University of Virginia Library

[Before the rising of the curtain a sound of shouting is heard, and as it rises a crowd of Corinthian citizens is discovered clamouring before the doors of the house of Pelias. Some are armed, and women carrying babes are amongst them.]
Phorcos.
Pelias, Pelias, descend and help us!
Tarry not still within, to all denied,
Nursing an ancient wrath! Lo! we are come
To pray thee lay aside thy bitterness,
And lead us forth again as in old days
Against the Spartan who is at our gates.
The flying rumour of thy splendid name
Shall hearten all our friends, and shake our foes.
Hearken, grey warrior, withering within
In cold estrangement! Thou and thou alone
Canst smite the enemy and save our hearths;
Arise, then, as of old and lead us forth!
Hear us, great Pelias!

Crowd.
Hear us, Pelias!
Pelias, hear us!

[Pelias slowly comes out on to the steps of his house, where he stands.
Pelias.
What would ye with me?

Crowd.
Deliver us from the Spartan, Pelias!

Pelias.
You men of Corinth, on five desperate fields
This arm hath propped your city which else had fallen;
Five times in battle I delivered you.
Yet have ye suffered me to linger on
In penury, for home this rotting manse,
Which the dank ivy eats; and here I droop
Discarded to the grave. Yet, now behold,
Ye have remembered Pelias at last!
Why? For the Spartan batters at your gates.
In your prosperity I may decay,
But in your danger ye would seek me out,
Return; defend the city as ye can,
For Pelias will lead you nevermore.
To-morrow, too, my daughter Iole
Weds young Laomedon, and leaves my house
Twice desolate: this night then of all nights
I would not quit my child were Corinth falling.

[He makes as though to go in.]
An Old Man.
On many a fierce field, Pelias, at thy side
Have I not fought? Hast thou forgot my face?

Pelias.
No, I remember thee.

Old Man.
Remember, then,
How thy dead wife did love this city, how
Here she was born, and here she wedded thee.
Would she not urge thee once more to the field
Fearing the doom of her belovéd towers,
And walls and olden winding ways of home?
For her sake, not for ours, come down and help us!
[A shout of triumph is heard from the wall.]
Hark, how the Spartan triumphs!

Crowd.
Pelias,
Pelias, help us!

Pelias
[moved].
Not for Corinth then,
But for one buried woman I do here
Repent. [Cries of joy.]
But I will question first the goddess
If I shall prosper in the shock of spears.
[He goes and stands on the steps of the temple.]
Goddess, vouchsafe me answer: If I go
Forth to the battle, shall I save the city,
[The Priestess appears.]
Or is the doom of Corinth fallen on her?

Priestess.
Thus saith the goddess, queen of the wide heavens,
“Hear, Pelias! If thou goest forth to battle,
Thou shalt deliver the city with thy sword.
[Great shout of joy.]
But one thing is required of thee: that thou,
When thou returnest bright from victory,
Shalt slay in sacrifice whatever first
Shall meet thee coming forth out of thy doors.”

Pelias.
That shall not trouble me.
[Another shout from the wall.]
Bring forth my armour.
[His armour is brought and is quickly put upon him: lastly Iole enters bearing his helmet, which she places on his head amid loud cries of joy.]
My child, my only child, abide within.
I go to beat the Spartan from our gates.
Kiss me. Now, friends, unto the reeling wall!
Who follows Pelias, who then?

[He rushes off surrounded by cheering crowd. Iole stands gazing after him. Enter Laomedon and his mother with attendants. During the dialogue the light slowly wanes.
Laomedon
Iole!

Iole.
Laomedon!

Laomedon.
What tumult this and cry
About your quiet house?

Iole.
The citizens
Crying upon my father to descend
And hurl him on the Spartan.

Laomedon.
Hath he gone?

Iole.
This moment hath he burst into the battle.

Laomedon.
And I have from the battle held aloof,
Incurring public enmity: since I
Stood by him in his wrath against the city.
My mother—

[He goes up.
Iole.
And mine too [going to Leucippe]
.

Leucippe.
My child, I came
But for a moment with Laomedon,
To say that all things wait you in our house
Burnished and clean, and all the rooms are bright
With sparkling silver and with glowing gold.
And everywhere in vases and in bowls
In slow thought have I set your favourite flower;
And you, where'er you stray about the house,
Shall be surprised from window and from nook
By sudden sweetness on the winding stair;
Long silken robes are smoothed and spread for you,
And olden jewels lighting inner glooms.
So shall you come to us, beautiful child,
Not as a stranger mazéd in strange halls,
But to a home indeed. I pass away.

Iole.
No, no!

