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TRAGEDIES: 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED 
 
 A FEW SONNETS AND VERSES. 
 
 BY 
 
 tV N. T A L F O U R D. 
 
 BERJBIANT-AT-I.AW, 
 
 'I left no calling for this idle trade. 
 No duty broke." — Popb. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 CROSBY & AINSWOBTH 
 
 NEW YORK: OLIVEE S. FELT. 
 
 1865. 
 

 QIPT 
 BERTRAM SMITH 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 
 
 19 publishing the following Dramas in a cheap and compact 
 form, I have little to express except my thanks for the indulgence 
 which has been extended towards them. If I had felt at liberty 
 to alter them, I should have been tempted to do more than correct 
 some verbal errors, and curtail a few palpable redundancies of 
 language ; but I feel that when a work has been once fairly pre- 
 sented to the public, and, to the full extent of the author's hopes, 
 accepted, he is no longer at liberty to treat it as exclusively his 
 own ; ard, therefore, I have confined my own corrections within 
 the narrow limit I have suggested. In addition to the few sonnets 
 which accompanied the former editions, I have collected a few 
 more which have appeared in periodical works, and added some 
 verses which have not been before printed. 
 
 Here I might close this preface — as the slender matters which 
 have reference to each Drama have been noticed in the Advertise- 
 ment prefixed to each — if I did not think that I ought not to allow 
 the present occasion to pass without noticing a misconception of 
 the author of " The Hungarian Daughter," which, although not 
 perhaps calling for a separate protest, and certainly not justifying 
 any hostile remark, should not pass unnoticed in a collected edi- 
 tion which includes the passage on which it is founded. 
 
 Mr. Stephens^an author endowed with real tragic power, 
 though not perhaps always adapting it to the purposes of theatri- 
 cal representation — sharing with other Dramatic Poets the strong 
 and natural desire of seeing works designed for the stage present- 
 ed upon it — seems to have divided the plays of the present day 
 into two classes, " the acted " and the " unacted," as if the dis- 
 tinction implied some essential difference in merit or kind, and 
 not a mere difference of fortune ; and to have sought for the latter 
 a great pre-eminence in critical opinion over the former. To the 
 I* 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 enunciation of this opinion, or to its maintenance by a comparison 
 of my own dramas with tragedies which have not been acted, 
 however mnch to my disadvantage, I have no right to object ; — 
 but I do object to being elevated into a position of authority to 
 which I have no claim, and then regarded as expressing an opin- 
 ion on the works of others which it would have been impertinent 
 in me to offer. The passage is as follows : — " Were I to affirm 
 that, in my opinion, the unacted drama of this country at the pre- 
 sent day is of a higher order than that which finds its way unto 
 the stage, such a declaration would be very likely ascribed to pre- 
 judice, but Mr. Serjeant Talfourd has most handsomely proclaim- 
 ed the same truth ; and from his competence, in every point of 
 view, to set the question at rest, I should pressume there can be 
 no appeal." * The reference intended is, I presume, to the ad- 
 vertisement prefixed to the second edition of " Glencoe," \ which 
 had been published shortly before the appearance of '' "^be Hun- 
 garian Daughter," as I am unconscious of having written anything 
 else which bears on the subject. Having seen the production 
 and the success of " Ion" and " The Athenian Captive" attri- 
 buted to personal circumstances, I was desirous of stating that 
 *' Glencoe " had been accepted as the work of a stranger by the 
 manager and actors, and had passed the ordeal of its first repre- 
 sentation before the disclosure of the author's name ; and in ma- 
 king this statement I expressed the reason for intruding personal 
 matters on the public as follows : — 
 
 " As I am conscious that this Play has been produced at a time 
 when Dramatic productions, superior to it in many of the essen- 
 tials of the species of composition, have recently issued from the 
 press, I think it due to the management of the Haymarket Th'^a- 
 tre and to Mr. Macready to state the exact truth respecting it." 
 It is true that I intended to express my conviction that this parti- 
 cular wori; — ^while I might depreciate without offence — was infe- 
 rior in many respects to Plays not then acted, as (among others) 
 to Mr. Home's " Cosmo de Medici " — to Mr. Stephens' own dra- 
 mas—and to " Athelwold," " Nina Sforza," and " The Blot on 
 the 'Scutcheon," which have since been represented, but I did 
 not presume to apply the same comparison to other authors of ac- 
 ted Plays — as Knowles, Bulwer, Jerrold, or the author of " The 
 Provost of Bruges." It may be permitted to writers who, like 
 Mr. Stephens, are conscious of power which has not obtained the 
 
 * Preface to the "Hungarian Daughter," p. 19. t Post, p. 156. 
 
PREFACE. VJl 
 
 fair opportunity of trial before living audiences, to console them- 
 selves by the expression of their belief that, « with the exception 
 of a few modern tragedies which cannot get represented, tne 
 hundred and eighty years since the adoption of the odious mono- 
 poly has not produced a single Play that will live at the present 
 century ;"* but it would ill become one whose dramatic efforts 
 have obtained their full measure of attention, to sit thus in judg- 
 ment on those of his contemporaries who have not only attained 
 splendid theatrical success, but high and lasting renown. I may 
 be allowed to add that, while I am not only content but happy to 
 attribute much of the success of the two first Dramas to personal 
 regards, I feel that it was an honest success ; for, believing that 
 the liberal issue of orders has conduced greatly to impair the love 
 for the Drama, and to impoverish the managers of theatres, I have 
 always declined to solicit or use them ; and have never obtained, 
 or written, or given one on any representation of either of my 
 Plays. 
 
 In the Preface to '• Glencoe," which was no doubt imperfectly 
 recollected by Mr. Stephens, when he invested me with so un- 
 merited an authority, I expressed my concurrence in the demand 
 which he and other Dramatists made for the removal of all legisla- 
 tive restrictions on the performance of Plays, and my hope that it 
 might produce the consequence they expected, in greatly facilita- 
 ting the representation of new Dramas. While I acquiesced in 
 the justice of this claim, I cherished no sanguine hope that its 
 success would produce the expected results ; because I knew that 
 there was a monopoly, not of the Law's making, and beyond the 
 Law's redress — a monopoly of the power of representing tragic 
 passion and suffering, limited to a very few artists, which no le- 
 gislation can remedy. 
 
 The demands of Dramatists has been granted — the legal mono- 
 poly is entirely overthrown ; every theatre within the Bills of Mor- 
 tality may obtain the right of representing the legitimate drama ; 
 but what is the result ? Alas ! it has only been the annihilating 
 the distinction between the two classes of Dramatists, for the be- 
 nefit of neither ; for all our Drama is unacted now ? And thus it 
 must continue, until this art of acting shall revive, and the Drama- 
 tist shall possess not only a right to a " free stage," but obtain ac- 
 tors to render it vital. 
 
 In the meantime I rejoice in the conviction that the genius of 
 
 * Preface to " The Hungarian Daughter," page 21. 
 
Vll] PREFACE. 
 
 our country has assumed a dramatic form, and has been developed 
 in tragedies of a high order ; some of which have been acted ; 
 others are incapable of being acted ; and others shall be acted, 
 when actors of true passion shall be found, but not with real suc- 
 cess till then. Excluding from consideration the noble dramatic 
 poems of Taylor and Darley, which are written in express repu- 
 diation of an actual stage, and those of Smith, Troughton, and 
 Marston, which have been embodied upon it, there remain noble 
 tragedies in print which would do honour to the stage, and which 
 yet I should regret to see acted in a small sphere, with poor ac- 
 companiments, and by frigid, illiterate, or ungraceful performers. 
 I would not — to cite one of the noblest instances which our Drama 
 presents — desire to see " Cosmo de Medici," with its images of 
 gay and princely life, and of colossal sorrow, disfigured by the va- 
 pid imbecility of its youths and the mouthing inanity of its great 
 and mournful father. Whether the impulse given to dramatic 
 poetry will long survive the annihilation of the stage, I fear to 
 conjecture ; and I am not sanguine for the cause of Dramatic Au- 
 thors, unless a race of actors shall arise to help them. Mr. Home 
 has already turned to the Epic, and consoled us by the noble mu- 
 sic and classic imagery, and intense feeling, and starry destiny of 
 his " Orion," for the absence of a presentment of dramatic passion 
 and suffering. If the Stage, in spite of its emancipation, shall 
 fall to decay, I shall deplore it — if it be only for what we shall 
 lose in him, and in the younger genius of Robert Browning — a ge- 
 nius only yet dimly perceived, but deeply felt, and which requires 
 and deserves the noble discipline of dramatic conditions. Happy, 
 indeed, shall I be to find the hopes and the struggles of those who 
 have achieved the emancipation of the Stage not lost in the de- 
 struction of that for the freedom of which they have fought and 
 conquered ! 
 
 T. N. T. 
 
 London, Januaby 12, 1844. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Notice of the late Dr. Valpy, prefixed to ** Ion" 13 
 
 Preface to " Ion " 17 
 
 ION— A Tragedy 29 
 
 Dedication of " The Athenian Captive" , .102 
 
 Preface TO '' The Athenian Captive" , , . 103 
 
 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE— a Tragedy ... 107 
 
 Dedication OF " Glencoe " 164 
 
 Advertisement to *' Glencoe " . . , , . 165 
 
 Preface to " Glencoe " 169 
 
 GLENCOE— A Tragedy 175 
 
 SONNETS : 
 
 1. Evening Service at Reading School , . . 235 
 
 2. The Forbury at Reading 236 
 
 3. On hearing the Shouts of the People at the 
 Reading Election, 1826, at a Distance . . 237 
 
 4. View of the Valley of Reading, from Tile- 
 hurst, AT THE CLOSE OF THE ELECTION, 1826 . . 238 
 
 5. To THE Thames at Westminster . . . 239 
 
 6. To THE SAME RiVER . 240 
 
 7. To Mr Macready, on his performance of 
 
 *' Werner " 241 
 
 8. Fame — the Symbol and Type of Immortality . 242 
 
 9. To Mr. Macready, on the Birth of his First 
 Child 243 
 
 10. To Charles Dickens, on '* Oliver Twist " , 244 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONNETS : 
 
 11. To Miss Adelaide Kemble, when about to re- 
 tire FROM the Stage . . . . ... 245 
 
 12. On the Reception of Wordsworth at Oxford . 246 
 
 13. The Memory of the Poets 247 
 
 14. Eton College surveyed after leaving a Son 
 
 AT School for the first time ... . 248 
 
 Alum Bay, Isle of Wight — Lines written at the 
 
 Needles Hotel 249 
 
 Verses in Memory of a Child named after Charles 
 
 Lamb. . 254 
 
 APPENDIX : 
 
 Note to the '* Athenian Captive "... 259 
 Notes TO " Glencoe " 263 
 
ION: 
 
 A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 XI 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 Adrastxts, King of Argos. 
 
