 | Pelopidas ; Or, The Deliverance of Thebes |  |
77
ACT IV.
Scene I.
—A room in the house of Charon.(Charon sits by a table, on which are many papers. His wife, Clymene, employed in embroidering, sits at the opposite end.)
Charon.
So, dear Clymene, train our little flower,
And he shall flourish;—shelter'd from the frosts
Of avarice,—ambition's feverish heats,—
Anger's fierce tempests;—free from all the blights
And sore diseases that false culturing
Brings on the pretty flowerets that we breed.—
And, for his pattern in all virtuous deeds,
His guide to wisdom,—often only reached
Thro' error's mazes, and misfortune's glooms,—
Still to Epaminondas turn his eye.
As on the dial's face we look, to know
How the blest sun is journeying through heaven,
So, on that noble Theban let him gaze,
To find bright Virtue's path. He will not err.
Clymene.
Dear Charon, let it be so.
Charon.
Briefly, thus
I'd have him fashion'd: gentle—but not tame;—
Wise—and yet modest;—firm—but never harsh;
Bold—but not violent;—of cheerful mind,—
Yet never heartless in his levity.—
Patient, to bear Heav'n's judgments—but like fire,
To snap the tyrant's bonds. Dost heed me, love?
Clymene.
Yes, Charon. Are you ill?
Charon.
No—
Clymene.
Is there aught
Of such a doubtful issue soon to be—
That you forecast the worst?
78
Why ask you that?
Clymene.
Nay, Charon—answer me.—Who are these guests—
Coming so secretly, and unawares?—
Why arms, and armour, in the dead of night
Brought, with a thief's soft foot-tread, to your house?—
I know it, Charon—and right well I know
'Tis for no boyish sport,—but some great act
Whose mightiness and scope you think too vast
For my poor mind to grapple with.—Dear Charon,
When have you found me weak like common wives?
When have I blabb'd the thing you would conceal?
When have I shrunk to bear what must be borne?
When have I fled the danger should be met?
If I deserve your trust—then give it me:—
If not—I ask no more.
Charon.
I would have spared
Thy bosom, dear Clymene, to the last,—
But thou wilt force me on.—Dost think this Thebes
Can writhe for ever underneath the lash,
And not essay to snatch the bloody scourge
From out the tyrant's hands?
Clymene.
I thought 'twas this.
Charon.
My story shall be brief. Twelve Theban Exiles—
Pelopidas the head, and heart of all—
Have sworn the tyrants' overthrow.—With them,
For life, or death,—for weal, or woe, I join.
To-day they come;—for them the meal's prepar'd;—
To-night they rest:—to-morrow will they strike.—
To-morrow Thebes shall live,—or we must die.
Clymene.
A fearful throw, dear Charon,—when the dice
Must turn up life, or death.
Charon.
We choose the risk.
See that your bearing in this exigence,
Belov'd Clymene!—hang no signal out
Of fear, or coming danger:—on your slaves
Impose no charge of secrecy:—be calm;
Yet rather gay, than grave. Our looks, and tones
79
Ere it can lisp;—a universal book
In which all ages, and all countries read:—
Dissimulation turns the leaf,—and points
The page it would have read. In this must we
Play false for our true end:—yet, with a look—
Remember this—as though we heeded not
If any read at all;—lest, anxiously
Pointing one page,—a wary eye take note,
And turn the leaf to read.
Clymene.
Hypocrisy,
Dear Charon, is a garment I've not worn,
And 'twill not fit me well. Yet I will try it.
When the storm comes, our robes are well enough
So they will keep the rain out.
Charon.
'Tis a cloak
Of magic web, that, on the giant's back,
Fits easily as on the smallest dwarf.—
Old age, and infancy;—the mean—the proud,—
The beggar—and the king;—the grave—the gay!—
The vestal,—and the prostitute!—the judge
O'er his furr'd robes,—the felon o'er his chains;—
The lawyer—and the client,—the smooth priest,—
And the rough soldier;—the wise-faced physician,
And his expiring patient—all—all wear it!
