University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A terrace of the Temple.
CLEMANTHE, ION.
CLEMANTHE.
Nay, I must chide this sorrow from thy brow,
Or 'twill rebuke my happiness;—I know
Too well the miseries that hem us round,
And yet the inward sunshine of my soul,
Unclouded by their melancholy shadows,
Bathes in its deep tranquillity one image—
One only image, which no outward storm
Can ever ruffle. Let me wean thee, then,
From this vain pondering o'er the general woe,
Which makes my joy look ugly.

ION.
No, my fair one,
The gloom that wrongs thy love is unredeem'd
By generous sense of others' woe: too sure
It rises from dark presages within,
And will not from me.

CLEMANTHE.
Then it is most groundless!
Hast thou not won the blessings of the perishing
By constancy, the fame of which shall live
While a heart beats in Argos?—hast thou not
Upon one agitated bosom pour'd
The sweetest peace? and can thy generous nature,
While it thus sheds felicity around it,
Remain itself unbless'd?

ION.
I fain would think
That the assured possession of thy love
With too divine a freitage weigh'd my heart
And press'd my spirits down;—but 'tis not so;
Nor will I with false tenderness beguile thee,
By feigning that my sadness has a cause
So exquisite. Clemanthe! thou wilt find me
A sad companion;—I who knew not life,
Save as the sportive breath of happiness,
Now feel my minutes teeming, as they rise,
With grave experiences; I dream no more
In sleep or mood serene, of azure fields
Which rainbow palaces invest, but vaults
In long succession open till the gloom
Afar is broken by a streak of fire
That shapes my name—the moaning wind that creeps
Prophetic of the tempest whispers it;
And as I pass'd but now the solemn range
Of Argive monarchs, that in sculptured mockery
Of present empire sit, their eyes of stone
Bent on me instinct with a frightful life
That drew me into fellowship with them,
As conscious marble; while their ponderous lips—
Fit organs of eternity—unclosed,
And, as I live to tell thee, murmur'd “Hail!
Hail! Ion the Devoted!”

CLEMANTHE.
These are fancies
Which thy soul, late expanded with great purpose,
Shapes, as it quivers to its natural circle
In which its joys should lurk, as in the bud
The cells of fragrance cluster. Bid them from thee,
And strive to be thyself.

ION.
I will do so!
I'll gaze upon thy loveliness, and drink
Its quiet in;—how beautiful thou art!—
Sure my pulse throbs as it was wont;—a being,
Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it,
Cannot show darkly.

CLEMANTHE.
Happiness will soon
Revisit us; my father will rejoice—
I feel he will, to bless our love; and Argos
Will breathe again, for her destroyer's course
Must have a speedy end.

ION.
It must! It must!

CLEMANTHE.
Yes; for no idle talk of public wrongs
Assails him now; keen hatred and revenge
Are roused to crush him.

ION.
Not by such base agents
May the august lustration be achieved:
He who shall cleanse his country from the guilt
For which Heaven smites her, should be pure of soul,
Guileless as infancy, and undisturb'd
By personal anger as thy father is
When with unswerving hand and piteous eye
He stops the brief life of the innocent kid
Bound with white fillets to the altar;—so
Enwreath'd by fate the royal victim stands,
And soon his breast shall shrink beneath the knife
Of the selected slayer!

CLEMANTHE.
'Tis thyself
Whom thy strange language pictures—Ion! thou—

ION.
She has said it! Her pure lips have spoken out
What all things intimate;—didst thou not mark
Me for the office of avenger—me?

CLEMANTHE.
No;—save from the wild picture that thy fancy—
Thy o'erwrought fancy drew; I thought it look'd
Too like thee, and I shudder'd.

ION.
So do I!
And yet I almost wish I shudder'd more,
For the dire thought has grown familiar with me—
Could I escape it!

CLEMANTHE.
'Twill away in sleep.

ION.
No, no! I dare not sleep—for well I know
That then the knife will gleam, the blood will gush,
The form will stiffen!—I will walk awhile
In the sweet evening light, and try to chase
These fearful images away.

CLEMANTHE.
Let me
Go with thee. O, how often hand in hand
In such a lovely light have we roam'd westward
Aimless and blessed, when we were no more
Than playmates:—surely we are not grown stranger
Since yesterday!

ION.
No, dearest, not to-night:
The plague yet rages fiercely in the vale,
And I am placed in grave commission here
To watch the gates;—indeed thou must not pass;
I will be merrier when we meet again,—
Trust me, my love, I will; farewell!
[Exit ION.

CLEMANTHE.
Farewell then!
How fearful disproportion shows in one
Whose life hath been all harmony! I fear
Some power malignant working on his soul
May drive him into frenzied act: he bends
Towards that thick covert where in blessed hour
My father found him, which has ever been
His chosen place of meditation; thither
I'll follow him:—indeed I would not grow
A selfish mistress jealous of his musings;
But when dark fancies trouble his clear spirit,
Sure 'tis my privilege to hover near him!

[Exit.