 Medon, High Priest of the Temple of Apollo. 
 
 Crythes, Captain of the Royal Guard. 
 
 Phocion, son of Medow. 
 
 Ctesiphoiv, ) ^^^1^ ^j.g.^^ y^^^j^g 
 Oassander, y 
 
 Ion 
 
 Agenor, ) 
 
 Cleon, \ sages of Argos. 
 
 TlMOCIiES, \ 
 
 Irits, a boy, slave to Agenor. 
 Clemanthe, daughter of Medon-. 
 Habra, attendant on Clemanthe. 
 
 Scene — Argos. 
 
 The Time of the Action is comprised in one day and night, 
 and the following morning. 
 
NOTICE OF THE LATE DR. VALPY, 
 
 PREFIXED INSTEAD OF DEDICATION TO THE FIHST PUBIilSHED 
 EDITION OF ION. 
 
 In offering this attempt at dramatic composition to the public 
 at large, I am mournfully reminded of an irreparable loss by the 
 necessity of omitting a Dedication to one whose name should 
 have graced its opening page. The two Editions which have 
 been privately circulated were inscribed to my venerable and in- 
 dulgent friend, Dr. Valpy, upon whose long life of kindness 
 Death has since set the final seal. When I ventured to claim for 
 it his protection, I well knew that I might rely upon that charity 
 which lavished its bounties upon every effort of his pupils, for 
 tenderness to its faults, and for generous praise of any merits 
 which the eye of friendship might detect or create. There was 
 also a propriety in seeking this association for a work which was 
 prompted by love of those remains of antique beauty which he 
 had taught me to know and to revere ; which assumed that form 
 of poetry in which he had chiefly delighted ; and which, although 
 meditated in broken hours, and at long intervals, had always min- 
 gled with the recollections of those happy days, when he first 
 awakened within me the sense of classical grace, and of those 
 after-seasons, when the exquisite representations of Greek Tra- 
 gedy, which he superintended, made its images vital. He is gone 
 to his rest full of years and honours ; and I cannot receive from him 
 that sanction which he cordially gave me when I presented this 
 drama to my friends, now that I submit it to the judgment of a 
 wider and an impartial circle. Death, which harmonizes the pic- 
 tures of human character, found little in his to spiritualize or to 
 soften ; but if it has not enhanced the feeling of his excellencies 
 in the minds of those who felt their influence, it has enabled 
 them to express that feeling without the semblance of flattery. 
 2 
 
14 NOTICE PREFIXED TO ION. 
 
 It has left them free not only to expatiate on those well-directed 
 labours which have facilitated the access of the young to the ele- 
 ments of sound learning ; on the solemn and persuasive tone of 
 his pulpit eloquence ; on the steadiness of his attachment to prin- 
 ciples adopted with ciution, expressed with moderation, yet 
 maintained without a sigh at the cost of the emoluments and hon- 
 ours to which they were obstacles ; but also to revert to that 
 remarkable kindness of disposition which was the secret but active 
 law of his moral being. His nature was not ameliorated nor even 
 characterized, but wholly moulded of Christian love to an entire- 
 ness of which there are few examples. He had no sense of injury, 
 but as something to be forgiven. The liberal allowance which 
 he extended to all human frailties grew more active when they 
 affected his own interests, and interfered with his own hopes ; so 
 that, however he might reprobate evil at a distance, as soon as it 
 came within his sphere he desired only to overcome it by good. 
 Envy, Hatred, and Malice, were to him mere names, like the 
 figures of a speech in a schoolboy's theme, or the giants in a fairy 
 tale — phantoms which scarcely touched him with a transient sense 
 of reality. His guileless simplicity of heart was not preserved in 
 learned seclusion, or by a constant watchfulness over the develop- 
 ment of youthful powers, (for he found time to mingle frequently 
 in the blameless gaieties and the stirring business of life,) but by 
 the happy constitution of his own nature, which passion could 
 rarely disturb, and evil had no power to stain. His system of 
 education was animated by a portion of his own spirit : it was 
 framed to enkindle and to quicken the best affections, and to ren- 
 der emulation itself subservient to the generous friendships which 
 it promoted. His charity in its comprehensiveness, resembled 
 nothing less than the imagination of the greatest of our poets, 
 embracing everything human ; shedding its light upon the just and 
 the unjust; detecting " the soul of goodness in things evil ;" 
 stealing rigidity from virtue ; bringing into gentle relief those 
 truths which are of aspect the most benign, and those suggestions 
 and hopes which are most full of consolation ; and attaching itself, 
 in all the various departments of life, to individuals whose child- 
 hood it had fostered; in whose merits its own images were 
 multiplied, or whose errors and sorrows supplied the materials of 
 its most quick and genial action. The hold which the Reading 
 school-boy had upon this charity could not be forfeited, even " by 
 slights, the worst of injuries;" and when broken in fortune, 
 
NOTICE PREFIXED TO ION. 15 
 
 deserted by relatives, and frowned on by the world, he had only to 
 seek the hospitable roof of his old master — " claim kindred there, 
 and have his claims allow'd." By the spirit of cordiality which 
 breathed there, all party differences were melted away, or, if per- 
 ceived at all, served only to render tolerance more vivid ; and 
 when he who had presided there for fifty years left the scene of 
 his generous labours as a permanent abode, it was to diffuse the 
 serenity of a good conscience and the warmth of unchilled affec- 
 tions through the homes of children who were made proud as well 
 as happy by his presence. Such was he to the last, amidst the 
 infirmities which accidents rather than age had accumulated 
 around him ; — the gentlest of monitors, and the most considerate 
 of sul^^erers — until he was withdrawn from those whose minds he 
 had nurtured ; one of whom, who has most cause for gratitude, 
 pays this humble tribute to his memory. 
 
 London, 26tA May, 1836. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE FOURTH PUBLISHED EDITION OF ION. 
 
 The following Drama, as the readers of two Editions which 
 were printed for private circulation are already aware, was com- 
 posed and printed without any hope of its being found capable of 
 representation on the stage. Its publication in its present form 
 was contemporary with its production on the night of Mr. Macrea- 
 dy's benefit, 26th of May, 1836 ; and as, at that time, its repeti- 
 tion was not anticipated, it was thought imnecessary to accompany 
 it with any Preface. But as its performance has since been at- 
 tended with unexpected success both in this country and in Amer- 
 ica, I may, without impropriety, state the views with which it was 
 written, and indulge myself in the expression of my gratitude to 
 those by whose assistance it has thus far been rendered vital. 
 The first of those purposes will be best accomplished by extract- 
 ing a portion of the Preface to the earliest of the unpublished 
 Editions, which bears date in April, 1835 : — 
 
 " The title of this Drama is borrowed from the Tragedy of Eu- 
 ripides, which gave the first hint of the situation in which its hero 
 is introduced — that of a foundling youth educated in a temple, 
 and assisting in its services ; but otherwise there is no resemblance 
 between this imperfect sketch and that exquisite picture. It has 
 been written, not indeed without a view to an ideal stage, which 
 should never be absent from the mind of the humblest aspirant to 
 dramatic composition, but without any hope of rendering it worthy 
 to be acted. If it were regarded as a drama composed for actual 
 representation, I am well aware that not in ' matter of form,' only, 
 but in ' matter of substance,' it would be found wanting. The 
 idea of the principal character, — that of a nature essentially pure 
 and disinterested, deriving its strength entirely from goodness and 
 thought, not overcoming evil by the force of will, but escaping it 
 by an insensibility to its approach, — vividly conscious of exist- 
 
18 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 ence and its pleasures, yet willing to lay them down at the call 
 of duty, — is scarcely capable of being rendered sufficiently stri- 
 king in itself, or of being subjected to such agitations, as tragedy 
 rev^uires in the fortunes of its heroes. It was further necessary, 
 in order to involve such a character in circumstances which might 
 excite terror or grief or joy, to introduce other machinery than 
 that of passions working naturally within, or events arising from 
 ordinary and probable motives without ; as its own elements would 
 not supply the contests of tragic emotion, nor would its sufFerings> 
 however accumulated, present a varied or impressive picture. 
 Recourse has therefore been had, not only to the old Grecian no- 
 tion of Destiny, apart from all moral agencies, and to a prophecy 
 indicating its purport in reference to the individuals involved in 
 its chain, but to the idea o^ fascination, as an engine by which 
 Fate may work its purposes on the innocent mind, and force it 
 into terrible action most uncongenial to itself, but necessary to the 
 issue. Either perhaps of these aids might have been permitted, 
 if used in accordance with the entire spirit of the piece ; but the 
 employment of both could not be justified in a drama intended for 
 visual presentation, in which a certain verisimilitude is essential 
 to the faith of the spectator. Whether any groups, surrounded 
 with the associations of the Greek Mythology, and subjected to 
 the capricious laws of Greek Superstition, could be endowed by 
 genius itself with such present life as to awaken the sympathies 
 of an English audience, may well be doubted ; but it cannot be 
 questioned, that except by sustaining a stern unity of purpose, 
 and breathing an atmosphere of Grecian sentiment over the whole, 
 so as to render the picture national and coherent in all its traits, 
 the effect must be unsatisfactory and unreal. Conscious of my 
 inability to produce a work thus justified to the imagination by 
 its own completeness and power, I have not attempted it ; but 
 have sought, out of mere weakness, for ' Fate and metaphysical 
 aid,' to ' crown withal ' the ordinary persons of a romantic play. 
 I have, therefore, asked far too much for a spectator to grant : 
 but the case is different with the reader who does not seek the 
 powerful excitements of the theatre, nor is bound to a continuous 
 attention ; and who, for the sake of scattered sentiments or ex- 
 pressions which may please him, may, at least by a latitude of 
 friendly allowance, forgive the incongruities of the machinery by 
 which the story is conducted. This Drama may be described as 
 -he Phantasm of a tragedy, — not a thing of substance mortised 
 
PREFACE TO ION. 19 
 
 into the living rock of humanity, — and therefore incapable of ex- 
 citing that interest which grows out of human feeling, or of hold« 
 ing that permanent place in the memory, which truth only can 
 retain. 
 