The father puts it on, when he exhorts
His son to temperance and chastity,
Unpractised by himself:—the son, too, wears it,
Hoping his sire shall reach a good old age,
That keeps him from his money, and his lands:—
Daughters and mothers;—brothers, sisters, wear it:—
'Tis worn in hovels, and in palaces:—
At the bright altar—in the fulsome stews,—
By day—by night—in sunshine, and in frost:—
We wrap it round the infant at its birth,—
We shroud the corpse beneath it;—and the grave
Hath it to deck its tombstone!
80
I could laugh,
But for far graver matter; to hear this.
Count all the slanders of thy life before,
And they will not match this one railing fit.
Thou art infected from thy natural health
By some tart snarler.—Talk no more of this;
But tell me how your friends shall pass the gates,
And walk the streets unknown.—Hath a calm eye
Read your design, and found it well cohere?—
It is a fearful game!
Charon.
But 'tis begun.—
And must be play'd to th' end. The stake is down,
And cannot be withdrawn.
Clymene.
And if it could,
I would not say—‘withdraw it.’—But, your friends—
Charon.
All is foreseen. They come not in a group;
But separate, at different gates;—with nets,
And hunting-poles, like sportsmen:—so you'll call them,
If any ask. With this disguise, and night,
Or evening's duskiness to wrap them in,
They will be safe.—Well now,—my pretty boy—
(Enter their little son)
Why have you left your play? Go—get thee gone;
But come and kiss me first.—What want you now?
Boy.
Oh, Papa! I saw little Polydarus this morning upon
such a beautiful little horse—and he says it's all his own—and
he's only six years old—and I shall be six next year—and I
should so like to have such a pretty little horse to gallop about
—and I'm sure you're a deal richer than Polydarus's papa
—and I shall never like to ride my nasty little wooden horse
any more, for it only jumps up and down and doesn't gallop
a bit.
Charon.
Well—well—my pretty horseman!—wait awhile:
The roads are rough and dangerous:—wait till spring;
Thou'lt then be older; and the mornings warm;
And, if I live, I'll buy thee such a horse:
81
In such a snow as this?—Go—get thy ways.—
They'd take thee for a snow-ball on thy horse.
Boy
(as he goes out).
Thank you, dear papa. I wish it was spring now.
[Exit.
Clymene.
I wish so, too, my boy;—then this fierce strife
Would one way have an end. Is there no port,
Dear Charon, where this little boat might lie,
While we ride out the storm? That prattling tongue
Hath done what orators had fail'd to do,—
Made me a trembling coward.
Charon.
Dear Clymene—
O'er anxious to avoid, we oft make danger.
The hare, in starting, draws the greyhound's eye,
Who had been safe, close sitting on her form.
Let him abide at home. Now, my dear wife,
For some two hours I must go forth. Look gay:
Let no one, from the clouds upon your brow,
Say there's a tempest near. All will go well.—
If Philidas return, say I am gone
On that we spake of last.
Clymene.
Is that staff sound?
Or, too much lean'd on, may it not break short,
And throw you headlong?
Charon.
There are many men
Whose fair exterior shews like firmest rock,
Whereon the hills might their foundations have;—
Yet hollow are within;—and at the last,
When all yon pile is rear'd, will sink away,
And whelm it in a gulf: but a true arch,
Beneath the heaviest load still firmest stands:—
And such is Philidas.
Clymene.
I say no more.
You are not rash, dear Charon,—choleric,—
Revengeful,—nor o'erfond to mix in broils;—
And therefore with a cold and wary thought
Would weigh the chances, ere for life, or death,
82
All doubts,—and trembling fears,—and do resign
Myself, and all that's dearer, to the Gods,—
To be as they decree.—Now shall your friends
See if my weakness shame your confidence.
Charon.