Leucippe.
Well, then, I yield authority.
I wonder, child, if you can love my boy
As I have done—I cannot think it—ah!
I know your love how deep—but can it be
Made up as mine is of so many prayers,
Such breathéd heaven, and sighed futurity,
Then solitary tears, and quaking thoughts?
It cannot be. And yet of all good things
That might befall him, this I most had hoped
That he should choose for him e'en such a wife.

Iole.
With all my heart and blood and breath I love him.

Leucippe.
I know it; but you cannot understand
How difficult it seems to this grey heart,
Wearied, and making now no newer friends,
Only a few and faithful keeping now,
And therefore wrapped and folded up in him,
At last to yield him to thy fresher youth,
A dying tree unto a springing flower!
And—ah, I know it—were he torn between
Us two, he would obey the younger voice,
Stranger and sweeter. Now forgive these tears.
Old age will ever for itself repine.
I must return—to-morrow [kissing her]
.

Iole.
Ah, to-morrow!

[They embrace. Exit Leucippe with attendants.
Laomedon
[coming down].
What hath my mother said that makes thee pale?

Iole.
Nothing—but for my father am I pale.
I wish he had not melted to that cry.
If anything befell him on this night—
This night of all we should not now be wrought
To apprehensions, but together clasped,
Dreaming against the red orb of the sun,
Silent in deep thoughts of the life to be.

Laomedon.
That lovely life that quivers even now
In unseen daybreak!

Iole.
And in Eastern clouds
Beginning to be rosy for our sake.

Laomedon.
And soon the moon shall come, and soon the stars!

Iole.
And moon and stars shall fade into that day.
I think to-night shall come a hush in heaven,
And all the air be awed before our bliss,
And children shall awaken in the stillness
Asking why such a silence holds the earth.

Laomedon.
There shall be music, too, for ears that hear it!

Iole.
And low, sweet voices of the younger gods;

Laomedon.
Meetings of spirits amid moony forests;

Iole.
And risings of plunged lovers from the deep.
And as I dream the gods shall come to me,
Silent, and bringing splendours to my room
Like strange gifts laid out for a sleeping child.
Yet while so many suffer on the earth
We are so glad. Are we too glad?

Laomedon.
Too glad?

Iole.
Tell me when first thy heart confessed this love
Wert idle or busy when the sweet news came?

Laomedon.
Ah, who shall say? “That moment broke the dawn,
That moment sprang a star upon the air!”
When I was quickened, in my mother's womb,
I dimly sought thee with unopened eyes,
And when I wailed to live, I wanted thee.
And when I grew, and grieved, and loved the Past,
Beautiful women from sea-legends thronged
Round thee, and looked on me from out those eyes.

Iole.
Those then it was whom thou didst love, not me.

Laomedon.
No; but I mingled thee with stories old.

Iole.
I have about my spirit in the sunset
A sense of opening and unfolding things,
Wild wonder—and that joy that sends the lark
Shuddering through azure into Elysium.
And yet—my father—

Laomedon.
Be not, Iole,
Troubled to-night.

Iole.
If he were safe returned—
[She goes to the steps of the temple.]
Strong Goddess! Out of heaven incline thine ear
To my beseeching, that my father come
Safe from the battle. Here we stand, we two,
In such deep happiness as streams but once
On mortals: he to-morrow leads me home.
Then suffer no unlucky thing to mar
This marriage hanging in a summer dawn!
This perfect human frail felicity!
I will go in now, having prayed, to await him.
The timbrel shall be struck and we will dance,
That when he runs in triumph from the war
I too, his child, shall clasp him triumphing.
Farewell a little while.

Laomedon.
A little while.

[Exit Iole.
Laomedon.
[Gazing on the setting sun.]
O, thou descending glory! Shed on me,
And upon her thy blessing from the west.
And when thou dost regild the eastern wave,
Stream with a special splendour on us two,
Or fall in silent kindness on our heads!
[A cry is heard from the wall, and a citizen rushes on, covered with dust.]
What is that cry?

Citizen.
Victory, victory!
See! Pelias comes in triumph from the wall,
Borne hither glorying with uplifted sword!
The Spartan flies, and all his dead are left.

[Another cry, louder and nearer.
Laomedon.
I'll steal within the shadow, and behold
Father and daughter in one triumph clasped.

[Various Soldiers and Citizens rush on, shouting; at last a concourse bearing Pelias in their midst. As he approaches his house the doors are thrown open from within and Iole and her maidens come dancing down

---

140

the steps, playing on timbrels. Pelias suddenly reels backwards with a cry.
Pelias.
Thou—thou!

A Citizen.
He reels—uphold him lest he fall!

Another.
Some wound, in the hot fight unnoted, now
O'ercomes him.

Another.
All stand from him—give him space!