 " There are few perhaps among those who have written for the 
 press, predominant as that majority now is over the minority of 
 mere readers, who have not, at some season of their lives, con- 
 templed the achievement of a tragedy. The narrow and well-de- 
 fined limits by which the action of tragedy is circumscribed — the 
 various affections which may live and wrestle, and suffer within 
 those palpable boundaries — its appeal to the sources of grief 
 common to humanity on the one hand, and to the most majestic 
 shapiit^s of the imagination on the other, softening and subduing 
 the heart to raise and to ennoble it, — and perhaps, more than all, 
 the vivid presentment of the forms in which the strengths and 
 weaknesses of our nature are embodied, its calamities dignified, 
 and its high destiny vindicated, even in the mortal struggle by 
 which for a season it is vanquished — may well impress every 
 mind, reaching, however feebly, towards the creative, with a fond 
 desire to imitate the great masters of its ' so potent art.' This 
 desire has a powerful ally in the exuberant spirits of youth, when 
 the mind, uachilled by the sad realities of life, searches out for 
 novelty in those forms of sorrow, from which it afterwards may 
 turn for relief to the flickerings of mirth, and to brief snatches 
 of social pleasure. Perhaps ' Gorgeous Tragedy ' left a deeper 
 impression when she passed ' sweeping by ' my intellectual vi- 
 sion, then would have been otherwise received by a mind unapt 
 for so high a correspondence, by reason of the accident that the 
 glimpse was stolen. Denied by the conscientious scruples of 
 friends an early acquaintaace with plays, I had derived from Mrs. 
 More's » Sacred Dramas' my first sense of that peculiar enjoyment 
 w-hich the idea of dramatic action, however imperfectly conveyed, 
 gives ; and stiff and cumbrous as they now seem, I owe to their 
 author that debt of gratitude, which others may perhaps share 
 with me, who have first looked on the world of literature 
 through the net-work of most sincere but exclusive opinions. 
 These gave, however, but dim limits of the greatness which 
 was behind ; — I looked into the domain of tragedy as into a 
 mountain region covered with mist and cloud ; — and incapa- 
 ble of appreciating the deep humanities of Shakspere, * rested 
 and expatiated ' in the brocaded grandeurs of Dryden, Rowe, 
 
20 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 and Addison. To describe the delight with which, for the 
 first time, I saw the curtain of Covent Garden Theatre raised for 
 the representation of Cato, would be idle, — or how it was sustained 
 during the noble performance which followed, when the visions 
 of Roman constancy and classic grace, which had haunted the 
 mind through all its schoolboy years (then drawing to a close,) 
 seemed bodied forth in palpable form, when the poor common- 
 places of an artificial diction flowed ' mended from the tongue ' 
 of the actor, and the thoughtful words trembling on his lips sug- 
 gested at once the feeling of earthly weakness and of immortal 
 hope, — and w^hen the old Stoic, in his rigid grandeur, was recon- 
 ciled to the human heart by the struggle of paternal love, and 
 became ' passioned as ourselves,' without losing any portion of 
 that statue-like dignity which made him the representative of a 
 world of heroic dreamings. 
 
 " After this glimpse of the acted drama, I was long haunted by 
 the idle wish to write a tragedy ; and many hours did I happily, 
 but "vainly, spend in sober contemplations of its theme. I tried 
 to wreathe several romantic and impossible stories, which I 
 fashioned in my evening walks into acts, and began to write a 
 scene ; but however pleased I might be with the outline of these 
 fantasies, I was too much disgusted with the alternate baldness 
 and fustian of the blank verse, which I produced in the attempt 
 to execute them, to proceed. At this time also, just as the labo- 
 rious avocations of my life were commencing, my taste and feeling, 
 as applied to poetry, underwent an entire change, consequent on 
 my becoming acquainted with the poetry of Wordsworth. That 
 power which, slighted and scoffed at as it was then, has since 
 exerted a purifying influence on the literature of this country, 
 such as no other individual power has ever wrought ; which has 
 not only given to the material universe ' a speech and a language' 
 before unheard, but has opened new sources of enjoyment even 
 in the works of the greatest poets of past days, and imparted a 
 new sense by which we may relish them ; — which, while on the 
 one hand it has dissipated the sickly fascinations of gaudy phrase- 
 ology, has, on the other, cast around the loveliest conditions a new 
 and exquisite light, and traced out the links of good by which all 
 human things are bound together, and clothed our earthly life in 
 the solemnities which belong to its origin and its destiny — humbled 
 the pride of my swelling conceits, and taught me to look on the 
 mighty works of genius, not with the presumption of an imitator, 
 
PREFACE TO ION. 21 
 
 b\it with the veneration of a child. For the early enjoyment of 
 this great blessing, which the sneers of popular critics might 
 otherwise have withheld from me for years, I am indebted to my 
 friend Mr. Baron Field, a worthy and beloved associate of the 
 most original poets and thinkers of our time, who overcame my 
 reluctance to peruse what the ' Edinburgh Review ' had so trium- 
 phantly derided. The love of contemplative poetry, thus inspired, 
 led me, in such leisure as I could attain, rather to ponder over the 
 resources of the profoundest emotions, or to regard them as asso- 
 ciated with the majestic forms of the universe, than to follow 
 them into their violent conflicts and mournful catastrophes ; and 
 although I never ceased to regard the acted drama as the most 
 delightful of recreations, I sought no longer to work out a frigid 
 imitation of writers, whom alone I could hope to copy, and whose 
 enchantments were dissipated by more genial magic. 
 
 " But the tragic drama was about to revive amongst us, and I 
 was not insensible to its progress. Although the tragedies of the 
 last twelve years are not worthy to be compared with the noblest 
 productions of the great age of our drama, they are, with two or 
 three exceptions, far superior to any which had been written in 
 the interval. Since the last skirts of the glory of Shakspere's 
 age disappeared, we shall search in vain for serious plays of equal 
 power and beauty with Virginius, William Tell, Mirandola, 
 Hienzi, or the Merchant of London ; at least, if we except 
 Venice Preserved for the admirable conduct of its story, and 
 Douglas for that romantic tenderness and pathos which have been 
 too little appreciated of late years. It happened to me to be inti- 
 mately acquainted with all those who contributed to this impulse, 
 and to take an immediate interest in their successes. I also 
 enjoyed the friendship of the delightful artist to whom all have 
 by turns been indebted for the realization of their noblest concep- 
 tions, and was enabled to enjoy with more exquisite relish the 
 home-born affection with which those were endued, and the 
 poetical grain breathed around them, by finding the same influences 
 shed by Mr. Macready over the sphere of his social and domestic 
 life. It will not be surprising, that, to one thus associated, the 
 old wish to accomplish something in dramatic shape should recur, 
 not accompanied by the hopes of sharing in the scenic triumphs 
 of his friends, but bounded by the possibility of conducting a tale 
 through dialogue to a close, and of making it subserve to the 
 expression of some cherished thoughts. In this state of feeling, 
 
22 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 some years ago, the scheme of the drama of Ion presented itself 
 to me ; and after brooding over it for some time, I wrote a prose 
 outline of its successive scenes, nearly in the order and to the 
 effect in which they are now completed, and made some progress 
 in an opening scene of which little now remains. The attempt 
 was soon laid aside ; for I found the composition of dramatic 
 blank verse even more difficult now that I had present to me the 
 ease and vividness of my friends, than when I had been contented 
 lo emulate the ponderous lines of the dramatists of Garrick's age. 
 Still the idea of my hero occurred to me often ; I found my plea- 
 santest thoughts gathering about him ; and rather more than two 
 years ago I determined to make one essay more. Since that time, 
 such seasons of leisure as I could find have been devoted to the 
 work ; but I had so great distrust of my ability to complete it, 
 that I did not mention my design to any one ; and I cannot charge 
 myself with having permitted it to interfere with any professional 
 or private duty. At the close of last year, I found four acts 
 reduced into form. At this time, the sudden realization of 
 another youthful dream opened to me the prospect of additional 
 duties, which I knew full well ought to preclude the continuance 
 of those secret flirtations with the Muse in which I had indulged ; 
 and therefore I resolved to make a last effort, and, by completing 
 my drama before those duties should commence, to free myself 
 from the bondage of those threads of fantastical interest which 
 had woven themselves about my mind. I accordingly wrote the 
 fifth act with far more rapidity than any of the previous passages 
 of my play ; and, before I was called upon to share in more 
 momentous business, I had communicated to a few friends the 
 result of my scribblings, and bade adieu to my dramatic endeavours 
 and hopes. 
 
 " But it may well be asked. Why, with the sense I have 
 confessed of the feebleness of this poetical sketch, I venture to 
 intrude it on my friends ? My chief reason is, that I am anxious 
 to cast from my own mind the associations which have hung about 
 it during the composition of the poem, and which, while it 
 remained in manuscript susceptible of alteration, I could not cer- 
 tainly hope for ; and, further, to preclude the charge, (if it should 
 ever be brought to light hereafter,) that it had occupied leisure 
 which henceforth must be devoted to other studies. I have also 
 a desire to gratify myself by presenting it to my friends, especially 
 to those who are removed to a distance ; because, although as a 
 
PREFACE TO ION. 23 
 
 drama it is unworthy the attention of the world, yet, as contain- 
 ing thoughts which have passed through my own mind, it may be 
 acceptable to those whose conversation I can no longer enjoy. 
 It would be a sufficient reason to myself for printing it, that I 
 shall be able thus to remind Sir Edward Ryan, now, most honour- 
 ably to himself, and happily for India, Chief Justice of Bengal, 
 and his excellent colleague, Sir Benjamin Malkin, of the delight- 
 ful hours we have spent together on the Oxford circuit, when life 
 was younger with us, and when some of the topics they will find 
 just touched on in these verses were the themes of our graver 
 walks between Ross and Monmouth, or in the deep winding val- 
 leys indenting the table-land above Church Stretton, or haply by 
 moonlight in the Churchyard of Ross.* I take leave to mention 
 these, ««s far away ; but there are others of my fellow-labourers 
 at home, whose sympathy and whose conversation have cheered 
 my professional life, who I believe will receive it cordially ; and 
 among them I hope my sometime Sessions-leader, who has com- 
 mitted a similar offence, though with more extenuating circum- 
 stances, by investing with so much dignity of passion and richness 
 of language the story of the Countess of Essex, will not dis- 
 dain it." 
 
 With these views Ion was sent to the press, and presented to 
 many of my friends. The favour with which it was received by 
 some, whose approbation was most valuable, would have induced 
 me at once to publish it, if I had not been withheld by the sug- 
 gestion of Mr. Macready, that it would be effective in representa- 
 tion, and by the belief that any interest which might be excited 
 by such an attempt would be lessened by its previous sale. The 
 prospect, that, at least for one evening, the dull tracery of 
 thought, silently and laboriously woven, maght burst into light 
 at the torch of sympathy and become palpable to the senses and 
 
 * Since this reference to the friends of my early professional life was written, 
 Sir Edward Ryan has returned to his country to enjoy the just reward of his 
 labours in the East with the dignity of a Privy Councillor, and the satisfaction 
 of accepting with the honour attendant duties, which his judicial ability and 
 experience peculiarly fit him to discharge. The other, Sir Benjamin Malkin, 
 has been taken from this world in the prime of life, and in the fulness of his 
 powers,— leaving with us the recollection of an intellect as masculine and as 
 refined— of judgment and feeling as discriminating and just — and of social 
 qualities as warm and as equable, as have ever passed, by the mysterious 
 dispensation of Providence, from vigorous exercise into a memory and an 
 example. 
 
