University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—Another Street.
Enter Damon.
Damon.
Philistius, then, is president at last,
And Dionysius has o'er sway'd it? Well,
It is what I expected: There is now
No public virtue left in Syracuse.
What should be hop'd from a degenerate,
Corrupted, and voluptuous populace,
If highly-born, and meanly-minded nobles
Would barter freedom for a great man's feast,
And sell their country for a smile? The stream,
With a more sure eternal tendency
Seeks not the ocean, than a sensual race
Their own devouring slavery. I am sick,
At my inmost heart, of every thing I see,
And hear! O, Syracuse, I am, at last,
Forc'd to despair of thee! And yet thou art
My land of birth,—thou art my country still,
And, like an unkind mother, thou hast left
The claims of holiest nature in my heart,
And I must sorrow for, not hate thee! (Shouts)
Ha!
What shouts are these? 'Tis from the citadel
The uproar is descending.
Enter Lucullus.
Speak, Lucullus,
What has befallen?

Luc.
Have you not heard the news?

Damon.
What news?

Luc.
As through the streets I pass'd, the people
Said that the citadel was in the hands
Of Dionysius.

Damon.
The citadel
In Dionysius' hands? What dost thou tell me?
How,—wherefore,—when? In Dionysius' hands?
The traitor Dionysius?—Speak, Lucullus,
And quickly.

Luc.
It was said, that by rude force,
Heading a troop of soldiers, he had ta'en
Possession of the citadel, and seized
The arms and treasure in't.

[Exit.
Damon.
I am thunder stricken!
The citadel assaulted, and the armory
In that fierce soldier's power! (Shouts)
Again! By all
The gods on high Olympus, I behold
His standard waving o'er it,—and they come,
His most notorious satellites, high heap'd
With arms and plunder! Parricidal slaves,
What have ye done?

Enter Procles and Soldiers.
Soldiers.
For Dionysius! Ho!
For Dionysius!

Damon.
Silence! obstreperous traitors!
Your throats offend the quiet of the city;
And thou, who standest foremost of these knaves,
Stand back, and answer me,—a senator.
What have you done?

Proc.
But that I know 'twill gall thee,
Thou poor, and talking pedant of the school
Of dull Pythagoras, I'd let thee make
Conjecture from thy senses: But, in hope
'Twill stir your solemn anger, learn from me,
We have ta'en possession of the citadel,
And—

Damon.
Patience, ye good gods! a moment's patience,
That these too ready hands may not enforce
The desperate precept of my rising heart—
Thou most contemptible, and meanest tool
That ever tyrant used!—

Proc.
Do you hear him, soldiers?
First, for thy coward railings at myself
And since thou hast called our Dionysius tyrant,
Here, in the open streets of Syracuse,
I brand thee for a liar, and a traitor!

Damon.
Audacious slave!

Proc.
Upon him, soldiers,—
Hew him to pieces!

Soldiers.
On him! (With a shout.)


Enter Pythias, as they rush upon Damon.
Pyth.
Back on your lives!
Cowards, damn'd, treacherous cowards, back I say!
Do you know me? Look upon me: Do you know
This honest sword I brandish? You have seen it
Among the ranks of Carthage; would you now
Taste its shrewd coldness in your quaking selves!
Back! back! I say. He hath his armour on.—
I am his sword, shield, helm; I but enclose
Myself, and my own heart, and heart's blood, when
I thus stand before him.

Damon.
False-hearted cravens!
We are but two—my Pythias, my halved heart!—
My Pythias, and myself; but dare come on.
Ye hirelings of a tyrant! dare advance
A foot, or raise an arm, or bend a brow,
And ye shall learn what two such arms can do
Amongst a thousand of ye.—My good friend,
The gods have sent thee to me—Who had deem'd
To find thee here from Agrigentum?

[Soldiers advance.
Pyth.
Off!
Off, villains, off!—Each for the other thus,
And in that other, for his dearer self.
Why, Procles, art thou not asham'd,—for I
Have seen thee do good work in battle time—
Art not asham'd, here on a single man
To rush in coward numbers? Fie upon thee!
I took thee for a soldier.

