University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene I.

—A room in the House of Dymas.
(Enter Perseus, with a Servant.)
Perseus.
Dymas sups late to-night. What friends within?

Servant.
Your brother, and the princess, good my lord;
None else.

Perseus.
Go thou behind thy master's couch,
And whisper in his ear that I am come,
And would speak with him instantly. Beware
That none o'er-hear thee.
[Exit Servant.
It must be to-night.
For every instant that he lives doth seem
To sting me for my folly.—He removed—
This arm is not more servant to my wish
Than will the soldiers be. The poor old king
Is merely frantic—should himself be ruled;
Not rule. 'Twere mercy on his withered head
To ease him of the golden weight he bears,
And lift the heavy sceptre. . . . Ha! my friend
(Enter Dymas)
Thou'st been with Philip since we spoke together.

Dymas.
I have.

Perseus.
What said he?

Dymas.
Wait but patiently,
And thou shalt hear the deed before the word—
This evening hath the marriage knot been tied,
No witness save her women and myself.
At turn of midnight, with his virgin bride,
Myself the guide and partner of their way,
Towards Rome he plans escape.

Perseus.
How!

Dymas.
Ask no more:
Come to my chamber:—there lie hid awhile—
Thy fortune's sun will speedily break forth,
And I shall look to bask in't. Come away.

Perseus.
When Perseus is the sun to Macedon,
Then shalt thou be a moon in the same heaven;
As loved and worshipped.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

—Another room in the House of Dymas.
(Demetrius and Janira are seated on couches.)
Dem.
'Tis yet two hours of midnight, my sweet love;—
Go to thy bed,—and steep those tender limbs
In balmy sleep awhile.

Jan.
I could not sleep.

Dem.
Nay but, sweet girl,—the cold moist air of night,
On bodies unrefreshed by wholesome rest,
Oft strikes diseases like a pestilence;
But, to the limbs that gentle sleep hath fed,
'Tis as a cooling, and a strengthening bath,
Pleasant and healthful.—Prithee my sweet—WIFE.

Jan.
Nay then, sweet lord, by that name first conjured,
I cannot say thee nay. Good-night—good-night.

Dem.
Good-night, Janira; and kind dreams be thine.
An hour past midnight will our horses wait.
Give to your women charge of watchfulness;
For now is time more precious than fine gold;—
And we must not be spendthrifts. Sweet—good-night.

Jan.
I wish to-morrow were but come and past.
Something lies heavy here. Good-night.

Dem.
Good-night:
And, after this good-night, a long—long life
Of days and nights as good.—One kiss, sweet love.
[Exit Janira.
What is this dark foreboding that comes o'er me?
I do not think we ever shall meet more.—
And yet no cause I know.—I'll call her back—
Yet why?—What shall I say?—Oh! I'm the fool
Of sickly fantasy!

(Enter Dymas.)
Dymas.
How now, my lord?
Why you look cloudy as December night,—
And 'tis with you May morning.—Nay—be glad—
Such sombre brow, upon your marriage night,
Suits ill as doleful snow in merry June.
Where is the princess?

Dem.
Gone to her repose.

Dymas.
Why she is wise; and 'twere in us more wisdom
To snatch an hour or two of wholesome sleep;
The nights are chill.

Dem.
But we have much to speak of.

Dymas.
You are not fit for it. The length of way
Will give us leisure more than we can fill.
Such talk will then our over-fulness ease;—
Now—rob us of our little. Come, sweet prince.
With one full measure let us drown black care;
Then seek for merry dreams. I'll fill your cup.
(Pouring out the poisoned wine.)
Nay—nay—no drooping on your wedding night.

Dem.
(taking the cup).
Dear Dymas, I am even as a child,
And thou my gentle nurse.—Are there, dost think,
Foretokenings given us of unformed events?—
Dark shadowings on the soul, of coming ills?

Dymas.
Pshaw! 'tis mere foolery. Drink—drink it off.

Dem.
Dost think 'tis so?

Dymas.
Nought else.