24 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 the affections of a multitude, was too delightful to be resigned, 
 and was ultimately realized by the friend who had opened it. 
 His consent to produce the Drama on the night of his benefit 
 secured it against painful repulse ; and, although I had still 
 no expectation that even he could endure it with sufficient 
 interest to render it attractive on ordinary occasions, I looked 
 forward to its single representation in the belief that it would 
 be tolerated by an audience disposed to be gratified, and that the 
 impression it might leave, however faint, would be genial and 
 pure. Many of those who had expressed the most favourable 
 opinions of the piece as a composition were even less sanguine 
 than myself as to the probable event of the evening, and appre- 
 hended that it would terminate in their mortification and my own. 
 They did not perceive the possibility of infusing such life into the 
 character of its youthful hero, as would bring the whole fable 
 within the sphere of human sympathies ; reconcile the audience 
 to its machinery ; and render that which seemed only consistent 
 in its dreaminess, at once entire and real. Such was, however, 
 unquestionably the effect of Mr. Macready's performance on that 
 evening, which I believe, — in the judgment of many who cannot 
 be influenced, like the author, by personal regard or individual 
 gratitude, — was one of the most remarkable triumphs of art which 
 have graced the stage of late years. Although other of his per- 
 formances are abstractedly greater, none I believe approach this 
 as an effort of art, estimated with reference to the nature of the 
 materials which he animated, to difficulties which he subdued, 
 and to the preconceptions which he charmed away. By the 
 graces of beautiful elocution, he beguiled the audience to receive 
 the Drama as belonging to a range of associations which are no 
 longer linked with the living world, but which retain an undying 
 interest of a gentler cast, as a thing which might have been ; and 
 then, by his fearful power of making the fantastic real, he gradu- 
 ally rendered the whole possible — probable — true ! The conse- 
 quence of this extraordinary power of vivifying the frigid, and 
 familiarizing the remote, was to dissipate the fears of my friends; 
 to render the play an object of attraction during the short remain- 
 der of the season ; and to embolden others to attempt the part, 
 and encourage other audiences to approve it, even when the power 
 which first gave it sanction was wanting. 
 
 How little it was anticipated that the success of the first per- 
 formance would justify its repetition, may be gathered from the 
 
PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 25 
 
 Prologue, which was spoken on that occasion by Mr. Serle — a 
 gentleman, whose earnest and laborious pursuit of excellence as 
 a dramatic poet and an actor, from early youth I have W9,tched 
 with admiration ; whose success I have hailed with delight ; and 
 Jirough whom I was most happy to express my feelings. 
 
 " What airy visions on a pjay's first night 
 Have flush'd refulgent here on poet's sight! 
 While emulous of glory's stainless wreath, 
 He felt ' the future in the instant' breathe : 
 Saw in the soften'd gleam of radiant eyes 
 The sacred tear through lids yet tearless rise; 
 Made to each fervid heart the great appeal 
 To bear him witness — stamp'd with living seal — 
 «• Of passion into forms of grandeur wrought, 
 
 Or grief by beauty tinged, or raised by thought : 
 As cordial hands their liberal boon conferr'd. 
 Fame's awful whisper in the distance heard, 
 Now shrunk from nicest fear, from fancied scorn, 
 Now glow'd with hope for 'ages yet unborn.' 
 
 "With no such trembling sense of inward power 
 Our author seeks to win his little hour. 
 While to your transient glance, he dares unveil 
 The feeble outlines o-f a Grecian tale. 
 He boasts no magic skill your souls to draw 
 Within the circle of Athenian awe ; 
 Where Fate on all things solemn beauty throws, 
 And shapes heroic mourn in stern repose; 
 Or to reveal the faihe where genius tips 
 With love's immortal lustre heavenly lips, 
 Where airs divine yet breathe around forms so fair, 
 That Time enamour'd has been charm'd to spare 
 Nor his the power which deeds of old imbues 
 With present life, and tints with various hues ; 
 Casts glowing passion in heroic moulds. 
 And makes young feelings burn 'neath ancient folds: 
 Unlearn'd in arts like these, he seeks to cast 
 One faint reflection from the glorious past; 
 A narrow space his fond ambition bounds, — 
 His little scenic life this evening rounds! 
 
 " O ! if some image pure a moment play 
 O'er the soul's mirror ere- it pass away ; 
 If from some chance-sown thought a genial nerve 
 Should, heart-strung, quicken virtue's cause to serve; 
 
 3 
 
26 PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 Let these slight gifts the breath of kindness claim 
 For one night's bubble on the sea of Fame, 
 Which tempts no aid, which future praise insures, — 
 But lives — glows — trembles — and expires in yours 1" 
 
 The part of the heroine, which affords too little scope for the 
 development of tragic power, was on this night graced by the ele- 
 gance and the pathos of Miss Ellen Tree, which, as personated on 
 that night, will long be perpetuated by the genius and taste of 
 Mr. Lane. As her engagements at the Haymarket rendered it 
 impossible for her to repeat the character at Covent Garden, the 
 Drama was indebted to the zeal and good-nature of Miss Helen 
 Faucit for accepting it under these peculiar circumstances, and 
 studying it within a few days, and to her talent for giving to it an 
 importance which the author could not hope for from the faint- 
 ness of its outline. Its subsequent production at the Haymarket 
 calls for a sincere acknowledgment to Mr. Morris, the veteran 
 manager of that delightful place of entertainment, and to all the 
 members of his company, especially to Mr. Vandenhoff, for his 
 kingly personation of Adrastus : to Miss Taylor, for her earnest 
 and affecting Clemanthe; and, most of all, to the original repre- 
 sentative of the heroine, who now illustrated the hero, and who 
 has made the story of his sufferings and his virtues familiar to 
 Transatlantic ears. Who is there who does not feel proud of 
 the just appreciation, by the great American people, of one who 
 is not only the exquisite representative of a range of delightful 
 characters, but of all that is most graceful and refined in English 
 womanhood, — or fail to cherish a wish for her fame and happi- 
 ness, as if she were a personal friend or relation of his own ? 
 
 There is one circumstance attendant on the circulation of this 
 Drama, which has afforded me peculiar gratification — that it has 
 been read without disapproval by many of those estimable persons 
 whose conscientious scruples withhold them from the theati'e, 
 and has won some of them to confess that there is nothing in the 
 form of dramatic poetry necessarily akin to guilty passions and 
 ignoble aims. I am well aware, that it is indebted for this for- 
 tune not to any tone of moral feeling superior to that which is to 
 be felt in its more powerful contemporaries, but to the incidental 
 relations of its author, and to the manner of its original distribu- 
 tion ; and I refer to it, therefore, with pleasure rather than with 
 pride. If such as these are still deterred from sharing in the re- 
 fined enjoyments of the acted drama, and from permitting their 
 
PREFACE TO ION. 27 
 
 children to receive from it the vivid impressions which it leaves, 
 by a just fear of the accidental influeiices with which it has been too 
 frequently associated, they may be assured that an opportunity is 
 now offered to them of accepting the benefit without the alloy. 
 They will find one of those great theatres — where alone the might- 
 iest effects of heroic action and suffering can ever be felt, or their 
 greatness fitly presented, — under the direction of an artist whose 
 personal worth might grace any profession or rank, and who, in 
 seeking to dissipate the languor which has crept over the general 
 heart in reference to the stage, at the sacrifice of his own health 
 and ease, and the risk of his well-earned fortune, has had the 
 virtue and the courage to cast away all vicious appliances, and to 
 discourage every blandishment except those by which Art em- 
 bodies the conceptions of Genius. To Covent Garden Theatre the 
 sternest moralist may now conduct those whose moral nurture he 
 regards as his most anxious and most delightful duty, without fear 
 lest their minds should be diverted from the blameless gaieties or 
 noble passion of the scene by intrusive suggestions of vice, which 
 he would screen, as far as possible from their thoughts.* If, in- 
 deed, dramatic representation itself is essentially evil ; if it is a 
 crime to render historic truths more vivid by calling forth its 
 august figures from the depth of time and the silence of books, 
 ' in their habits as they lived ;' if it is a sin to displace the vapi- 
 dity of conversation, revolving in its own small circle of personal 
 experiences, by presenting the genial eccentricities of character 
 to be at once laughed at and loved, and imagining the graces of 
 society without its bitterness ; if it is an offence against the Benefi- 
 cent Author of our Being, « to hold a mirror up' to the nature he 
 has moulded, in which its grandest and its fairest varieties shall 
 be reflected in the happiest combinations, as that choicest of all 
 His human works — a poet's soul — has cast them ; the attempts to 
 remove from the magic glass all external impurities must be fruit- 
 
 * The effort which, at the time when these remarks were written, was in pro- 
 gress at Covent Garden Theatre, has since been repeated at Drury Lane Thea- 
 tre, at a more costly sacrifice, and with more perfect success. If the loss nightly 
 incurred by the extinction of those temptations to profligacy, which used to in- 
 sure a receipt at second price, amounting in the course of the season to a large 
 sum, was not compensated by the attendance of many who have shunned the 
 thfi'atre on the plea of their existence, it has at least conclusively shown that 
 there is no inevitable connexion between the blandishments which relax and 
 oervert the heart of youth and the images of action and suffering which enrich it 
 —and that consciousness is doubtless its own reward. 
 
2S PREFACE TO ION. 
 
 less. But if there are those who, while they hold the faith and 
 morals of Milton, are not afraid to accept his precept and to fol- 
 low his example, I would entreat of them to assist the lessee of a 
 great national theatre in his generous struggle to rescue the stage 
 from the pollutions which have too long debased it. I urge this 
 on them thus earnestly, because in proportion as the dissipated 
 and frivolous have withdrawn from this intellectual enjoyment, it 
 becomes their province to sustain it ; because I firmly believe 
 that its maintenance is most important to the expansion of all that 
 is social, and to the nurture of all that is great within us; be- 
 cause I deem it — not as an instructor in the way of direct moral 
 invitation or purpose — but as dissolving the crust of selfishness 
 which daily cares and labours gi-adually form about the kindest 
 hearts — as softening the pride of conventional virtue, and bringing 
 the outcasts of humanity within its sphere ; and as combining all 
 the picturesque varieties which external distinctions present with 
 the sense of the noble equality which lies beneath them. If the 
 introduction of this Drama to the^notice of some who have hith- 
 erto abstained from visiting the theatre by objection to extrinsic 
 circumstances, should induce them to enjoy the representation. of 
 plays of far deeper sentiment and far more vivid passion, it will 
 not have been written nor acted in vain. 
 
 London, lith November, 1837. 
 
I N; 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The Interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is sup- 
 posed to be placed on a rocky eminence. Early morning. The 
 interior lighted by a sin gW lamp suspended from the roof. 
 Agenor resting against a column ; — Irus seated on a bench 
 
 at the side of the scene. 
 ■If '' 
 
 Agenor comes forward and speaks. 
 
