sail'd,
Feeding my frenzy with the gloomy joy
Of stabbing the betrayer in her arms;
Of plunging both to hell—but this curst storm!
These treacherous waves!

Leonidas.
Ye Gods! what have I heard!
Alas! alas! all waves, all storms are calms
To Jealousy. O my lov'd Lord, beware
Of that destroyer, that self-torturing fiend,
Who loves his pain, and feeds the cruel cares
That prey upon his life; whose frantic eye
Is ever open, ever prying round
For what he dreads to find. By all most dear
And inward to my soul, I think the Queen
As pure as Truth herself. This is, by heaven,
Some dark-laid treachery, the crime of Procles.

Periander.
Of Procles, say'st thou?

Leonidas.
Oh you know him not.
Lust and ambition are not all his guilt.
But now's no time, my Lord,
For farther talk. I tremble for your life.
This place is hostile ground: and Danger here
May find us out, tho' shrouded round with night.
Hence let us fly, where I may lodge you safe
In some obscure retreat; till pitying heaven
Unravel this perplexity of ills,
And point us what to do.

Periander.
Thou good old man!
By heaven, thy matchless honesty and truth
Half reconcile me to disgrace and ruine.
Yet blushing let me tell thee all my folly—
Might I but see Eurydice.—Nay start not:
I know 'tis base. I know she is beneath
My coolest scorn. I hate and curse this weakness.
Yet let me see her—If she still has kept
Her faith inviolate; fallen as I am,
My ruine will be light. If otherwise,
To know the worst will be soft soothing ease
To this hot hell of doubt.

Leonidas.
I wish you, Sir,
To weigh the certain peril that attends
This rash adventure. Should, which heaven avert,
Should Procles' guards discover you, oh think
What must ensue! Think, in your fate, the Queen
And Prince both ruin'd!

Periander.
But my Genius prompts.
Fate calls; and I must on. No face of danger
Can be so dreadful as the vultur-thoughts
That gnaw my heart-strings. But we both are safe.
The moon you see is down: and this mean babit
Hides me from all suspicion. Who will dream
Of finding Periander in this russet?
This, when the storm first rose, I threw around me;
That if I perish'd in it, and my corpse
Were cast ashore, at least my vulgar fate
Might ever rest unknown—But hark what sounds?

Leonidas.
Thus that curst Tyrant revels out the night
In triumph o'er your ruine.—Let me think.
Yes; it may be. Now Riot rules the hour,
And all good order is relax'd: we may
Pass on unquestion'd. Come, my gracious Lord,
This way our path lies. May some friendly God
Walk with us, and throw tenfold darkness round.