Dem.
But I have seen,—
Long ere the tempest came, when not a breath
Was in the silent air,—the deep sea waves
Rolling laboriously,—and ever then
I marked the storm did follow: and, ere rain,
Or snow comes down, doth not the wind make moan,
Foretelling dreariness?—bees leave the flowers,
Feeling the storm that yet is far away:—
And so perhaps . . . thou smilest—

Dymas.
Drink—drink—drink—

Dem.
(sipping).
What wine is this?

Dymas.
'Tis good—is't not?

Dem.
Most rich.
'Tis Chios—no?—

Dymas.
You have a delicate taste.
But drain it off.

Dem.
Would I'd a prophet's eye!

Dymas.
Why? my good lord.—What is't you'd wish to see?

Dem.
I know not.—Gentle friend—thy health (he drinks)
.—Good-night.
Go to thy bed. I'll stretch me on this couch:
But not, I think, to sleep. (He lies down.)


Dymas.
Good-night, my lord.
(Aside)
Yes—you'll sleep soundly. With no prophet's eye,
I can see that.

[Exit.
Dem.
(half raising himself).
Ha! ha!—my heart! my heart!
How's this?—Janira—my sweet wife—Oh come—
Come to me—I am cold— (Falls back.)

Ah! me—'tis—death! (He dies.)


(A noise heard without.)
(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.
My lord—my lord—lord Dymas—

Dymas
(entering at another door).
What's this noise?

Servt.
The king, my lord, in furious haste is here;
And calls for you, and for the prince—

Dymas.
Soft—soft—
The prince you see is sleeping. Close the door.
(Noise increases.)
I'll hasten to his majesty.—Good heavens!

Philip
(without).
Where is the traitor? Where's my hapless son?

Dymas.
What means this fury?

(Philip bursts in, followed by Antigonus, and several of his Guards.)
Philip.
Traitor! Where's my son?
(He rushes to the couch.)
Demetrius!—my dear boy!—awake!—awake!—
He'll wake no more! The bloodhounds have their prey!
(He starts up and seizes Dymas.)
Oh! thou most damnëd villain of the earth!
What hast thou done?

Dymas.
Dismiss your train, my liege,
Ere we speak farther.

Philip.
Thou foul dog of hell!
I have no speech for thee. Get home! get home!
(Stabbing him twice.)
Earth cannot hold thee longer.

Dymas.
Help! help! Oh!
Murdered! Oh foully murdered!

Philip.
Murderer!
Foul! hideous murderer!

Antigonus.
My gracious liege!
Was this not rash?

Philip.
Away! away! away!
Rash?—rash?—what's rash?—See! look what they have done!
He's dead!—my boy is dead!—They made me do it!

Antig.
You, Philip?—you?—

Philip.
Aye! me!—me—Philip—

Antig.
No!
You are distraught to say so!

Philip.
Oh! they lied
So cunningly;—dropped to my very heart
Such rancorous poison;—painted him all o'er
So like a hell-thing, that—But there's one left:
I'll have revenge—I'll make the villain know
What 'tis to drive a doting father mad—
I'll have him seized—I'll have him—Oh! my boy!

(He falls on the body of Demetrius.)
(Janira enters hastily, her hair dishevelled.)
Jan.
What dreadful larum's this?—Ha! murder here?
Lord Dymas murdered?

Antig.
Gentle lady—nay—
Look not around you—go away at once—
This is no business,—and no place for you—

Jan.
The king?—Unhand me, sir—

Antig.
Beseech you, lady!

Jan.
Off—off—old man! They've killed my husband too—
Villain—let go! Help! murder! help! help! help!
Ha—ha—ha—ha—

(She laughs and falls senseless in the arms of Antigonus.)
Philip.
What frantic voice is that?
I thought she had been dead—and all her children.
I'm glad it was a dream.—No more of deaths—
I'll have no deaths within my kingdom: no—
No man shall die—I'll have an edict for it.—
Who's this?—who's this?—ha! he is dead! dead! dead!
Open thine eyes, my boy.—Nay, but one word—
Speak but one word—speak—I command thee—speak—
Dost disobey me?—Ha! he's dead! he's dead!
I'll creep into his grave—and lie with him—
He may awake—such things have been ere now—
I do believe he will awake again.—
Here—bear him to his bed—and make no noise—
Come, fellows—stir—and one of you bring here
My camp-cloak, for I'll watch myself to-night.
I know he will awake;—he will—he will.