Belov'd Clymene, thanks.—A cheerful heart
Soars like an eagle o'er the precipice,
Where poor despair falls headlong.—The spear, thrown,
Will fall where it must fall, altho' with prayers
We deaf all heaven to turn its point aside:—
Our spear is thrown:—let's calmly watch it light.
And so, for two short hours,—sweet love, adieu!
(He embraces her.)
Clymene.
Adieu—adieu—dear Charon!
[Exit Charon.
I'm on a narrow plank,—above a gulf—
And must not look below,—or I shall fall.
Oh! my dear Charon!—and my sweetest boy!—
I cannot read what Time hath not yet written;
But the blank page doth blind me as I gaze,—
Fill'd thick with shadowy horrors!—I'll not look!—
Great Jove! into thy hand I give them up!
[Exit.
Scene II.
—A room in the house of Archias.(Enter Philidas and a Servant.)
Philidas.
Not risen yet! . . . you say? Why, 'tis past noon.
Is he not well?
Servant.
He revell'd late last night.
Philip was here, with several Theban lords,
That loved their liquor better than their beds.
'Twas day-break ere they left it.
Philidas.
Is he stirring?
Servant.
I think not, sir,—for Menon is not up.
He stays his master's hours:—my services
Are to the lady Thulia.
Philidas.
Is she well?
Servant.
She takes no physic, sir.
83
How in her mind?
Servant.
She seldom weeps,—and never makes complaint.
Indeed she talks to no one,—save to give
Her quiet thanks for our poor services:—
Scarce eats at all,—and is most pale and wasted.
Philidas.
Unhappy lady!—Go—let Archias know,
That I have spurr'd from Athens since the morning,
And wait him here.
Servant.
From Athens did you say?
Philidas.
From Athens.—And, good fellow, bring some wine;
I've had a bitter ride.
Servant.
'Tis very cold, sir.
(He places wine on the table.)
Philidas.
Why dost thou linger?
Servant.
Oh! forgive me, sir!
You know not who I am: but you I know
To be the friend of my dear master's friends,
And of his wretched widow.
Philidas.
What's thy name?
Servant.
My name is Clonius. On that dreadful day
When Leontidas, with his faction, drove
Pelopidas, and his, from Thebes—
Philidas.
I know it.—
Thou art the youth whom Androclides saved
From prison,—art thou not?
Clonius.
I am;—and oft
From this worse prison have I hoped to save
My most unhappy lady:—but, alas! . . .
Philidas.
I've heard of all thy faithfulness. Be sure
It shall have more than thanks. Go—tell her now
The sky is brightening;—bid her have good cheer;
The clouds will quickly pass.
Clonius.
'Twould please her, sir,
To hear it from yourself. I'll call her here,
And guard the door without.
84
Good Clonius—haste,—
Implore her come. Let Archias, too, be told
Of my arrival. (Exit Clonius.)
How the news I bring
Will make her heart leap up! And Thebes—Oh! Thebes!
Thine, too, must rouse,—or be for ever still!
(He pours out wine.)
(Thulia enters, attired in black.)
Philidas
(aside).
Oh! what a blight hath fallen on that flower!
(Aloud)
Dear lady!
Thulia.
Sir, you wish'd to speak to me.
You are from Athens:—have you seen our friends?
Philidas.
Dear lady!—sit.
Thulia.
I thank you, sir;—my strength
Shall bear me up through our short conference.
I pray you, sir, go on.
Philidas.
Our friends, dear lady—
Are well,—and full of hope:—and I have news
Shall comfort even you.
Thulia.
Tell the cold corpse
To wrap its grave-clothes round, to keep it warm,—
And then bid me take comfort!—But, go on:—
I feel for others;—for myself, am dead.
Philidas.
And yet the news I bring shall comfort you.
Thulia.
Go on, sir—pray you.
Philidas.
Lady—a great blow
Will fall erelong, whose consequence may be
Deliverance to yourself—and to all Thebes—
Thulia.
Oh God! be merciful! and speed that blow,—
So it be just!
Philidas.
