University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

TIME.—THE MORNING OF THE SECOND DAY.
[The Terrace of the Palace.]
[Two Soldiers on guard.]
1 SOLDIER.
A stirring season, comrade! our new prince
Has leap'd as eagerly into his seat
As he had languish'd an expectant heir
Weary of nature's kindness to old age.
He was esteem'd a modest stripling;—strange
That he should, with unusual hurry, seize
The gaudy shows of power.

2 SOLDIER.
'Tis honest nature;
The royal instinct was but smouldering in him,
And now it blazes forth. I pray the gods
He may not give us cause to mourn his sire.

1 SOLDIER.
No more; he comes.

[Enter Ion.]
ION.
Why do ye loiter here?
Are all the statues deck'd with festal wreaths
As I commanded?

1 SOLDIER.
We have been on guard
Here by Agenor's order since the nightfall.

ION.
On guard! Well, hasten now and see it done;
I need no guards.
[Exeunt Soldiers.
The awful hour draws near;
I am composed to meet it.—Phocion comes.
His presence, once so welcome, will unman me,
And yet I must not vex his generous soul
With thought that he has ruffled mine.
[Enter Phocion.]
Good morrow!
Thou play'st the courtier early.

PHOCION.
Canst thou speak
In that old tone of common cheerfulness,
That falsely promises delightful years,
And hold thy mournful purpose?

ION.
I have drawn
From the selectest fountain of repose
A blessed calm;—when I lay down to rest
I fear'd lest bright remembrances of childhood
Should with untimely visitation mock me;
But I have slept a deep and dreamless slumber,
And rose refresh'd; if sight of thee revives
Too thrilling images of joyous life,
Yet think not that I blame the love that wakes them.

PHOCION.
O cherish them, and let them plead with thee
To grant my prayer,—that thou wouldst live for Argos,
Not die for her;—thy gracious life shall win
More than thy death the favour of the gods,
And charm the marble aspect of grim fate
Into a blessed change; I, who am vow'd,
And who so late was arm'd fate's minister,
Implore thee!

ION.
Speak to me no more of life;
There is a dearer name that I would utter—
Thou understand'st me—

Enter Agenor.
AGENOR.
Thou hast forgot to name
Who shall be bidden to this evening's feast?

ION.
The feast!—most true; I had forgotten it.
Bid whom thou wilt; but let there be large store,
If our sad walls contain it, for the wretched
Whom hunger palsies. It may be few else
Will taste it with a relish.
[Exit Agenor.
[Ion resumes his address to Phocion, and continues it, broken by the interruptions which follow.]
I would speak
A word of her who yester-morning rose
To her light duties with as blithe a heart
As ever yet its equal beating veil'd
In moveless alabaster;—plighted now,
In liberal hour, to one whose destiny
Shall freeze the sources of enjoyment in it,
And make it heavy with the life-long pang
A widow'd spirit bears!—

Enter Cleon.
CLEON.
The heralds wait
To learn the hour at which the solemn games
Shall be proclaim'd.

ION.
The games!—yes, I remember
That sorrow's darkest pageantries give place
To youth's robustest pastimes—death and life
Embracing:—at the hour of noon.

CLEON.
The wrestlers
Pray thee to crown the victor.

ION.
If I live,
Their wish shall govern me.
[Exit Cleon.
Could I recall
One hour, and bid thy sister think of me
With gentle sorrow as a playmate lost,
I should escape the guilt of having stopp'd
The pulse of hope in the most innocent soul
That ever passion ruffled. Do not talk
Of me as I shall seem to thy kind thoughts,
But harshly as thou canst, and if thou steal
From thy rich store of popular eloquence
Some bitter charge against the faith of kings,
'Twill be the gentlest treason.

Enter Cassander.
CASSANDER.
Pardon me,
If I entreat thee to permit a few
Of thy once cherish'd friends to bid thee joy
Of that which swells their pride.

ION.
They'll madden me.—
Dost thou not see me circled round with care?
Urge me no more.
[As Cassander is going, Ion leaves Phocion and comes to him.]
Come back, Cassander! see
How peevish greatness makes me. Keep this ring—
It may remind thee of the pleasant hours
That we have spent together, ere our fortunes
Grew separate: and with thy gracious speech
Excuse me to our friends.

[Exit Cassander.
PHOCION.
'Tis time we seek
The temple.