[Exeunt Philip, and Guards bearing the corpse.
Antig.
Unhappy king! he never will wake more!
Would thou couldst sleep as sound!— (looking on Janira)
poor blighted flower!
It were a merciful stroke to crush thee now:—
For thou wilt wither day by day,—the worm
Gnawing thy heart out.—Oh! the mockery
Foul death puts on us,—shewing a ripe cheek,
And eyes of crystal brightness, while, within,
Lurks black corruption!

(Enter Archo, and another female, hastily.)
Archo.
Help! my lady's dead!

Antig.
Silence, fond girl! she hath but swooned.

Archo.
Oh no!
She's dead—she's dead! dear lady!

Antig.
Cease this noise—
And bear her to her chamber. Watch by her;
And with some slumbrous drug compel her sleep,
For, waking, she will rave. Go—speak no more.
(The females bear out Janira.)
Thou wretched clod that, for thine own base ends,
Didst put the dagger in the father's hand
Against his innocent son—thou hast thy due;
A stern, and fearful payment. Fare thee well.
Now to the wretched, mad, and guilty king.
Oh! my poor country! hapless Macedon!
Of foreign wars, domestic feuds, the prey,—
Who shall protect thee now?—

[Exit.
(An opposite door is gently opened, and Perseus partly enters, speaking softly.)
Perseus.
Hist! Dymas—hist!—He's gone.—What means all this?
I'm sure 'twas Philip's voice.—What horrid rage
Hath seized him now?

Dymas.
Oh me!

Perseus.
Whose voice is that?
(He enters with a light, treading softly.)
Here's some-one wounded—Dymas! is it thou?
Bleeding to death!—Who did this horrid deed?
Let me bind up thy wound—speak, if thou canst—
What damnëd hand hath done this thing?

Dymas.
Oh! me!
I die!—Thy father did it—

Perseus.
Ha!—the tyrant?

Dymas.
Haste—fly.—He seeks for thee—I cannot speak—
All is found out—Demetrius—is—dead!—

Perseus.
What! hast thou crushed him?—

Dymas.
Great Gods! forgive me!
Give me thy hand—Oh Gods!—Oh! Gods! (He dies.)


Perseus.
He's gone!
All his ambition,—all his glittering hopes—
Sunk—lost—in ever-during darkness quenched—
Even like the rapid, and eye-dazzling lightning,
That, for a space, doth seem to fire the heavens,
Making earth tremble, and the stars go out—
Then from his sky-path shoots into a bog,
And sleeps with rottenness!—Well, Dymas, well;—
I little thought thou'dst teach me moralize.
Thou'rt dead,—but I will make thee still my friend:
I'll show thee to the soldiers, thus carved up
By gentle Philip;—and it shall go hard
But thy eclipse shall make my beams more bright.
But no delay: the purchase of one hour
May be a diadem;—each minute then
Rates as a precious gem, and cries, dispatch,
Perseus—King Perseus! Rome—and Victory!

[Exit.

Scene III.

—A room in the Palace of Philip.
(Enter Lysimachus and Onomastes, with Calligenes, a physician.)
Lysim.
No hope—say you?

Calli.
None—none! His hours are few.

Onomas.
Unhappy king!—How doth he bear himself?

Calli.
Even like a lion in the pangs of death.
His tortured soul it is that burns the body,
Which else hath no disease.

Lysim.
He ever had
A spirit most untamed. Doth his mind wander?

Calli.
Most fearfully!—'Tis as a midnight tempest;
Dark and outrageous, with deep calms between—
I must unto him.

Onomas.
We will go with you.
Alas! poor Philip! is thy burning sun
Thus sinking into night?—

Calli.
Good friends, I pray you,
What things so-ever you may see, or hear,—
As strange and dangerous is his discourse,—
Upon your lips put seals.

Lysim.
Our memories
Shall be as graves, wherein, like things deceased,
His words shall be interred.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.

—The chamber of Philip.
(Philip lies on a couch. Antigonus, and attendants are in waiting.)
Servant.
I think, my lord, he sleeps.