I may not more declare,
How this shall be. Heaven, in its mercy, keeps
The future from our eyes,—or our great dooms
Would madden us to see them. And in this,
If in nought else, I'll copy the kind Gods.
85
Beyond that,—evil merely. Not to know
The ill may visit us,—is, not to see
The sharpening knife may cut us to the bone:—
Not to foreknow the good may chance to us—
Is—not to crave a fruit may be most sweet;—
Or may conceal a scorpion:—therefore, lady—
Thulia.
You are most kind, sir, and I thank you much.
If you have aught of moment else to say
I pray you tell it; for this conference stands
On a gulf's brink.
Philidas.
No, lady;—Clonius waits—
Our guard without the door. There is a thing
I have to tell;—that I would not but tell
For half this city's wealth:—and yet, when told,
'Twill shake you like a plague fit.
Thulia.
Pray, sir, tell it:
And see how harmless will your tempest blow
Upon my icy bosom.—Oh! you know not—
But, pray you, on sir.
Philidas.
When the sun is set,
Then come the freezing cold, and the black darkness,
And all the world seems dead.—But, when again
From the clear east he throws his golden fires,—
Darkness is gone;—the dead earth lives anew—
Dost thou conceive me, lady?
Thulia.
I know not
What thought you'd have me fashion from these words:
But you mean kindly, sir. My sun is set—
In the dark grave;—but never more shall rise
To bid me live!—Such settings have no dawn!
Philidas.
Yet, dearest lady—it hath sometimes chanced,
That, when we thought the bright orb gone below,
It hath but shrouded in some ebon cloud,
From which to burst in glory.—
Thulia
(after an earnest pause).
Either, sir,
With most false judgment, you would seek to rouse
86
Which were a grievous sin—or—tell me, sir—
I have a thought—Great God!—it cannot be—
(She seizes his hand.)
Tell—tell me—doth he—doth he—
Philidas.
Lady, pause.
Go not too far. Joy hath its drowning depths
As well as grief.
Thulia.
Speak—speak—my heart—my heart—
Mercy—for mercy speak—doth he—
Philidas.
He doth!
Thulia.
Ha!—speak his name—
Philidas.
Thy lord!—is—not—yet—dead—
Thulia.
Ha! ha!—not dead?—not dead?—did'st say not dead?
Philidas.
Yes, dearest lady: I did say not dead.
Thulia.
Art thou awake?—Am I not lunatic?—
Oh! burn me—cut me to the quick—not dead?—
My Androclides—is it he?
Philidas.
Yes—he.
I say he's not yet dead.
Thulia.
Not yet? not yet?
Where is he?—where?—Oh let me fly—where? where?—
Philidas.
Lady—be calm!
Thulia.
Where is he?—I must go—
Philidas.
Be patient, dearest lady.
Thulia.
Where's my lord?
My heart will burst—
Philidas.
In Athens is your lord—
And there you must not,—cannot go.
Thulia.
Oh God!
And he will die!—I will not be withheld—
(She rushes to the door.
Philidas.
He will not die,—unless you go to kill him.
87
How's that?—speak—speak—
Philidas.
I say he will not die
If this wild rashness slay him not. Be calm—
He is not ill—now start not, lady—force
Thy frenzied brain to reason.—Hear—and speak not.
The murderer's blow—
Thulia.
Ha!
Philidas.
Touch'd no vital part (a pause).
The wound is heal'd (a pause)
—his strength is come again (a pause)
—
Thou wilt behold him—
(During this last speech Thulia looks with a wild eagerness at Philidas—and remains silent and motionless after he has done;—and at last sinks upon the couch.)
(Enter Clonius.)
Clonius.
Menon is stirring, sir;—and comes, I fear,
This way.
Philidas.
Dear lady—haste you to your chamber;
Your tyrant will be here—for heav'n's sake—
(He endeavours in vain to rouse her.)
Clonius—
Open the door—I'll bear her to her room—
Wait you a moment here.
(He carries her off through the door at which she had entered.)
Clonius.