ION.
Phocion! must I to the temple?

PHOCION.
There sacrificial rites must be perform'd
Before thou art enthroned.

ION.
Then I must gaze
On things which will awake the rebel thoughts
I had subdued—perchance may meet with her
Whose name I dare not utter. I am ready.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Temple.
CLEMANTHE, ABRA.
ABRA.
Be comforted, dear lady,—he must come
To sacrifice.

CLEMANTHE.
Recall that churlish word,
That stubborn “must,” that bounds my living hopes,
As with an iron circle. He must come!
How piteous is affection's state that cleaves
To such a wretched prop! I had flown to him
Long before this, but that I fear'd my presence
Might prove a burthen,—and he sends no word,
No token that he thinks of me! Art sure
That he must come? The hope has torture in it;
Yet it is all my bankrupt heart has left
To feed upon.

ABRA.
I see him now with Phocion
Pass through the inner court.

CLEMANTHE.
He will not come
This way, then, to the place of sacrifice.
I can endure no more: speed to him, Abra,
And bid him, if he holds Clemanthe's life
Worthy a minute's loss, to seek me here.

ABRA.
Dear lady—

CLEMANTHE.
Do not answer me, but run,
Or I shall give yon crowd of sycophants
To gaze upon my sorrow.
[Exit Abra.
It is hard,
Yet I must strive to bear it, and find solace
In that high fortune which has made him strange.
He bends this way—but slowly—mournfully.
O, he is ill, and I have done him wrong,
Forgetting all that he has dared and suffer'd!

Enter Ion.
ION.
What wouldst thou with me, lady?

CLEMANTHE.
Is it so?
Nothing, my lord, save to implore thy pardon,
That the departing gleams of a bright dream,
From which I scarce had waken'd, made me bold
To crave a word with thee;—but all are fled—
And I have nought to stay thee for. Thy friends
Expect thee.

ION.
'Twas indeed a goodly dream;
But thou art right to think it was no more,
And struggle to forget it.

CLEMANTHE.
To forget it!
O no; I cannot struggle to forget
What, being past, will be my only future,
All I shall live for; do not grudge it me,
I will not steal it long.

ION.
Pray, do not speak
In tone so mournful, for thou makest me feel
Too sensibly the hapless wretch I am,
That troubled the deep quiet of thy soul
In that pure fountain which reflected heaven,
For a brief taste of rapture.

CLEMANTHE.
Dost thou yet
Esteem it rapture then? My foolish heart,
Be still! Yet wherefore should a crown divide us?
O, my dear Ion!—let me call thee so
This once at least—it could not in my thoughts
Increase the distance that there was between us
When thou, in soul beyond the wealth of kings,
Seem'd a poor foundling.

ION.
It must separate us!
Think it no harmless bauble, but a curse
Will freeze the current in the veins of youth,
And from familiar touch of genial hand,
From household pleasures, from sweet daily tasks,
From airy thought free wanderer of the heavens,
For ever banish me!

CLEMANTHE.
May not thy state
Have some unnoticed shelter mid its folds
For love to make its nest in?

ION.
Not for me;
My pomp must be most lonesome, far removed
From that sweet fellowship of human kind
The slave rejoices in: my solemn robes
Shall wrap me as a panoply of ice,
And the attendants who may throng around me
Shall want the flatteries which may basely warm
The sceptral thing they circle. Dark and cold
Stretches the path which when I wear the crown
I needs must enter:—the great gods forbid
That thou shouldst follow in it!

CLEMANTHE.
O unkind!
And shall we never see each other?

Ion.
[After a pause.]
Yes!
I have ask'd that dreadful question of the hills
That look eternal; of the flowing streams
That lucid flow for ever; of the stars,
Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit
Hath trod in glory: all were dumb; but now,
While I thus gaze upon thy living face,
I feel the love that kindles through its beauty
Can never wholly perish:—we shall meet
Again, Clemanthe!

CLEMANTHE.
Bless thee for that name;
Pray, call me so again; thy words sound strangely,
Yet they breathe kindness, and I'll drink them in
Though they destroy me. Shall we meet indeed?
Think not I would intrude upon thy cares,
Thy councils, or thy pomps;—to sit at distance,
To weave, with the nice labour which preserves
The rebel pulses even, from gay threads
Faint records of thy deeds, and sometimes catch
The falling music of a gracious word,
Or the stray sunshine of a smile, will be
Comfort enough:—do not deny me this;
Or if stern fate compel thee to deny,
Kill me at once!

