 | Ion |  |
164
SCENE III.
[A Terrace in the Garden of the Palace by moonlight.][Enter Ion and Agenor.]
AGENOR.
Wilt thou not in to rest?
ION.
My rest is here—
For rising from the shocks of circumstance,
My soul, in presence of the starry heavens,
Can feel the littleness of earthly change
And bear its fortunes tranquilly. Yet age
Requires more genial nourishment—pray seek it—
I will but stay thee to inquire once more
If any symptom of returning health
Bless the wan city?
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No—the perishing
Lift up their painful heads to bless thy name,
And their eyes kindle as they utter it;
But still they perish.
ION.
So!—give instant order,
The rites which shall confirm me in my throne
Be solemnized to-morrow.
AGENOR.
How! so soon,
While the more sacred duties to the dead
Remain unpaid?
ION.
Let them abide my time—
They will not tarry long. I see thee gaze
With wonder on me—do my bidding now,
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The night will chill thee else.
AGENOR.
Farewell, my lord!
[Exit.
ION.
Now all is stillness in my breast—how soon
To be displaced by more profound repose,
In which no thread of consciousness shall live
To feel how calm it is!—O lamp serene,
Do I lift up to thee undazzled eyes
For the last time? Shall I enjoy no more
Thy golden haziness which seem'd akin
To my young fortune's dim felicity?
And when it coldly shall embrace the urn
That shall contain my ashes, will not one
Of all the fancies cherish'd by thy beams
Awake to tremble with them? Vain regret!
The pathway of my duty lies in sunlight,
And I would tread it with as firm a step,
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As if Elysian pleasures at its close
Gleam'd palpable to sight as things of earth.
Who passes there?
Enter Phocion behind, who strikes at Ion with a dagger.
PHOCION.
This to the king of Argos.
[Ion struggles with him, seizes the dagger, which he throws away.]
ION.
I will not fall by thee, poor wavering novice
In the assassin's trade!—thy arm is feeble—
[He confronts Phocion.
Phocion!—was this well aim'd? thou didst not mean—
PHOCION.
I meant to take thy life, urged by remembrance
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ION.
And couldst thou think
I had forgotten?
PHOCION.
Thou!
ION.
Couldst thou believe
That one whose nature had been arm'd to stop
The life-blood's current in a fellow's veins
Would hesitate when gentler duty turn'd
His steel to nearer use? To-morrow's dawn
Shall see me wield the sceptre of our line;
Come, watch beside my throne, and, if I fail
In sternest duty which my country needs,
My bosom will be open to thy dagger
As now to thy embrace!
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Thus let me fall
Low at thy feet, and kneeling here receive
Forgiveness; do not crush with more love
Than lies in the word “pardon.”
ION.
And that word
I will not speak;—what have I to forgive?
A devious fancy, and a muscle raised
Obedient to its impulse! Dost thou think
That in this moment's error are effaced
The tracings of a thousand kindnesses
Which taught me all I guess'd of brotherhood?
PHOCION.
I cannot look upon thee; let me go
And lose myself in darkness.
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Nay, old playmate,
We part not thus—the duties of my state
Will shortly end our fellowship; but spend
A few glad minutes with me. Dost remember
How in a night like this we climb'd yon walls
Two vagrant urchins, and with tremulous joy
Skimm'd through these statue-border'd walks that gleam'd
In bright succession? Let us tread them now;
And think we are but older by a day,
And that the pleasant walk of yesternight
We are to-night retracing. Come, my friend!—
What drooping yet—thou wert not wont to seem
So stubborn—cheerily, my Phocion—come!
[Exeunt.
| Ion | |