Pelias.
[Slowly recovering, while Iole and Laomedon bend over him.]
Here am I broken, friends; depart from me!
For that which it has come on me to do
I can do best alone. But, Iole!
Stay thou—Yes, yes, and thou, Laomedon!
Ye two with me in this thing are concerned.

Phorcos.
Then reassure all these ere they depart,
Thou art not wounded.

Pelias.
No—not in their sense!

Phorcos.
Awhile we leave thee, then, but will return
Bearing for thee the crown of victory.

[The crowd slowly goes off, murmuring.
Pelias.
Children, the dreadful words which I must speak
I will speak briefly. When I sought the goddess
If I should prosper in the shock of spears,
Thus did she answer me: “Hear, Pelias!
Thou shalt deliver the city with thy sword.
But one thing is required of thee: that thou,
When thou returnest bright from victory,
Shalt slay in sacrifice whatever first
Shall meet thee coming forth out of thy door.”
And thou, my daughter, thou hast met me first.
This, goddess, then, dost thou require of me,
That I who saved the city shall slay my child.

Laomedon.
Surely this thing shalt not be done in Corinth!
While I have breath and blood in me I cry
“This shall not be!” I care not for the gods,
Nor god, nor goddess in this dear extreme.
What justice is in this—what law? what right?
That thou, because thou hast delivered Corinth,
Must therefore turn the sword on thine own child!
And she—what hath she done that she must die?
She is too great a price to pay for Corinth.
Not all the rearéd cities of the world
Are worth the smallest drop of blood in her.
Strange priest, whose victim is thy only child.

Pelias.
Spare thy wild words!

Laomedon.
Remember, too, that thou,
In slaying her, shalt slay me too with her.
Thinkst thou I could survive that death of deaths,
Or linger in a glimmer after her,
The world a body whence the soul hath fled?
And this shall kill my mother in her halls,
Who waits to lay a daughter on her heart.
How empty those old arms to-morrow morn!
And thou shalt dash that fair futurity
Built by us two adream in a cold world,
The holy language of unsundered souls,
The steady bliss, or sorrow bravely shared.
For when I take in mine thy daughter's hand,
I loose it not till the last numbness. Then
Wilt thou destroy this fair imagined life,
Conceived with dim eyes under many stars,
With silence, or with whisper beautiful?
I call upon thee to withstand the gods.
Here I, Laomedon, do cry aloud
There is no justice in the hollow heaven!
But if, old man, thou wilt not fight the gods,
I will withstand thee ere thou dost this thing,
Ere thou shalt touch that bosom with the steel,
I, loving thee, will slay thee with my hands

Pelias.
Son, do thy words make easier this deed?
I would I saw some way to evade the doom;
And yet, which way I look, it seems that I
Must pay for victory the price required.
For how shall blind and transitory things
Argue the wisdom that directs the sun,
And sees beyond all winds a windless west?
And yet—and yet—how should I gird myself
With priestly stroke to spill the blood I gave?
I who have lain in trouble through the night,
Had I but spoken a swift word to her,
Clouding a moment her transparent life,
She is more close to me than any child;
The woman I did love so leaves in her
Much of herself, remembered of all men,
Smiles in her smile, and kisses me anew.
The girl hath old soft ways and moods of her,
And in her moving, too, the deep slight charm.
If I shall slay her, I slay two in one!
How holy art thou then, so filled with her!
And by this death I touch thee, and thy mother,
Who waits with wistful thought within thy halls;
And last, that fair imagined mutual life,
And the long melody of mingled souls
Silenced! And I too, having done this thing,
How shall it aid me in my hollow home,
How shall it comfort me when rain begins
At early eve, that I did save the city?
Shall it make up to me for loss of her
That I shall hear behind me where I walk
Strange voices murmuring praise; or stand acclaimed
Wearing their crown, her blood upon my hand?
Rather let death upon the dying fall!
Goddess, since this my victory demands
Death, and no less a price; suffer thou me,
Who conquered, so to die! Is not my blood,
Albeit old and pale, acceptable?
Or must that crimson fountain spout for thee?
I wait thy word to fall upon my sword,
Myself to atone for my own victory.
Answer me, goddess! answer!
[A pause.]
She is dumb!