ION.
No; thou must live, my fair one:
There are a thousand joyous things in life,
Which pass unheeded in a life of joy
As thine hath been, till breezy sorrow comes
To ruffle it; and daily duties paid
Hardly at first, at length will bring repose
To the sad mind that studies to perform them.
Thou dost not mark me.

CLEMANTHE.
O, I do! I do!

ION.
If for thy brother's and thy father's sake
Thou art content to live, the healer Time
Will reconcile thee to the lovely things
Of this delightful world,—and if another,
A happier—no, I cannot bid thee love
Another!—I did think I could have said it,
But 'tis in vain.

CLEMANTHE.
Thou art mine own then still?

ION.
I am thine own! thus let me clasp thee; nearer;
O joy too thrilling and too short!

Enter Agenor.
AGENOR.
My lord,
The sacrificial rites await thy presence.

ION.
I come.—One more embrace—the last, the last
In this world! Now farewell!

[Exit.
CLEMANTHE.
The last embrace!
Then he has cast me off!—no,—'tis not so;
Some mournful secret of his fate divides us;
I'll struggle to bear that, and snatch a comfort
From seeing him uplifted. I will look
Upon him in his throne; Minerva's shrine
Will shelter me from vulgar gaze; I'll hasten,
And feast my sad eyes with his greatness there!

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Great Square of the City—on one side a throne of state prepared,—on the other an altar,—the statues hung with garlands.
Enter Ctesiphon and Cassander.
CTESIPHON.
Do not vex me by telling me, Cassander,
Of his fair speech; I prize it at its worth:
Thou'lt see how he will act when seated firm
Upon the throne the craven tyrant fill'd,
Whose blood he boasts, unless some honest arm
Should shed it first.

CASSANDER.
Hast thou forgot the time
When thou thyself delighted to foretell
His manhood's glory from his childish virtues?
Let me not think thee one of those fond prophets,
Who are well pleas'd still to foretell success,
So it remain their dream.

CTESIPHON.
Thou dost forget
What has chill'd fancy and delight within me—
[Music at a distance.
Hark!—servile trumpets speak his coming—watch,
How power will change him.

[They stand aside.
The Procession. Enter Medon, Agenor, Phocion, Timocles, Cleon, Sages and People; Ion last, in royal robes. He advances amidst shouts, and speaks.
ION.
I thank you for your greetings—Shout no more,
But in deep silence raise your hearts to Heaven,
That it may strengthen one so young and frail
As I am, for the business of this hour.
Must I sit here?

MEDON.
Let me, thy earliest friend,
Whom thou hast honour'd with the name of father,
Conduct thee to thy throne;—and thus fulfil
My fondest vision.

ION.
Thou art still most kind—

MEDON.
Nay, do not think of me—my son! my son!
Thou art deadly pale, when thou shouldst share the joy
Thou wilt bestow on Argos.

ION.
Am I pale?
It is a solemn office—yet thus aided,
With great Apollo's blessing, I embrace it.
[Sits on the throne.
Stand forth, Agenor!

AGENOR.
I await thy will.

ION.
To thee I look as to the wisest friend
Of this afflicted people;—may I ask thee,
Forsaking the dear quiet of thy age,
To rule our councils; fill the seats of justice,
Too long abused, with men as little frail
As men can be who know what frailty is;
And order my sad country.

AGENOR.
Pardon me—

ION.
Nay, I will promise thee to ask no more;
Thou never yet refused me what I sought
In boyish wantonness, and shalt not grudge
Thy strength and wisdom to me now. Remember
Thou hast all power from me, here or abroad,
Alive or dead.

AGENOR.
Dead! I am old, my Lord.

ION.
Death is not jealous of thy mild decay,
And will not hasten it;—the sight of youth
Inspires its icy finger to be quick,
And grasp its prey in noontide. Let me see
The captain of the guard.

CRYTHES.
Thy humblest servant
Implores thy favour as the friend of him
Whose rightful heir thou art.

ION.
I cannot thank thee,
That wakest the memory of my father's weakness,
But I will not forget that thou hast shared
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit,
And learn'd the need of luxury. I grant
For thee and thy brave comrades, ample share
Of such rich treasure as the palace holds,
To grace thy passage to some distant land,
Where, if thy valour seek an honest cause,
I wish thee glorious victories; but here
We shall not need thee longer.