 Age. Will the dawn never visit us ? These hours 
 Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear 
 To do the work of desolating years ! 
 All distant sounds are hush'd; — the shriek of death 
 And the survivors' wail are now unheard, 
 As grief had worn itself to patience. Irus ! 
 I'm loth so soon to break thy scanty rest, 
 But my heart sickens for the tardy morn ; 
 Is it not breaking ? — speed and look — -yet hold, 
 Know'st thou the fearful shelf of rock that hangs 
 Above the encroaching waves, the loftiest point 
 That stretches eastward ? 
 
 Irus. Know it ? O full well ! 
 
 There often have I bless'd the opening day, 
 Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste 
 In happy wandering through the forests. 
 
 Age. Well, 
 
 Thou art not then afraid to tread it ; there 
 
 The earliest streak from the unrisen sun 
 3# 
 
30 ION. [act I. 
 
 Is to be welcomed; — tell me how it gleams, 
 In bloody portent or in saffron hope, 
 And hasten back to slumber. 
 
 Irus. I shall hasten : 
 
 Believe not that thy summons broke my rest ; 
 I was not sleeping. [Exit Irus. 
 
 Age. Heaven be with thee, child ! 
 
 His grateful mention of delights bestow'd 
 On that most piteous state of servile childhood 
 By liberal words chance dropp'd, hath touch'd a vein 
 Of feeling which I deem'd for ever numb'd, 
 And, by a gush of household memories, breaks 
 The icy casing of that thick despair 
 Which day by day hath gather'd o'er my heart, 
 While, basely safe, within this column 'd circle, 
 Uplifted far into the purer air 
 And by Apollo's partial love> secured, 
 I have, in spirit, glided with the plague 
 As in foul darkness or in sickliest light 
 It wafted death through Argos ; and mine ears, 
 Listening athirst for any human sound. 
 Have caught the dismal cry of confused pain, 
 Which to this dizzy height the fitful wind 
 Hath borne from each sad quarter of the vale 
 Where life was. 
 
 Re-enter Irus. 
 
 Are there signs of day-break ? 
 
 Irus. None ; 
 
 The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom. 
 
 Age. It cannot surely be. Thine eyes are dim 
 (No fault of thine) for want of rest, or now 
 I look upon them near, with scalding tears. 
 Hath care alighted on a head so young ? 
 What grief hast thou been weeping ? 
 
 Irus. Pardon me ; 
 
 I never thought at such a mournful time 
 To plead my humble sorrow in excuse 
 Of poorly-rendered service : but my brother — 
 Thou mayst have noted him., — a sturdy lad, 
 
SCENE I.] ION. 31 
 
 With eyes so merry and with foot so light 
 That none could chide his gamesomeness — fell sick 
 But yesterday, and die.d in my weak arms 
 Ere I could seek for stouter aid ; 1 hoped 
 That I had taught my grief to veil its signs 
 From thy observant care ; but when I stood 
 Upon the well-known terrace where we loved, 
 Arm linked in arm to watch the gleaming sails — 
 His favourite pastime, for he burned to share 
 A seaman's hardy lot, — my tears would flow, 
 And I forgot to dry them. But I see 
 Cleon is walking yonder ; let me call him ; 
 For nt must cheer thy heart to speak with him. 
 
 Age. Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep, 
 Or, if thou wilt, to weep. \Etxit Irus. 
 
 I envy thee 
 The privilege, but Jupiter Jorefend 
 That I should rob thee of it! 
 
 Emter Cleon. 
 
 Cleon. Hail, Agenor ! 
 
 Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet 
 To find thy age unstricken. 
 
 Age. Rather mourn 
 
 That I am destined still to linger here 
 In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me. 
 I chide these sinews that are framed so tough 
 Grief cannot palsy them ; I chide the air 
 Which round this citadel of nature breathes 
 W'^ith sweetness not of this world ; I would share 
 The common grave of my dear countrymen, 
 And sink to rest while all familiar things 
 Old custom has endear'd are failing with me, 
 Rather than shiver on in life behind them 
 Nor should these walls detain me from the paths 
 Where death may be embraced, but that my word, 
 In a rash moment plighted to our host, 
 Forbids me to depart without his licence. 
 Which firmly he refuses. 
 
 Cleon. Do not chide me 
 
32 ION. [act I. 
 
 If I rejoice to find the generous Priest 
 
 Means, with Apollo's blessing, to preserve 
 
 The treasure of thy wisdom ; — nay, he trusts not 
 
 To promises alone ; his gates are barr'd 
 
 Against thy egress : — none, indeed, may pass them 
 
 Save the youth Ion, to whose earnest prayer 
 
 His foster-father grants reluctant leave 
 
 To visit the sad city at his will : 
 
 And freely does he use the dangerous boon, 
 
 Which, in my thought, the love that cherish'd him 
 
 Since he was found within the sacred OTOve 
 
 Smiling amidst the storm, a most rare infant, 
 
 Should have had sternness to deny. 
 
 Age. What, Ion 
 
 The only inmate of this fane allow'd 
 To seek the mournful walks where death is busy ! — 
 Ion our sometime darling, whom we prized 
 As a stray gift by bounteous Heaven dismiss'd 
 From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud 
 To make the happy happier ! Is he sent 
 To grapple with the miseries of this time, 
 Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears 
 As it would perish at the touch of wrong? 
 By no internal contest is he train'd 
 For such hard duty ; no emotions rude 
 Hath his clear spirit vanquish'd ; — Love, the germ 
 or his mild nature, hath spread graces forth, 
 Ex:panding with its progress, as the store 
 Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals 
 Shsds out its tints from its dim treasury. 
 To flush and circle in the flower. No tear 
 Hath fiU'd his eye save that of thoughtful joy 
 When in the evening stillness, lovely things 
 Press'd on his soul too busily ; his voice, 
 If, in the earnestness of childish sports, 
 Raised to the tone of anger, check'd its force, 
 As if it fear'd to break its being's law, 
 And falter'd into music ; when the forms 
 Of guilty passion have been made to live 
 In pictured speech, and others have wax'd loud 
 
SCENE I.] TON. 33 
 
 In righteous indignation, he hath heard 
 With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein 
 Of goodness, which surrounding gloom conceal'd,' 
 Struck sunlight o'er it : so his life hath flow'd 
 From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, 
 In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure 
 Alone are mirror'd ; which, though shapes of ill 
 May hover round its surface, glides in light, 
 And takes no shadow from them. 
 
 Cleon. Yet, methinks, . 
 
 Thou hast not lately met him, or a change 
 Pass'd strangely on him had not miss'd thy wonder. 
 His* form appears dilated ; in those eyes 
 Where pleasure danced, a thoughful sadness dwells; 
 Stern purpose knits the forehead, which till now 
 Knew not the passing wrinkle of a care ; 
 Those limbs which in their heedless motion own'd 
 A stripling's playful happiness, are strung 
 As if the iron hardships of the camp 
 Had given them sturdy nurture ; and his step. 
 Its airiness of yesterday forgotten, 
 Awakes the echoes of these desolate courts, 
 As if a hero of gigantic mould 
 Paced them in armour. 
 
 Age. Hope is in thy tale. 
 
 This is no freak of Nature's wayward course, 
 But work of pitying Heaven; for not in vain 
 The gods have pour'd into that guileless heart 
 The strengths that nerve the hero ; — they are ours. 
 
 Cleon. How can he aid us ? Can he stay the pulse 
 Of ebbing life, — arrest the infected winds, 
 Or smite the hungry spectre of the grave ? 
 
 Age. And dost thou think these breezes are our foes,— 
 The innocent airs that used to dance around us. 
 As if they felt the blessings they convey'd, 
 Or that the death they bear is casual ? No ! 
 'Tis human guilt that blackens in the cloud. 
 Flashes athwart its mass in jagged fire, 
 Whirls in the hurricane, pollutes the air. 
 Turns all the joyous melodies of earth 
 
34 ION. [act ] 
 
 To murmurings of doom. There is a foe 
 
 Who in the glorious summit of the state 
 Draw« down the great resentment of the gods, 
 "Whom he defies to strike us ; — yet his power 
 Partakes that just infirmity which Nature 
 Blends in the empire of her proudest sons — 
 That it is cased within a single breast, 
 And may be plucked thence by a single arm. 
 Let but that arm, selected by the gods, 
 Do its great office on the tyrant's life, 
 And Argos breathes again ! 
 
 Cleon. A footstep ! — hush ! 
 
 Thy wishes, falling on a slavish ear. 
 Would tempt another outrage ; 'tis a friend — 
 An honest though a crabbed one — Timocles : 
 Something hath ruffled him. — Good day, Timocles ! 
 
 [Timocles passes in front. 
 He will not speak to us. 
 
 Age. But he shall speak. 
 
 Timocles — nay then, thus I must enforce thee ; 
 
 [Staying him. 
 Thou wilt not cast from thee a comrade's hand 
 That may be cold ere sunset. 
 
 Timocles {giving his hand). Thou mayst school me ; 
 Thy years and love have licence : but I own not 
 A stripling's mastery ; is't fit, Agenor ? 
 
 Age. Ngy, thou must tell thy wrong ; whate'er it prove; 
 I hail thy anger as a hopeful sign, 
 For it revives the thought of household days. 
 When the small bickerings of friends had space 
 To fret, and Death was not for ever nigh 
 To frown upon Estrangement. What has moved thee ? 
 
 Tim. I blush to tell it. Weary of the night 
 And of my life, I sought the "western portal: 
 It open'd, when ascending from the stair 
 That through the rock winds spiral from the town, 
 Ion, the foundling cherish'd by the Priest, 
 Stood in the entrance : with such mild command 
 As he has often smilingly obey'd, 
 I bade him stand aside and let me pass ; 
 
SCENE I.] ION. 35 
 
 When — wouldst thou think it? — in determined speech 
 He gave me counsel to return ; I press'd 
 Impatient onward : he, witii honied phrase 
 His daring act excusing, grasp'd my arm 
 With strength resistless ; led me from the gate ; 
 Replaced its ponderous bars ; and, with a look 
 As modest as he wore in childhood, left me. 
 
 Age. And thou wilt thank him for it soon ; he comes — 
 Now hold thy angry purpose if thou canst ! 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 Ion. I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore 
 A^ain thy pardon. I am young in trust, 
 And fear lest in the earnestness of love, 
 I stay'd thy course too rudely. Thou hast borne 
 My childish folly often, — do not frown 
 If I have ventured with unmanner'd zeal 
 To guard the ripe experience of years 
 From one rash moment's danger. 
 
 Tim. Leave thy care. 
 
 If I am weary of the flutterer life, 
 Is mortal bidding thus to cage it in ? 
 