Antig.
His eyes are open;
Do not disturb him. Take those lights away,
And keep the chamber dark.—He is worn out,
And may sink down to sleep.

Servant.
Heaven grant he may!
That was an awful struggle.

(Enter Lysimachus, Onomastes, and Calligenes.)
Antig.
My good friends!
Would I had seen you at a gladder hour!
But welcome now. Sorrow craves sympathy,
As well as merriment.

Onomas.
How is the king?

Antig.
Even like some goodly temple, which the flames
Have almost vanquished,—silence now, and smoke,—
Anon fierce light, and roarings terrible.
One fearful agony hath just gone by,
And left him strengthless.

Calli.
He is sinking fast.
I do not think he hath an hour to live.

Philip.
Then bring him to me:—bring him to my face—
I'll see him ere he dies—

Lysim.
What is't he mutters?

Antig.
Hush—hush!—Still raving of his hapless son!

Philip.
'Tis pity he should die!—so beautiful!
So young and kind! Oh Gods! 'tis pitiful!
Art sure on't, Dymas?—Tell me—art thou sure?
Ah! so?—Then he must die! Oh Gods! Oh Gods!

Onomas.
What dreadful groans are these!

Lysim.
What words!

Antig.
Hush—hush!—

Philip.
But do it gently;—for he is my son—
Although he be a traitor!

Onomas.
Horrible!

Lysim.
Most horrible!

Calli.
Nay, my kind friends,—beware,—
One word may turn this calm into a tempest,
'Twould madden you to hear.

Philip
(half rising and gazing in terror upon vacancy).
Why, who art thou?
Take off thy bloody, glaring eyes,—foul thing!
It was thyself that did it.—Get thee gone,
With thy two livid brats!—Ha!—touch me not!
Thou'rt black and swoln!—Take off thy poisoned hand—
Off! off!—thou smellest of the grave!—Go back—
And let the worms begin their meal on thee!—
Ay! beckon as thou may, I will not go—
Why dost thou smile?—What!—is thy husband there?
Ha! now I see him. Wert thou not a traitor?
No?—Oh—no—no—I warrant thee no traitor—
Smile an thou wilt.—Farewell.—Even so?—Oh Gods!

(He falls back.)
Lysim.
He's gone! he's dead!

Calli.
Not so—my good old friend.
Pray you be calm.

Onomas.
Look where the princess comes.
Will you admit her now?

Calli.
It soothes the king
To look upon her, for it makes him weep;
And in those showers the fires come harmless down,
That else might turn to lightnings. 'Tis his will
That she have all times entrance.

(Janira enters—pale and haggard.)
Antig.
Hapless lady!
How fares it with you?

Janira.
Have you seen him, sirs?

Antig.
Pray you sit down. Come, child, thou'rt cold and faint—
Here—sit you down.

Janira.
I thank you, reverend sir,—
But I'll not sit. He will be here anon.
I have a song for him,—a sweet new song;—
I know 'twill please him.—Shall I sing it to you?

Antig.
Thou hast not strength, dear lady.—

Janira.
Hush—hush—hush!
I made it as I sat beside his grave,
Last night, in the soft moonlight; and I sang it
Till morning beamed;—but he was fast asleep,
And did not hear me! 'Tis a sad,—sad ditty.
Pray you sit down, and I will tell it you;—
Not sing it till he comes . . .

But indeed I can talk no more—so I will e'en sit me down
on the grass here, and go to sleep. Ah! well a day! the
sweet spring flowers are all gone. I thank you, kind sir. (She sits on the floor.)

Onomas.
Poor lady! what an overthrow is here!

Antig.
Each day she wastes, and wastes, and pines away.
Yet still she talks, and sings;—and sometimes smiles,
As if she felt no pain.

Lysim.
(to Calligenes).
How is the king?

Calli.

In a deep stupor that bodes little good. I dread his
waking.

Jan.

Did you, my sweet lord?—I' faith I heard you not—
I cannot sing again;—so, pray you, get up and come to me.
Oh! oh!

Antig.

She grows paler and paler.

Jan.

What! go to you?—Nay, you would hold me fast.—
Pray you get up—I'm very faint and cold.—Well love,—I will
but take one little sleep, and then I'll sing to you again.—Dark
—dark—Oh me!