Proc.
For thy sake,
Who art a warrior like ourselves, we spare him—
'Twas a good star of his that led thee hither,
From Agrigentum, to lift up thine arm
In the defence of that long robe of peace
Wherein he wraps his stern philosophy.
Come, teach him better manners. Soldiers, on,—
Let us to Dionysius.

[Exeunt Procles and Soldiers.
Pyth.
Art thou safe
From these infuriate stabbers?

Damon.
Thanks to thee,
I am safe, my gallant soldier, and fast friend:
My better genius sent thee to my side,
When I did think thee far from Syracuse.

Pyth.
I have won leave to spend some interval
From the fierce war, and come to Syracuse,
With purpose to espouse the fair Calanthe.—
The gods have led me hither, since I come
In time to rescue thee.
How grew this rude broil up?

Damon.
Things go on here
Most execrably, Pythias. But you are come
To be a husband, are you not?

Pyth.
To-morrow
I call my soft Calanthe wife.

Damon.
Then, Pythias,
I will not shade the prospect of your joys
With any griefs of mine. I cry you mercy—
These are experiments too over nice
For one that has a mistress, and would wed her
With an uncut throat. I have oft wish'd myself,
That to the blest retreats of private life
My lot had been awarded;—every hour
Makes one more sick and weary with the sense
Of this same hopeless service of a state,
Where there is not enough of virtue left
To feed the gleamings of our liberty.—
But, my soldier,
I will not make thee a participant
In my most sad forebodings. Pythias,
I say, 'twere better be the Persian's slave,
And let him tread upon thee, when he would
Ascend his horse's back, than—yet, not so,
I am too much gall'd and fretted to pronounce
A sober judgment, and the very mask
Of freedom, is yet better than the bold,
Uncover'd front of tyranny.—Farewell!

Pyth.
Nay, I must follow thee, and find the cause
That so perturbs thy spirit.

Damon.
How, sir! You have
A mistress here in Syracuse, and, look,
Herself comes forth to meet you.

Pyth.
Where! Calanthe!
Nay, I behold her not—you mock me, Damon.

Damon.
(Pointing to a different side of the stage.)
Look this way, sir.

Pyth.
It is herself, indeed,
My own, my fond, betrothed one.

Enter Calanthe.
Cal.
My dear,
But most neglecting Pythias!

Pyth.
By the birth
Of Venus, when she rose out of the sea,
And with her smile did fill the Grecian isles
With everlasting verdure, she was not,
Fresh from the soft creation of the wave,
More beautiful than thee!

Cal.
Thou fondly thinkest
To hide thy false oblivion of the maid,
That, with a panting heart awaited thee.
Now, Pythias, I do take it most unkind,
That thou to friendship hast made sacrifice
Of the first moment of thy coming here.

Pyth.
Nay, chide me not; for I was speeding to thee.

Cal.
Soon as I heard thou wert in Syracuse,
I ran at once to hail thee with a smile,
Although my mother would have staid me.

(Pythias kisses her hand.)
Damon.
(who is lost in thought.)
Yes,
They must at least be safe.

Pyth.
And how, Calanthe,
Fares thy dear mother?

Cal.
Happy in the thought
If she must needs (as she must) part with me,
It is at least to thee.

Pyth.
And my poor father?

Cal.
Time has almost shut up his faculties,
And he can scarce distinguish any voice
That is address'd to him. The day is pass'd,
Upon his couch; at evening, in a chair,
He is carried to the terrace-walk before
The threshold of his mansion, where the wind,
Fresh from the sea, plays with his locks of grey,
Till pleas'd at last he smiles. That gentle smile,
As 'tis the first denotement of a thought
In speechless infancy, 'tis the last sign
Of the expiring mind.

Pyth.
My soft Calanthe
Must be a tender on infirmity,
Before her time. But where's my silent friend?
Why, Damon, what's the matter?