 Ion. And art thou tired of being ? Has the grave 
 No terrors for thee ? Hast thou sunder'd quite 
 Those thousand meshes which old custom weaves 
 To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films 
 With airy lustre various ? Hast subdued 
 Those cleavings of the spirit to its prison, 
 Those nice regards, dear habits, pensive memories, 
 That change the valour of the thoughtful breast 
 To brave dissimulation of its fears ? 
 Is Hope quench'd in thy bosom ? Thou art free, 
 And in the simple dignity of man 
 Standest apart untempted : — do not lose 
 The great occasion thou hast pluck'd from misery, 
 Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair, 
 But use it nobly ! 
 
 Tim. What, to strike ? to slay ? 
 
 Ion. No ! — not unless the audible voice of Heaven 
 Call thee to that dire office ; but to shed 
 
36 ION. [act l 
 
 On ears abused hj falsehood, truths of power 
 
 In words immortal, — not such words as flash 
 
 From the fierce demagogue's unthinking rage, 
 
 To madden for a moment and expire, — 
 
 Nor such as the rapt orator imbues 
 
 With warmth of facile sympathy, and moulds 
 
 To mirrors radiant with fair images, 
 
 To grace the noble fervour of an hour ; — 
 
 But words which bear the spirits of great deeds 
 
 Wing'd for the Future ; which the dying breath 
 
 Of Freedom's martyr shapes as it exhales, 
 
 And to the most enduring forms of earth 
 
 Commits — to linger in the craggy shade 
 
 Of the huge valley, 'neath the eagle's home. 
 
 Or in the sea-cave where the tempest sleeps, 
 
 Till some heroic leader bid them wake 
 
 To thrill the world with echoes ! — But I talk 
 
 Of things above my grasp, which strangely press 
 
 Upon my soul, and tempt me to forget 
 
 The duties of my youth; — pray you forgive me. 
 
 Tim. Have I not said so 1 
 
 Age. Welcome to the morn ! 
 
 The eastern gates unfold, the Priest approaches ; 
 
 [As Agenor speaks, the great gates at the back of the 
 scene open ; the sea is discovered far beneath, — the 
 dawn breaking over it ; Medon, the Priest, enters 
 attended. 
 And lo ! the sun is struggling with the gloom. 
 Whose masses fill the eastern sky, and tints 
 Its edges with dull red ; — but he loill triumph ; 
 Bless'd be the omen ! 
 
 Me. God of light and joy, 
 
 Once more refresh us with thy healing beams 
 If I may trace thy language in the clouds 
 That wait upon thy rising, help is nigh — 
 But help achieved in blood. 
 
 Ion. Say'st thou in blood ? 
 
 Me. Yes, Ion ! — why, he sickens at the word. 
 Spite of his new-born strength ;— the sights of woe 
 
SCENE I.] ION. 37 
 
 That he will seek have shed iheir paleness on him. 
 Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow ? 
 
 Ion. I passed the palace where the frantic king 
 Yet holds his crimson revel, ^vhence the roar 
 Of desperate mirth came mingling with the sigh 
 Of death-subdued robustness, and the gleam 
 Of festal lamps 'mid spectral columns hung 
 Flaunting o'er shapes of anguish made them ghastlier. 
 How can I cease to tremble for the sad ones 
 He mocks — and him the wretchedest of all ? 
 
 Tim. And canst thou pity him ?■ Dost thou discern, 
 Amidst his impious darings, plea for him ? 
 
 Ion. Is he not childless, friendless, and a king ? 
 He's human ; and some pulse of good must live 
 Within his nature — have ye tried to wake it? 
 
 Me. Yes ; I believe he felt our sufferings once ; 
 Wlien, at my strong entreaty, he despatch'd 
 Phocion my son to Delphos, there to seek 
 Our cause of sorrow ; but as time dragg'd on 
 Without his messenger's return, he grew 
 Impatient of all counsel, — to his palace 
 In awful mood retiring, wildly call'd 
 The reckless of his court to share his stores 
 And end all with him. When we dared disturb 
 His dreadful feastings with a humble prayer 
 That he would meet us, the poor slave, who bore 
 The message, flew back smarting from the scourge, 
 And mutter'd a decree that he who next 
 Unbidden met the tyrant's glance should die. 
 
 Age. I am prepared to brave it. 
 
 Clean. So am I. 
 
 Tim. And I — 
 
 Ion. O Sages, do not think my prayer 
 
 Bespeaks unseemly forwardness — send mo ! 
 The coarsest reed that trembles in the marsh. 
 If Heaven select it for its instrument, 
 May shed celestial music on the breeze 
 As clearly as the pipe whose virgin gold 
 Befits the lip of Phoebus ; — ye are wise ; 
 And needed by your country ; ye are fathers ; 
 4 
 
38 ION. [act I. 
 
 I am a lone stray thing, whose little life 
 By strangers' bounty cherisli'd, like a wave 
 That from the summer sea a wanton breeze 
 Lifts for a moment's sparkle, will subside 
 Light as it rose, nor leave a sigh in breaking. 
 
 Me. Ion, no sigh ! 
 
 Ion. Forgive me if I seem'd 
 
 To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if I fall; 
 Nor would I tax thy love with such a fear, 
 But that high promptings, which could never rise 
 Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead 
 Thus boldly for the mission. 
 
 Me. My brave boy ! 
 
 It shall be as thou wilt. I see thou art call'd 
 To this great peril, and I will not stay thee. 
 When wilt thou be prepared to seek it? 
 
 Ion. Now. 
 
 Only before I go, thus, on my knee, 
 Let me in one word thank thee for a life 
 Made by thy love one cloudless holiday ; 
 And 0, my more than father ! let me look 
 Up to thy face as if indeed a father's, 
 And give me a son's blessing. 
 
 Me. Bless thee, son ! 
 
 I should be marble now ; let's part at once. 
 
 Ion. If I should not return, bless Phocion for me ; 
 And, for Clemanthe may I speak one word, 
 One parting word with my fair playfellow ? 
 
 Me. If thou wouldst have it so, thou shalt. 
 
 Ion. Farewell then ! 
 
 Your prayers wait on my steps. The arm of Heaven 
 I feel in life or death will be around me. [Exit. 
 
 Me. O grant it be in life ! Let's to the sacrifice. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — An Apartment of the Temple. 
 
 Enter Clemanthe followed by Habra. 
 
 Clc. Is he so changed ? 
 
 Habra. His bearing is so alter'd, 
 
SCENE II.] ION. 89 
 
 That, distant, I scarce knew him for himself; 
 But, looking in his face, I felt his smile 
 Gracious as ever, though his sweetness wore 
 Unwonted sorrow in it. 
 
 Cle. He will go 
 
 To some high fortune, and forget us all, 
 Reclaim'd (be sure of it) by noble parents ; 
 Me he forgets already ; for five days, 
 Five melancholy days, I have not seen him. 
 
 Habi'a. Thou knowest that he has privilege to range 
 The infected city ; and, 'tis said he spends 
 The hours of needful rest in squalid hovels 
 Wlrere death is most forsaken. 
 
 Cle. Why is this ? 
 
 Why should my father, niggard of the lives 
 Of aged men, be prodigal of youth 
 So rich in glorious prophecy as his ? 
 
 Habra. He comes to answer for himself. I'll leave you. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Cle. Stay ! Well my heart may guard its secret best 
 By its own strength. 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 Ion. How fares my pensive sister ? 
 
 Cle. How should I fare but ill when the pale hand 
 Draws the black foldings of the eternal curtain 
 Closer and closer round us — Phocion absent — 
 And thou, forsaking all within thy home. 
 Wilt risk thy life with strangers, in whose aid 
 Even thou canst do but little ? 
 
 Ion. It is little : 
 
 But in these sharp extremities of fortune. 
 The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter 
 Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing 
 To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 
 Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips, 
 May give a shock of pleasure to the frame 
 More exquisite than when Nectarean juice 
 Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. 
 It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
 
40 ION. [act I. 
 
 Of common comfort which by daily use 
 
 Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear 
 
 Of him who thought to die unmourn'd, 'twill fall 
 
 Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye 
 
 With gentle tears ; relax the knotted hand 
 
 To know the bonds of fellowship again; 
 
 And shed on the departing soul a sense, 
 
 More precious than the benison of friends 
 
 About the honour'd death-bed of the rich, 
 
 To him who else w^ere lonely, that anothei 
 
 Of the great family is near and feels. 
 
 Cle. 0, thou canst never bear these mournful offices 
 So blithe, so merry once ! Will not the sight 
 Of frenzied agonies unfix thy reason, 
 Or the dumb woe congeal thee ? 
 
 Ion. No, Clemanthe : 
 
 They are the patient sorrows that touch nearest ! 
 If thou hadst seen the warrior when he writhed 
 In the last grapple of his sinewy frame 
 With conquering anguish strive to cast a smile 
 (And not in vain) upon his fragile wife. 
 Waning beside him, — and, his limbs composed, 
 The widow of the moment fix her gaze 
 Of longing, speechless love upon the babe. 
 The only living thing which yet was hers. 
 Spreading its arms for its own resting-place 
 Yet with attenuated hand wave off 
 The unstricken child, and so embraceless die 
 Stifling the mighty hunger of the heart; 
 Thou couldst endure the sight of selfish grief 
 In sullenness or frenzy ; — but to-day 
 Another lot falls on me. 
 
 Cle. Thou wilt leave us ' 
 
 I read it plainly in thy altered mien ; 
 Is it for ever ? 
 
 Ion. That is with the gods! 
 
 I go but to the palace, urged by hope, 
 Which from afar hath darted on my soul, 
 That to the humbleness of one like me 
 The haughty king may listen. 
 
SCENE II.] ION. 41 
 
 Cle. To the palace ! 
 
 Knovvest thou the peril — nay the certain issue 
 That waits thee ? Death ! — the tyrant has decrefed it 
 Confirm'd it with an oath ; and he has power 
 To keep that oath ; for, hated as he is, 
 The reckless soldiers who partake his riot 
 Are swift to do his bidding. 
 
 Ion. I know all ! 
 
 But they who call me to the work can shield me, 
 Or make me strong to suffer. 
 
 Cle. Then the sword 
 
 Falls on thy neck ! O Gods ! to think that thou, 
 Who in the plenitude of youthful life 
 Art now before me, ere the sun decline, 
 Perhaps in one short hour, shall lie cold, cold. 
 To speak, smile, bless no more! — Thou shalt not go! 
 
 Ion. Thou must not stay me, fair one ; even thy father, 
 Who (blessings on him !) loves me as his son, 
 Yields to the will of Heaven. 
 
 Cle. And he can do this ! 
 
 I shall not bear his presence if thou fallest 
 By his consent ; so shall I be alone. 
 
 Ion. Phocion will soon return, and juster thoughts 
 Of thy admiring father close the gap 
 Thy old companion left behind him. 
 