(She lies down, and dies.)
Antig.
She's fainted.—Help her, good Calligenes.

Lysim.
How deadly pale she is!

Calli.
She'll never redden.
She's dead.

All.
Dead?—

Philip
(raising himself).
Dead! Who's dead? who dares to die?
Where am I?—Bring me lights—'Tis not too late—
My chariot ho!—lights—lights! Ha! do not drink!
'Tis poison! dash it down!—Demetrius—
Drink not, I say—ha! fool!—he will not hear—
He drinks—he drinks—he drinks—Look in his face—
It has him! ha! it has him! see! see! see!
He dies!—he dies!—Oh, Gods! he dies! he dies!

(Philip sinks back.)
Onomas.
Most dreadful sight!—Hast thou, Calligenes,
No drug that might a kind oblivion bring
Upon his tortured spirit?

Calli.
Petty sorrows,
Physic may soothe,—but, to such giant ills,
There's no oblivion, but the great one—death.

(Trumpets are heard without, and loud shouts.)
Philip
(starting up).
Hark! hark!—the Roman trumpets! Bring my arms!
Call up the soldiers—

Antig.
(to the Attendants).
Haste—and hush that din.

(Two Attendants go out.)
(Trumpets again.)
Philip.
Are we betrayed?—Where are the sentinels?—
Lights! lights! we cannot strike them in the dark!—
Ha! Quintius!—let me meet thee once again!—
My horse!—my horse!—Look! look!—They scale the walls!
Dash them down headlong! Grapple with them close!
Leap off! leap off!—Now let the Phalanx move!
They fly!—they fly! Come on—I'll lead you on—
Victory! victory!—death, or victory!

(He staggers from the couch, waving his arm; and soon falls down senseless.)
Calli.
Death—then!—unhappy Philip!

All.
Is he gone?

Calli.
No.—There is yet a flutter at his heart:
'Tis but the last weak tremble, while the soul
Bids farewell to its clayey tenement.

Antig.
He opes his eyes:—his frenzy is past oft.
Let's lift him to the couch.

Calli.
Nay—move him not.
There's now so small a spark,—the lightest breath
May put it out.

(Re-enter the two Attendants.)
Antig.
What is it you would say—
Yet fear to utter?—

1st Attendant.
Is the king no more?

Antig.
He is as one that's dead,—tho' yet he breathes:
All sense hath left him.

Attendant.
Happy then I am
That what I speak his ear can never know.

Antig.
What is't you mean?

Attendant.
Prince Perseus is named king.

All.
How?—

Antig.
Ere his father have paid Nature's debt?

Attendant.
The army, with loud clamours, made him king;
Crowned, and proclaimed him:—in return for which
He thanked and flattered them;—and, on the spot,
Flung out defiance against Rome; and War,
Even to the uttermost.—

Calli.
The king would speak.

Philip.
Kind friends! I have but little breath for speech—
Forgive me if I've wronged you—I've been mad—
There's somewhat I would say—I know not what—
Let me be buried by Demetrius—
And lay his hapless wife within his arms—
She's dead—so some-one whispered—yes—she's dead!—
I have been mad—and fierce.—Forgive me, heaven!
Where are you?—It grows dark—I have no breath—
(A pause.)
Ha! Perseus! ha!—I see thee,—fratricide!—
I see thee, king—and captive.—Look!—he walks,
Barefooted, and with dust upon his head,
Before the conqueror's chariot—see!—his wife—
His children—Spare them, Gods!—they walk, and weep,
Shame-stricken, with their faces bowed to earth.—
I hear the Roman Triumph—hark! they shout!
They point the finger at him!—see!—see!—see!
Oh Gods!— (He sinks and dies.)


Calli.
He's gone!

Antig.
And, dying, hath he prophesied.
(Trumpets, and shoutings again without.)
Ay! Perseus—now rejoice! The fruit is ripe—
Watered by father's—and by brother's blood!—
Eat of it while thou mayst—and gorge thy fill:
But there's a bitterness far worse than death
To follow on thy surfeit.—Thou art king,—
But there's a king above thee—King of kings!
Who sees, and will reward thee.—To His hands
We trust for justice!

The Curtain Fails.