Iole.
Father, and thou belovéd, hear me speak!
When first I heard thy dreadful words I stood
Amazed, and slowly the full drift perceived:
Thou, having saved the city, must slay thy child.
Then said I to myself, “How should I die?
How should my father with those very hands
That lifted me with laughter o'er his head,
And pulled my face back for the perfect kiss,
Strike through my heart? I am his only child;
No brother have I, nor sister, and my mother
Under my gathered roses lies asleep.
I am the sole companion of his life,
And he will sit most lonely if I leave him.”
When I no more shall sing to thee at even,
Father, or touch the strings in falling light,
Or ask thee of my mother in the dusk,
Bringing relief to thee to speak of her,
And ease with spoken words the dwelling mind.
And it would grieve me in the ground to think
That this white head unkindly might be used.
First of thy loneliness I thought, my father.
Then thou, ah! thou, upon the edge of bliss
And yearning but for red clouds in the east,
Suddenly dashed! But no! I cannot speak
Of what lies warm and hushed between us two.
Dearest, if this come not to pass, be silent:
It was too beautiful now to recall.
Indeed, I cannot well believe that thou
Could'st take life up again where I had left it,
Still feeling vainly for a little hand.
We have so grown together thou could'st not,
Torn clean away, go bleeding on alone.
Last of myself I thought—how hard to die!
For had I been a babe that just beholds
The light, sweet chuckling, and then loses breath,
It had not been so difficult; or had I
Endured remote and lone into old age,
Had faded from a garden to a grave,—
Passing without a tear into the stars.
But I all o'er am tingling for sweet life,
And all my blood is eager for the earth,
My heart wild with the wonder of the place.
Now suddenly to leave this purple light,
And go a ghost unto a birdless grove;
Aye to remember under grieving boughs,
With souls that rust by rim of rivers old,
Conveying ever downward the dry leaf!
And—in this hour there is no shame to say it—
I would have loved thine arms about me fast,
The thrilling kiss, and mastering clasp of thee,
And to surrender to thy smouldering touch,
Yielding my mystery in deep of night.
And I have that in me which deeply craves
For children, to bear sons unto my lord,
To bring lives like a vassal to my king,
To feel the gums of heroes at my breast,
And mighty poets drink their fill of me.
Then must I go imperfect to the dark
In tragic purity into the gloom,
Untouched into the region of the dead?
Yet, father, yet belovéd, there hath crept
Into mine ear a far and secret call;
A sweet, and a low, and yet a mighty voice,
I know not whence, that sayeth to me “Come!”
Something is touched within me from on high,
Nobler than care for thee, or love of thee,
Or holier wish for children, or desire
For the earth splendour; something that erenow
Hath urged to deeds whereof we reason not,
To deeds which bow the head and blind the eyes;
Mighty rejections of uplifted souls,
And sea-shore pyres and ever-ringing deaths,
And dooms that dazzle still from setting suns.
I of this cup it seems am capable.
Yet is there nothing in this hour of tears,
Nor have I the least quiver of the nerve;
How quiet is this heart that soon shall stop!
I feel that I am carried from the earth,
And lifted up, I know not by what hand;
Alcestis winds her arm about my waist,
And pale Iphigenia kisses me.
How large, too, is the manner of my death!
Behold I fall, but for a city saved,
Behold I die, but for a people freed!
Therefore am I prepared to take thy stroke
Even as kindly, father, as thy kiss.
But, O, with thee the anguish, not with me!
And yet recall that strong fleet loosing blow;
The priestly father and the victim child;
Remember Agamemnon, lord of men,
Who, as his daughter flowed unto the ground,
Felt on his neck the favourable breeze
Releasing all the sails in Aulis bay.
Take me within. And—since thou art a soldier—
Thou knowest where to strike me—here, is't not?
Once, and no more, that I may have no pain—
I know this death is nobler than all life.

[Pelias and Iole ascend the steps.
Laomedon.
Iole!

Iole
Ah belovéd, make no cry,
While we in silence take our last embrace!

[They pass into the house. The stage slowly darkens, there is a pause.
Laomedon.
Did she cry out then? No, she will not cry.
Still silence! And for me a blow self given!

[Exit.
[Citizens and others rush on with acclamation, calling the name of Pelias. Phorcos stands on the steps holding in his hands the crown of victory. Pelias comes slowly from within. There is a bloodstain on his hands and robe.
Pelias.
Friends, I would not intrude on public joy
A private grief, or general triumph jar
With single sorrow; one word will I speak,
Lifting these bloody hands unto the clouds,
Then go within. The gods, whom none may flout,
Decreed that if I should deliver Corinth,
Then should I sacrifice whatever first
Should meet me coming forth out of my doors.
Now she that met me first was my own child.
So, being young, I laid her on my arm,
And drove the sword at one stroke through her heart;
I do not think I gave her any pain.
This soil then on my hands and on my robe,
It is the life-blood of my only child.
I have no son, my wife is in her grave;
Therefore with lonely hands I take this crown
And place it as a conqueror on my brow.
And in the days to come, when I am cold,
Forget not, men of Corinth, that I saved,
Not without grief, this city and your homes.

[The crowd disperses in silence. Then the Priestess appears on the steps of the temple, she and Pelias gazing on each other as the curtain falls.