Poor lady! thou wilt soon go to thy rest!
Then Archias—then—look for thy punishment—
(Enter Philidas.)
Philidas.
Is it not strange how joy should mimic grief?
She's like a statue,—cold and bath'd in tears,
I've laid her on a couch. Go—send her women—
But speak no word of this.—
Ha! gentlemen—
88
Good-morrow to you both.
Leon. and Philip.
Good-morrow, sir.
Leon.
What news from Athens—gentle Philidas?
What of the Exiles?—
Philidas.
Set your minds at rest—
I have so urg'd their speedy banishment,
They'll have no home at Athens.—Nay, I marvel
If even this day they be not driven forth.
Leon.
Your zeal deserves our thanks,—and something more
That shall not be forgot.—Come with us now,
And, as we walk, we'll farther question you.
(Enter Archias, much disordered.)
All.
Good-morrow, Archias.
Archias.
Gentlemen, good-morrow.
I pray you sit.
Philip.
Yes, Archias;—but not here,
We go to sit in judgment. There's a crew
Of wealthy traitors for our morning's meal:—
We call to take you with us.
Archias.
My good friends—
I'm much disorder'd—but will follow you
With what swift haste I may.
Leon.
As your true friend
I tell you, Archias,—leave your midnight cups—
Your spicëd meats,—and perfumed concubines,—
Or you will rue it.
Archias.
Sir—you are most kind
To charge yourself with my poor private faults:
I know not how to thank you:—but, dear sir—
Let me entreat you,—be less cold, and stern—
Pray less—and offer fewer sacrifices—
And have more charity—and—
Leon.
Ha!—what's this?—
89
Ho! gentlemen,—for shame.—Nay—touch not steel:—
If, of our goodly tripod, two o' th' legs
Should break each other,—why the third must fall,
And all be shatter'd.—Speak no further word—
And think nought hath been spoken.—Archias—
You'll follow with all haste. Come—let's away—
Archias.
Leave Philidas an instant.
[Exeunt Leon. and Philip.
That proud lord
Misdeems himself a giant,—standing up
On his high self-conceit!—Oh Philidas!
I am made wretched with distemper'd dreams.
For ever at my bed there seems to stand
Pale Androclides, with his gaping heart
Spouting a flood.—I wake—and he is gone—
I sleep—he's there again.—What may it mean?
How came he by his death? hast ever heard?
Philidas.
Now by my faith! this is mere foolery.
Take physic, sir:—it is the body's ail
That thus infects the mind;—and, purging one,
You shall make sound the other.
Archias.
I do think
'Tis as thou say'st.—Here's for my physic then;
(Pouring out wine)
'Tis th' only drug. Is't not to-morrow night
We revel at your house?
Philidas.
To-morrow night—
Fail me,—and you shall miss such curious fare
As you shall marvel at.—
Archias.
What,—women?—ha—
You'll keep your secret still?—
Philidas.
Yes, Archias—
But take this of them.—Thebes hath had none such
Since she was Thebes.
Archias.
Ha-ha—good friend! Come, come—
Away—away—my excellent good friend!
[Exeunt.
90
Scene III.
—A room in the house of Charon.(Enter Charon, with a Servant.)
Charon.
Where is your lady?
Servant.
In the dining hall.
Charon.
Go, let her know I'm here.
[Exit Servant.
(Enter Clymene.)
Ha! here she comes.
Clymene.
Oh! my dear Charon,—what a long two hours!
My heart has been, as in a battle-field,
Where fear and hope were killing one the other;
And rising still to fight, and kill again.
Charon.
And no blood shed at last. I wish our Greeks,—
Since they must squabble—would invent some way
To shew their valour,—and yet keep their limbs
As safe as your two champions.
Clymene.
But, dear Charon,
Hath aught untoward chanc'd?
Charon.
No, dearest wife,
Our chariot glides, as on a crystal road.—
Think not of harm. Hath Philidas been here?
Clymene.
No, Charon. (A knocking at the gate.)
Charon.