 Cle. Never ! 
 
 What will to me be father, brother, friends, 
 When thou art gone — the light of our life quench'd — • 
 Haunting like spectres of departed joy 
 The home where thou wert dearest ? 
 
 Ion. Thrill me not 
 
 With words that, in their agony, suggest 
 A hope too ravishing — or my head will swim, 
 And my heart faint within me. 
 
 Cle. Has my speech 
 
 Such blessed power ? I will not mourn it then, 
 Though it hath told a secret I had borne 
 Till death in silence : — how afTection grew 
 To this I know not ; — day succeeded day, 
 Each fraught with the same innocent delights, 
 4^ 
 
42 ION. [ACT I. 
 
 Without one shock to ruffle the disguise 
 Of sisterly regard which veil'd it well, 
 Till thy chang'd mien reveai'd it to my soul 
 And thy great peril makes me bold to tell it. 
 Do not despise it in me ! 
 
 Ion. With deep joy 
 
 Thus I receive it. Trust me, it is long 
 Since I have learn'd to tremble 'midst our pleasures, 
 Lest I should break the golden dream around me 
 With most ungratefu] rashness. I should bless 
 The sharp and perilous duty which hath press'd 
 A life's deliciousness into these moments, — 
 Which here must end. I came to say farewell, 
 And the word must be said. 
 
 Cle. Thou canst not mean it ! 
 
 Have I disclaimed all maiden bashfulness, 
 To tell the cherished secret of my soul 
 To my soul's master, and in rich return 
 Obtain'd the dear assurance of his love, 
 To hear him speak that miserable word 
 I cannot — will not echo ? 
 
 Ion. Heaven has call'd me, 
 
 And I have pledged my honour. When thy heart 
 Bestow'd its preference on a friendless boy, 
 Thou didst not image him a recreant ; nor 
 Must he prove so, by thy election crown'd. 
 Thou hast endow'd me with a right to claim 
 Thy help through this our journey, be its course 
 Lengthen'd to age, or in an hour to end ; 
 And now I ask it ! — bid my courage hold, 
 And with thy free approval send me forth 
 In soul apparell'd for my office ! 
 
 Cle. Go ! 
 
 I would not have thee other than thou art, 
 Living or dying — and if thou shouldst fall — 
 
 Ion. Be sure I shall return. 
 
 Cle. If thou shouldst fall, 
 
 I shall be happier as the affianced bride 
 Of thy cold ashes, than in proudest fortunes — 
 Thine — ever thine — [She faints in his arms. 
 
SCENE 1.] ION. 43 
 
 Ion. {calls) Habra ! — So best to part — 
 
 Enter Habra. 
 Let her have air ; be near her through the day ; 
 1 know thy tenderness — should ill news come 
 Of any friend, she will require it all. 
 
 [Habra hears Clemanthe out. 
 Ye Gods, that have enrich'd the life ye claim 
 With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Scene I. — A Terrace of the Palace. 
 Adrastus, Crythes. 
 
 Adras. The air breathes freshly after our long night 
 Of glorious revelry. I'll walk awhile. 
 
 Cry. It blows across the town ; dost thou not fear 
 It bear infection with it? 
 
 Adras. Fear ! dost talk 
 
 Of fear to me ? I deem'd even thy poor thoughts 
 Had better scann'd their master. Prithee tell me 
 In what act, word, or look, since I have borne 
 Thy converse here, hast thou discern'd such baseness 
 As makes thee bold to prate to me of fear? 
 
 Cry. My liege, of human might all know thee 
 But may not heroes shun the elements [fearless, 
 
 When sickness taints them ? 
 
 Adras, Let them blast me now !— • 
 
 I stir not; tremble not; these massive walls, 
 Whose date o'erawes tradition, gird the home 
 Of a great race of kings, along whose line 
 The eager mind lives aching, through the da*rkness 
 Of ages else unstoried, till its shapes 
 Of armed sovereigns spread to godlike port. 
 And, frowning in the uncertain dawn of time, 
 Strike awe, as powers who ruled an elder world, 
 
44 ION. [act II. 
 
 In mute obedience. I, sad heritor 
 
 Of all their glories, feel our doom is nigh ; 
 
 And I will meet it as befits their fame : 
 
 Nor will I vary my selected path 
 
 The breadth of my sword's edge, nor check a wish, 
 
 If such unkingly yielding might avert it. 
 
 Cry. Thou art ever royal in thy thoughts. 
 
 Adras. No more — 
 
 I would be private. [Exit Crythes. 
 
 Grovelling parasite ! 
 Why should I waste these fate-environ'd hours, 
 And pledj?e my great defiance to despair 
 With flatterers such as thou ! — as if my joys 
 Required the pale reflections cast by slaves 
 In mirror'd mockery round my throne, or lack'd 
 The aid of reptile sympathies to stream 
 Through fate's black pageantry ? Let weakness seek 
 Companionship : I'll henceforth feast alone. 
 
 Enter a Soldier. 
 
 Soldier, My liege, forgive me, — 
 
 Adras. Well ! Speak out at once 
 
 Thy business, and retire. 
 
 Soldier. I have no part 
 
 In the presumptuous message that I bear. 
 
 Adras. Tell it, or go. There is no time to waste 
 On idle terrors. 
 
 Soldier. Thus it is, my lord : 
 
 As we were burnishing our arms, a man 
 Enter'd the court, and when we saw him first 
 Was tending towards the palace ; in amaze. 
 We hail'd the rash intruder ; still he walk'd 
 Unheeding onward, till the western gate 
 Barr'd further course ; then turning, he besought 
 Our startled band to herald him to thee, 
 That he might urge a message which the sages 
 Had charged him to deliver. 
 
 Adras. Ah ! the graybeards 
 
 Who, 'mid the altars of the gods, conspire 
 To cast the image of supernal power 
 
SCENE I.] ION. 45 
 
 Prom earth its shadow consecrates. What sage 
 Is so resolved to play the orator 
 That he would die for't ? 
 
 Soldier. He is but a youth, 
 
 Yet urged his prayer with a sad constancy 
 Which could not be denied. 
 
 Adras. Most bravely plann'd ! 
 
 Sedition worthy of the reverend host 
 Of sophist traitors ; brave to scatter fancies 
 Of discontent 'midst sturdy artizans, 
 Whose honest sinews they direct unseen, 
 And make their proxies in the work of peril ! 
 'Tis*fit, when burning to insult their king. 
 And warn'd the pleasure must be bought with life, 
 Their valour send a boy to speak their wisdom ! 
 Thou know'st my last decree ; tell this rash youth 
 The danger he incurs ; — then let him pass, 
 And own the king more gracious than his masters. 
 
 Soldier. We have already told him of the fate 
 Which waits his daring ; courteously he thank'd us, 
 But still with solemn accent urged his suit. 
 
 Adras. Tell him once more, if he persists he dies- 
 Then, if he will, admit him. Should he hold 
 His purpose, order Crythes to conduct him, 
 And see the headsman instantly prepare 
 To do his office. [Exit Soldier. 
 
 So resolved so young — 
 'Twere pity he should fall ; yet he must fall, 
 Or the great sceptre which hath sway'd the fears 
 Of ages, will become a common staff 
 For youth to wield, or age to rest upon, 
 Despoil'd of all its virtues. He must fall. 
 Else they who prompt the insult will grow bold. 
 And with their pestilent vauntings through the city 
 Raise the low fog of murky discontent, 
 Which now creeps harmless through its marshy birth- 
 To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd ; [place. 
 
 And if he cro?s yon threshold he shall die. 
 
46 ION. [act II 
 
 Enter Crythes and Ion. 
 
 Cry. The king ! 
 
 Adras. Stranger, I bid thee welcome ; 
 
 We are about to tread the same dark passage, 
 Thou almost on the instant. — Is the sword [To Cry. 
 Of justice sharpen'd, and the headsman ready ? 
 
 Cry. Thou may'st behold them plainly in the court ; 
 Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground, 
 The steel gleams on the altar, and the slave 
 Disrobes himself for duty. 
 
 Adras. (To Ion.) Do^t thou see them? 
 
 Ion. I do. 
 
 Adras. By Heaven, he does not change ! 
 If, even now, thou wilt depart and leave 
 Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free. 
 
 Ion. I thank thee for thy offer ; but I stand 
 Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich 
 In all that makes life precious to the brave ', 
 Who perish not alone, but in their fall 
 Break the far-spreading tendrils that they feed, 
 And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me 
 For them, I am content to speak no more. 
 
 Adras. Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes ! till yon 
 Cast its thin shadow on the approaching hour, [dial 
 I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant. 
 Come without word, and lead him to his doom. 
 Now leave us. 
 
 Cry. What, alone? 
 
 Adras. Yes, slave, alone. 
 
 He is no assassin ! [Exit Crythes. 
 
 Tell m-e who thou art. 
 What generous source owns that heroic blood, 
 Which holds its course thus bravely ? What great wars 
 Have nursed the courage that can look on death, 
 Certain and speedy death, with placid eye ? 
 
 Ion. I am a simple youth who never bore 
 The weight of armour, — one who may not boast 
 Of noble birth or valour of his own. 
 Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak 
 In thy great presence, and have made my heart 
 
SCENE I.] ION. 47 
 
 Upon the verge of bloody death as calm, 
 
 As equal in its beatings, as when slee-p 
 
 Approach'd me nestling from the sportive toils 
 
 Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial forms 
 
 Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows 
 
 Of soft oblivion to belong to me ! — 
 
 These are the strengths of Heaven ; to thee they speak, 
 
 Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry, 
 
 Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come ! 
 
 Adras. I know it must ; so may'st thou spare thy 
 The envious gods in me have doom'd a race, [warnings. 
 Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts, 
 Whence their own dawn upon the infant world ; 
 And I shall sit on my ancestral throne 
 To meet their vengeance ; but till then I rule 
 As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel. 
 
 Ion. I will not further urge thy safety to thee; 
 It may be, as thou say'st, too late ; nor seek 
 To make thee tremble at the gathering curse 
 Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall * 
 But thou art gifted with a nobler sense — 
 I know thou art my sovereign ! sense of pain 
 Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls, 
 And in whose fathers' souls, thou and thy fathers 
 Have kept their cherish'd state ; whose heartstrings, still 
 The living fibres of thy rooted power. 
 Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn 
 From heavenly justice on them. 
 
 Adras. How ! my crimes ? 
 
 Ion. Yes ; 'tis the eternal law, that where guilt is, 
 Sorrow shall answer it ; and thou hast not 
 A poor man's privilege to bear alone, 
 Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen. 
 The penalties of evil, for in thine 
 A nation's fate lies circled. — King Adrastus ! 
 Steeled as thy heart is with the usages 
 Of pomp and power, a few short summers since 
 Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless. 
 Oh, if maternal love embraced thee then, 
 Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet 
 
48 ION. [act II. 
 
 Glare o'er their perishing children : hast thoii shared 
 The glow of a first friendship, which is born 
 'Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth 
 Smitten amidst its playthings ; — let the spirit 
 Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity ! 
 