CRYTHES.
Dost intend
To banish the firm troops before whose valour
Barbarian millions tremble, and to leave
Our city naked to the first assault
Of reckless foes?

ION.
No, Crythes!—in ourselves,
In our own honest hearts and chainless hands
Will be our safeguard;—every freeborn child
Shall be prepared to guard his country's peace
By well-nerved arm, nor ask for her defence
One selfish passion, or one venal sword.
I would not grieve thee;—but thy valiant troop,
For I esteem them valiant—must no more
With luxury which suits a desperate camp
Infect us. See that this be done, Agenor,
Ere night.

CRYTHES.
My Lord—

ION.
No more—my word is pass'd.
Medon, there is no office I can add
To those thou hast grown old in; thou wilt guard
The shrine of Phœbus, and within thy home—
Thy most delightful home—befriend the stranger
As thou didst me;—there thou wilt sometimes think
On thy spoil'd inmate.

MEDON.
Think of thee, my Lord?
We shall revere thee in thy glorious reign—

ION.
No more of that. Argives! there is a boon
I fain would crave of you;—when I am dust,
Be gentle to the memory of my father,
For ye who saw him in his full blown pride
Knew little of the inward man, nor guess'd
The wrongs which frenzied him; yet not again
Let the great interests of the state depend
Upon the thousand chances that may sway
A piece of human frailty; swear to me
That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves
The means of sovereignty:—our narrow space,
So beautiful, so bounded, so compact,
Needs not the magic of a single name
Which wider regions may require to draw
Their interests into one; but, circled in
Like a bless'd family by simple laws,
May tenderly be govern'd; all degrees
Blent into one harmonious frame may glow
A living form of beauty, free to smile
In generous peace, or flash with courage bright,
If tyranny should threaten. Swear to me
That ye will do this!

MEDON.
Wherefore ask this now?—
Thou shalt live long;—thy face, that late so pale
Appall'd me, now is flush'd with radiant joy,
And speaks a reign of glory.

ION.
Looks, alas!
May prove deceitful. Promise, if I leave
No issue, that the sovereign power shall live
In the affections of the people's soul,
And in our sages' wisdom.

MEDON
and others.
We will swear it!

ION.
Hear and record the oath, immortal powers!
Now give me leave a moment to approach
That altar unattended.
[He goes to the altar.
Gracious gods!
In whose mild service my glad youth was spent,
Look on me now;—and if there is a Power,
As at this solemn time I feel there is,
Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes
The spirit of the beautiful that lives
In earth and heaven;—to ye I offer up
This conscious being, full of life and love
For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow
End all her sorrows!
[Stabs himself, and falls. Ctesiphon rushes to catch him.]
Ctesiphon, thou art
Avenged, and wilt forgive me.

CTESIPHON.
Thou hast pluck'd
The poor disguise of hatred from my soul,
And made me feel how low and base a thing
Is vengeance. Could I die to save thee!

Clemanthe rushes forward.
CLEMANTHE.
Hold!
Let me support him—stand away—indeed
I have best right, although ye know it not,
To cling to him in death.

ION.
This is a joy
I did not hope for—this is sweet indeed.—
Bend thine eyes on me!

CLEMANTHE.
And for this it was
Thou wouldst have weaned me from thee! Couldst thou think
I would be so divorced?

ION.
Thou art right, Clemanthe,—
It was a shallow and an idle thought;
'Tis past; we have no show of coldness now,
No vain disguise, my girl. Yet thou wilt think
On that which, in my feigning, I said truly—
Wilt thou not, sweet one?

CLEMANTHE.
I will treasure all.

Enter Irus.
IRUS.
I bring you glorious tidings—Ha! no joy
Can enter here.

ION.
Yes—is it as I hope?

IRUS.
The pestilence abates.

Ion.
[Springs to his feet.]
Do ye not hear?
Why shout ye not?—ye are strong—think not of me;
Hearken! the curse my ancestry had spread
O'er Argos is dispell'd!—Agenor, give
This gentle youth his freedom, who hath brought
Sweet tidings that I shall not die in vain—
And Medon! cherish him as thou hast one
Who dying blesses thee;—my own Clemanthe!
Let this console thee—Argos lives again—
The offering is accepted—all is well!

[Dies.