Hark!—There's someone at the gate.
Clymene.
'Tis he, perchance.
Charon.
His is a quicker rap,
Like one in haste.—'Tis our conspirators—
But no—'tis still broad daylight. Yet this storm
Might serve as well as darkness for their screen.
The earth is thick with snow,—and not a man
Walks through the streets.
(Enter Epaminondas.)
Ha! my dear friend. I did not think this storm
Would let our sun come out.
91
But—being forth—
You'd wrap him in your clouds.—No—I'm no sun,
For I cannot suck up your flattering mists.
Charon.
I would you were,—that you might then condense
Your burning rays into one point,—and scorch
Our tyrants on their thrones.
Epam.
Their guilt deserves
Scarce less a stroke.—Fair lady—a good-morrow—
I saw you not through your good Charon's fogs.
Give me your pardon.
Clymene.
Sir, I've none to spare:
I am a daily beggar for't myself.
But I'll give ‘good welcome’ for ‘good-morrow.’
Yet why good-morrow, when 'tis almost night?
For that give reason,—then I'll pardon give.
Epam.
And in these times 'tis no unwonted thing
For reason to need pardon.—Folly, king—
Reason's a rebel, whom each loyal fool
Thinks glory to hunt down.—For your good-morrow
'Twere no hard task, methinks, to carve quaint reasons
Through an Olympiad.
Clymene.
Cut us but one,
And let it be fantastical.
Epam.
As thus,
Is't not that we would lengthen the day's youth,
Even as our own? We like not that age steal
Upon our brows, to draw his ugly curves
O'er the smooth, shining forehead;—and the hair,
Glossy, and curling, and luxuriant, change
To thin—straight—dull, and grizzled—or vile grey:—
So still we put off, year by year, the curse:—
At twenty, but mere boys;—at thirty, men,—
But young men still;—at forty, nothing more:—
For what is the stiff beard,—the wiry hair—
The hard, firm muscle,—the full-rounded form—
The stern eye,—the strong feature?—merely youth,
Just where the blossom hardens into fruit.
92
But fifty comes.
Epam.
Oh! then 'tis just man's prime
Till now, the nerves were slack,—the reason crude—
The passions merely mad,—wild colts, unbroke:—
Life, till this moment, was scarce worth the gift!
A turbulent dream, from indigestion bred:—
Just now he is awak'd—and feels his strength—
And looks on real things,—not hollow shapes,—
As through his life before;—and thinks 'tis pity
But man were born just on his fiftieth year.
Oh! what a world 'twere then to revel in!
Clymene.
Suppose him sixty.
Epam.
Well,—and what is that?
If not so swift his foot, 'tis yet more sure;—
His voice is strong,—his appetite as keen
As shallow-headed thirty.—For white hairs,
Who, but a fool, would care if white, or black?
Or—caring—not prefer the virgin snow
To the red clay, or brown, or sooty earth?
Why, Jove himself is painted hoary-lock'd!
And 'tis the mind that makes the man:—all else
Is but the cavern where the diamond lies.
Sixty is merely fifty at its best!
Happy who lengthens out a long three-score!
Clymene.
But he is seventy now;—or good four-score.
Epam.
Blest time! Oh! what soft calm is all about!
Life's fever is burnt down:—and the mild pulse
Vibrates so quietly!—'Tis wisdom's hour!
And wisdom is true strength:—not that brute force
That lies in the full arm, or nervous thigh:—
The ox, in that, is greater than the man.
Oh! this, at last, is the true wine of life!
All, past before, was merely pulp, and rind,
In a long fermentation. The shrunk limbs—
The palsied hand—the hairless crown—the voice—
Thin, and as frequent as the grasshopper's—
Why—what are these?—Merely the lengthening shades
93
And comes more oft to fifteen, than four-score!—
Be happy then!—The sun is just as bright,
About to set, as when 'twas newly risen:—
Nay, brighter,—for the morning's fogs are gone.
