University of Virginia Library

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.