Damon.
(Aside, and still lost in thought.)
One brave blow,
And it were done! By all the gods, one blow,
And Syracuse were free!—Pythias, is't you?—
I cry you mercy, (to Cal.)
fair one—Pythias,
You are to be married. Haste thee, Pythias,—
Love, and fight on. Thine arm to Mars, thy heart
Give to his paramour.—Take thou no care
Of the politician's study—'twill turn pale
Thy face, make thee grow sick at nature's loveliness,
And find in her pure beauty but one blank
Of dismal, colourless, sterility.
Calanthe, look to it—let him not play
The statesman's sorry part.

Pyth.
Damon, you let
The commonwealth o'erfret you. I was about
To pray you to our wedding.

Damon.
I intended,
Unbidden, to be there.

Pyth.
From friendship's eyes
I'll win addition to my happiness.
Calanthe, come—I should be half in fear,
To seem thus loving of thee, in the sight
Of this philosopher.

Cal.
Nay, he pretends
To be by half more rugged, and more wise,
Than he hath any right to: I have seen him,
(Have I not, Damon?) looking at his wife,
When he imagin'd none was there to mark
The proud Pythagorean, with an eye
Filled with tenderness:—and his young boy, too,
That seems Aurora's child, with his fine face,
Stirr'd his stern visage to complacency.
Come, come, we'll be reveng'd upon you both:
I swear, his wife and I will be accounted
Your rivals in the godlike quality
Your lordly sex would arrogate its own
Peculiar privilege, and show the world
The unseen, and yet unrumour'd prodigy,—
The friendship of a woman.

[Exeunt Pythias and Calanthe.
Damon.
Hark thee, Lucullus.—
My wife and child must instantly depart
From Syracuse;—you must attend them hence,
Unto my villa, on the mountain side.

Luc.
Alas, my lord!

Damon.
Why dost thou droop?

Luc.
My lord,
I was your slave; you gave me liberty;
And when I see you peril'd—

Damon.
Nay, Lucullus,
Where is the warrant for thy fear?

Luc.
I read
You are engag'd in some dread enterprise,
Else you would not deny them to your sight:
You fear the leaning ruin may fall down,
Upon their dearer heads.

Damon.
I charge you, sir,
No prying in my purposes.—Take care
You speak not to my wife of any thing
May stir her apprehensions—see, she comes—
Beware thy looks betray thee.

Enter Hermion.
Herm.
Art thou safe,
Damon, art safe?

Damon.
You are not a widow yet,

Herm.
For shame to talk of such a thing. I have heard
Of thy rude quarrelling with that same fierce,
And overbearing soldier. But thou art safe.—
Proud men? how reckless of the faithful hearts
That doat on you,—that hang their weakness on ye!
How reckless of us in your bustling hours
Of occupation and despatch, ye are!
Ah, then you think not of the pining mate,
Left in her solitude, with nought to do,
But weep for your return, and chide the gods,
That make your minds so stern and enterprising.

Damon.
Hermion, I think the city's fulsome air
Likes not our boy:—The colour in his cheek
Hath lost its rich and healthful purity.

Herm.
Nay, you are wrong there;—'tis like a young peach,
Or yet more fresh and blooming.

Damon.
Hermion,
I have resolv'd that you and he shall go
Unto my villa, near to Syracuse.

Herm.
But you will come with us?

Damon.
Hermion, you know
My occupation forbids that wish.

Luc.
My lord—

Damon.
Forbear sir—yet I cannot go,—
I mean, I cannot go immediately—
The state affairs lay hold upon me. You
Must hence before me thither.

Herm.
Damon—

Damon.
Come,
Look not thus sadly.

Herm.
I have learn'd too well
The usage of obedience, to inquire
Into your purposes.

Damon.
Hermion, I'll take
Occasion oft to visit you—to-morrow—
If possible, to-morrow,

Herm.
Will you so?
Nay, will you truly promise it?

Damon.
I do.—
Hermion, you must be sudden—you must despatch.—
Come—but I'll see my boy before you go.—
Hermion, he is our only one.—That child
Is made of thy own heart, and mine—I charge thee,
Have thou a care, in all vicissitudes
Of private or of public incident,
To form in him, what will out-top the height
Of the best laurel-tree in all the groves
Of the Academy,—an honest man.

[Exeunt.