So talks th' old man:—old to the world alone;
But, to himself, an everlasting youth;—
Less beauteous perhaps,—but better, and more wise.
I have known many such.—And so't may be
We like to lengthen out the youth o'th' day,
And bid—‘good-morrow’—till the sun hath set.
At least, fair lady—that's my first quaint guess.
(A knocking at the gate.)
Clymene.
I'll tax you for a better at fit hour.
I could make such myself, to my wheel's hum.
Epam.
If 'twere not to waste time, that house-affairs
Might better use.—But now, my noble friend,—
What news from Athens?
Charon.
You shall hear, anon.
(A Servant enters, ushering in Pelopidas and Melon, dressed like hunters.)
Right welcome, gentlemen,—I fear your sport
Hath little prosper'd in so rough a day.
Where have you left your friends?
Pelop.
They are below,
Shaking their garments. 'Tis a pelting snow:
But we're not empty quite:—we've left without
A three days' feast for half a score sharp stomachs;
Our own as sharp as any.
Charon.
(to the Servant).
Let the meal
Be placed with all good speed:—and see the fire
Roar up with plenteous logs.
Servant.
I will, my lord.
[Exit.
Charon.
Now, my dear friends,—again,—right welcome home! (Looking at Epaminondas)
He knows you not, Pelopidas;—nor yet
Partakes our plot. Shall we withhold it still?
(They whisper.)
94
I take my leave, dear lady. These are birds
With whom I would not wish to share the nest.
Commend me to your lord.
Clymene.
You shall not go:—
They're not all vultures. They're from Athens, too;
Will tell you of your friends.
Epam.
For that I'll wait.
Pelop.
No, Charon;—he must join us. His sole voice
Will call a thousand young and ardent spirits,
Proud to encounter death for any straw
He flings in honour's stream.—His word shall give
A stamp on that we do, shall prove it gold,—
Which else might seem but brass.—I'll find a time
To urge him to it.—Lady, my ill manners,
More than my garb, I fear, betray the rustic.
Your pardon, pray. This is my trusty friend,
And fellow-sportsman, Melon.
Melon.
Proud to hunt
Such game with such a huntsman.
Clymene.
Gentlemen—
You are most welcome.—Be your horses swift,—
Your boar-spears sharp and strong!—
[Exit.
Pelop.
(to Epam.)
Sir, you have friends
In Athens, as I hear. We now come thence,
And may have tidings, did we know their names.
Epam.
I thank you, sir. I've many dear friends there,
'Twould glad me much to hear of. Know you aught
Of young Pelopidas?
Pelop.
He's lately dead.
Epam.
Dead?—dead?— (a pause.)
Why, thou tormenting wag!—what madness now?
Pelop.
(embracing him).
Madness of joy, to clasp thee once again,
Dear—dear Epaminondas!
Epam.
Dear Pelopidas!
I wish thee here,—yet hence.—What! some new wrestler
95
Or what strange folly else?—
Pelop.
Oh no! The game
Is for a higher stake:—with greater players.
Come this way.—I must have thine ear awhile.
(They go to the back of the stage.)
(Enter Gorgidas—Pherenicus—Theopompus—Democlides —and Cephisidorus, in the garb of hunters.)
Charon.
Welcome, my friends!—right welcome, every one!
(They embrace.)
All.
We thank you, noble Charon.
Gorgidas.
Oh, this Thebes!
How changëd is her aspect!—She seems dull
And lonely, and grief-worn,—like some poor widow
Above her husband's grave.
Charon.
We have a cordial
Shall make her laugh anon.—Oh!—from the dead
(Enter Androclides)
Given back,—dear Androclides,—welcome,—welcome!
(They embrace.)
Andro.
Dear Charon, thank you. Know'st thou of my wife?
Charon.
She lives—she lives;—and lives in hope again,
For she has heard thou livest. Philidas
This morning saw her. Till to-morrow night,
Dear friend, forget her;—or but think of her
To make thy sword the keener.
Andro.
Speed thee, sun!
Leap over this long night to the new day:—
Then flog thy fiery horses through the sky—
And leave glad night again!—I pass'd his house;
The monster's house!—Oh! Charon—had I met
That hated form—thy namesake at the Styx
Had greeted him erenow. Foul, bloody villain!
96
Philidas.
Friends,—all of you well met.—Welcome to Thebes!
(They embrace.)
Several together.
Thanks, Philidas.
Philidas.
Ha! dear Androclides—
Think of to-morrow night—
Andro.
Nay, Philidas,—
Tell me not so: I think of nothing else.
Philidas.
Charon, a word with you. (They retire.)
Epam.
(coming forward with Pelop.)
Then be it so!
With hand and heart I join in your emprise:
Freely,—though much unwilling: hating war,—
Yet, for the smaller evil, choosing it;—
To choose compell'd:—as, of two horrid deaths,
I'd take the quicker and less terrible,—
Approving neither.—Yet, forget not this;—
I join no faction 'gainst its opposite:—
I make no private feud of man 'gainst man:—
'Tis 'gainst th' oppressor, and the murderer,
I league with the oppressëd.—Beyond this
I go not with you.
Pelop.
Nor shall we go first.
The three must die; and there the sword shall stop—
Epam.
If you can stop it.—'Tis a furious hound
That, once broke loose, is hardly whistled back
'Till he have fill'd his maw.—If they must die,—
Why, be it so! I cannot give my hand
To any private slaughter;—but my voice
Shall not be raised too harshly to denounce
A crime forced on by fate.
Pelop.
We ask no more.
Give us your voice—and we've a thousand arms
Ready for any danger.—For your sword,
Why—spare it if you will:—but time hath been
That, sparing it, you had not spared your friend.
97
Spare your friend now. But we've no time for words.
What is to do,—must speedily be done.
Against the hour I'll bring what aid I can,
And may the good Gods guide us!
Pelop.
Here are some
You have not seen.
Epam.
Ha! my belovëd friends!
Give me your hands: our hearts are join'd already.
(They embrace.)
Dear Androclides!—coming from the grave,
Thou'rt so most welcome,—'twere almost a sin
Not to have sent thee there!
Andro.
I think so too.
And do intend my thanks to the kind sender.
Epam.
Well, gentlemen;—I pray Heaven prosper you,
As you deserve to prosper; but not more.
With a pure heart, unto this enterprise
I bring my aid;—and so I hope do all.
Several.
All—all!
Epam.
If, for revenge, or wantonness,
One drop of blood be shed,—your cause is foul'd,—
And freedom's champions will be faction's slaves!
With this I leave you. So farewell to all.
[Exit.
All.
Farewell, Epaminondas.
Charon.
Come, gentlemen: the board is spread: the meats
Send up rich incense: let's away—
Pelop.
Stay, Charon!
A dinner waiting is a serious thing—
So is our plot. Briefly, before we go,
Let's hear once more the order of the act,
That all may understand.—Speak, Philidas.
Charon.
But who will listen?—When a dinner beckons,
Who stops to hug a speech?
Philidas.
'Tis even so:—
The brain's small whisper is but little heard,
98
I'll see you on the morrow.
Pelop.
As you please.
Give me one word before you go. (They whisper.)
Charon.
Come, sirs,
No ceremony:—your hot compliments
Will make your dinner cold.
[Exeunt all but Pelop. and Philidas.
Philidas.
You need not fear.
Charon knows every signal.—When they come,
I shall withdraw—throw wide the prison gates—
For there's no key but turns at my command—
Arm our good friends,—and to the market-place
Bring them to wait your bidding. If your dragon
Escape you not,—fear nothing for our wolves.
He goes to rest betimes,—and will not stir
When he is in his den.
Pelop.
And shall not stir,
When I have found him there; fear not for him.
Good-night.
Philidas.
Good-night, Pelopidas.
[Exeunt at opposite doors.
End of the Fourth Act.
| Pelopidas ; Or, The Deliverance of Thebes | |