 Adras. In every word thou dost but steel my soul. 
 My youth was blasted ; — parents, brother, kin — 
 All that should people infancy with joy — 
 Conspired to poison mine ; despoil'd my life 
 Of innocence and hope — all but the sword 
 And sceptre — dost thou wonder at me now ? 
 
 Ion. I knew that we should pity — 
 
 Adras. Pity ! dare 
 
 To speak that word again, and torture waits thee ! 
 I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on — 
 Thy time is short, and I am pledged to hear. 
 
 Ion. If thou hast ever loved — 
 
 Adras. Beware ! beware ! 
 
 Ion. Thou hast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not mar- 
 And thou shalt hear me ! — Think upon the time [ble, 
 When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul 
 Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy, 
 As if some unseen visitant from heaven 
 Touch'd the calm lake and wreath'd its images 
 In sparkling waves ; — recall the dallying hope 
 That on the margin of assurance trembled, 
 As loth to lose in certainty too bless'd 
 Its happy bemg ; — taste in thought again 
 Of the stolen sweetness of those evening-walks, 
 When pansied turf was air to winged feet, 
 And circling forests, by ethereal touch 
 Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky, 
 As if about to melt in golden light 
 Shapes of one heavenly vision ; and thy heart, 
 Enlarged by its new sympathies with one, 
 Grew bountiful to all ! 
 
 Adras. That tone ! that tone ! 
 
 Whence came it ? from thy lips ? It cannot be— 
 The long-hush'd music of the only voice 
 That ever spake unbought affection to me. 
 
SCENE I.] ION. 49 
 
 And waked my soul to blessing ! — O sweet hours 
 Of golden joVi ye come ! your glories break 
 Through my pavilion'd spirit's sable folds ! 
 Roll on ! roll on ! — Stranger, thou dost enforce me 
 To speak of things unbreathed by lip of mine 
 To human ear : — wilt listen ? 
 
 Ion. As a child. 
 
 Adras. Again ! — that voice again ! — thou hast seen 
 As never mortal saw me, by a tone [me moved, 
 
 Which some light breeze, enamour'd of the sound. 
 Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice 
 Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth 
 • This city, which, expectant of its Prince, 
 Lay hush'd, brolce out in clamorous extacies ; 
 Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups 
 Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun, 
 Aad welcome thimder'd from a thousand throats, 
 My doom was seal'd. From the hearth's vacant space, 
 In the dark chamber where my mother lay, 
 Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness, 
 Came forth, in heart-appaling tone, these words 
 Of me the nurseling — " Woe unto the babe ! 
 " Against the life which now begins shall life, 
 " Lighted from thence, be arm'd, and, both soon quench'd, 
 " End this great line in sorrow !" — Ere I grew 
 Of years to know myself a thing accurs'd, 
 A second son was born, to steal the love 
 Which fate had else scarce rifled : he became 
 My parents' hope, the darling of the crew 
 Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery 
 To trace in every foible of my youth — 
 A prince's youth ! — the workings of the curse ; 
 My very mother — Jove ! I cannot bear 
 To speak it now — look'd freezingly upon me! 
 
 Ion. But thy brother — 
 
 Adras. Died. Thou hast heard the lie 
 
 The common lie that every peasant tells 
 Of me his master, — that T slew the boy. 
 'Tis false ! One summer's eve, below a crag 
 Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb, 
 
50 ION. [act II. 
 
 He lay a mangled corpse : the very slaves, 
 Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart, 
 Now coin'd their own injustice into proofs 
 To brand me as his murderer. 
 
 Ion. Did they dare 
 
 Accuse thee ? 
 
 Adras. Not in open speech : — they felt 
 
 I should have seized the miscreant by the throat, 
 And crush'd the lie half spoken with the life 
 Of the base speaker : — but the tale look'd out 
 From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank 
 When mine have met them : murmur'd through the crowd 
 That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game. 
 Stood distant from me ; burnt into my soul 
 When I beheld it in ray father's shudder ! 
 
 Ion. Didst not declare thy innocence ? 
 
 Adras. To whom ? 
 
 To parents who could doubt me ? To the ring 
 Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons, 
 Who should have studied to prevent my wish 
 Before it grew to language ; hail'd my choice 
 To service as a prize to wrestle for; 
 And whose reluctant courtesy I bore. 
 Pale with proud anger, till from lips compress'd 
 The blood has started ! To the common herd. 
 The vassals of our ancient house, the mass 
 Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil 
 A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it, 
 Or, deck'd for slaughter at their master's call, 
 To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd 
 In heaps to swell his glory or his shame ? 
 Answer to them ? No ! though my heart had burst. 
 As it was nigh to bursting ! — To the mountains 
 I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow 
 Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool 
 My spirit's fever — struggled with the oak 
 In search of weariness, and learn'd to rive 
 Its stubborn bouo-hs, till limbs once lightly stung 
 l^ight m.ate in cordage with its infant stems ; 
 Or on the sea-heat rock tore off the vest 
 
SCENE I.] ION. 61 
 
 Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air 
 Headlong committed, clove the water's depth 
 Which plummet never sounded ; — but in. vain. 
 
 Io7i. Yet succour came to thee ? 
 
 Adras. A blessed one ! 
 
 Which the strange magic of thy voice revives. 
 And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps 
 Were in a wood-encircled valley stay'd 
 By the bright vision of a maid, whose face 
 Most lovely more than loveliness reveal'd 
 In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd 
 Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine. 
 With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth 
 The body of her aged sire, whose death 
 Left her alone. I aided her sad work. 
 And soon two lonely ones by holy rites 
 Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months, 
 In streamlike unity flow'd silent by us 
 In our delightful nest. My father's spies — 
 Slaves, whom my nod should have consign'd to stripes 
 Or the swift falchion — track'd our sylvan home 
 Just as my bosom knew its second joy. 
 And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son. 
 
 Ion. Urged by thy trembling parents to avert 
 That dreadful prophecy ? 
 
 Adras. Fools ! did they deem 
 
 Its worst accomplishment could match the ill 
 Which they wrought on me ? It had left unharm'd 
 A thousand ecstacies of passion'd years, 
 Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain 
 Fate's iron grapple ! Could I now behold 
 That son with knife uplifted at my heart, 
 A moment ere my life-blood follow'd it, 
 I would embrace him with my dying eyes, 
 And pardon destiny ! While jocund smiles 
 Wreathed on the infant's face, as if sweet spirits 
 Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul. 
 The ruffians broke upon us; seized the child; 
 Dash'd through the thicket to the beetling rock 
 Neath which the deep sea eddies ; I stood still 
 
52 ION. [act II 
 
 As stricken into stone: I heard him cry, 
 
 Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe, 
 
 Severer ill unfearing — then the splash 
 
 Of waters that shall cover him for ever ; 
 
 And could not stir to save him ! 
 
 Ion. And the mother — 
 
 Adras. She spake no word, but clasp'd me in her arms, 
 
 And lay her down to die. A lingering gaze 
 
 Of love she fixed on me — none other loved, 
 
 And so pass'd hence. By Jupiter, her look! 
 
 Her dying patience glimmers in thy face ! 
 
 She lives again I She looks upon me now ! 
 
 There's magic in't. Bear with me — I am childish. 
 
 Enter Crythes and Guards. 
 
 Adras. Why art thou here ? 
 
 Cry. The dial points the hour. 
 
 Adras. Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd ? 
 Hast thou no heart — no sense? 
 
 Cry. Scarce half an hour 
 
 Hath flown since the command on which I wait. 
 
 Adras. Scarce half an hour ! — years — years have 
 roll'd since then. 
 Begone ! remove that pageantry of death — 
 It blasts my sight — and hearken ! Touch a hair 
 Of this brave youth, or look on him as now 
 With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band 
 Shall not expect a fearful show in vain. 
 Hence ! without a word. [Exit Crythes. 
 
 What wouldst thou have me do ? 
 
 Ion. Let thy awaken'd heart speak its own language; 
 Convene thy sages; — franklv, nobly meet them; 
 Explore with them the pleasure of the gods, 
 And, whatsoe'er the sacrifice, perform it. 
 
 Adras. Well ! I will seek their presence in an hour ; 
 Go summon them, young hero : hold ! no word 
 Of the strange passion thou hast witness'd here. 
 
 Ion. Distrust me not. — Benignant Powers, I thank 
 ye ! [Exit. 
 
 Adras. Yet stay — he's gone — his spell is on me yet ; 
 
SCENE II.] ION. 53 
 
 What have I promised him ? To meet the men 
 
 Who from my living head would strip the crown, . 
 
 And sit in judgment on me ? — I must do it — 
 
 Yet shall my band be ready to o'erawe 
 
 The course of liberal speech, and if it rise 
 
 So as too loudly to offend my ear, 
 
 Strike the rash brawler dead ? — What idle dream 
 
 Of long-past days had melted me ? It fades — 
 
 It vanishes — I am again a king ! 
 
 Scene II. — The Interior of the Temple. 
 « Same as Act i. Scene i. 
 
 Clemanthe seated — Habra attending her. 
 
 Hdbra. Look, dearest lady ! — the thin smoke aspires 
 In the calm air, as when in happier times 
 It show'd the gods propitious : wilt thou seek 
 Thy chamber, lest thy father and his friends, 
 Returning, find us hinderers of their council ? 
 She answers not — she hearkens not — with joy 
 Could I believe her, for the first time sullen ! 
 Still she is rapt. 
 
 Enter Agenor. 
 
 O speak to my sweet mistress ; 
 Haply thy voice may rouse her. 
 
 Age. Dear Clemanthe, 
 
 Hope dawns in every omen ; we shall taste 
 Our household joys again. 
 
 Enter Medon, Cleon, Timocles, and others. 
 
 Me. Clemanthe here ! 
 
 How sad ! how pale ! 
 
 Habra. Her eye is kindling — hush ! 
 
 CIp: Hark ! hear ye not a distant footstep ? 
 
 Me. No. 
 
 Look round, my fairest child ; thy friends are near thee. 
 
 Cle. Yes ! — now 'tis lost — 'tis on that endless stair — 
 Nearer and more distinct — 'tis his — 'tis his — 
 He lives ! he comes ! 
 5* 
 
54 ION. [act II. 
 
 [Clem AN THE i-ises and rushes to the back of the stage, at 
 which Ion appears, and returns with her. 
 
 Here is your messenger, 
 Whom heaven has rescued from the tyrant's rage 
 Ye sent him forth to brave. Rejoice, old men, 
 That ye are guiltless of his blood ! — why pause ye ? 
 Why shout ye not his welcome ? 
 
 Me. Dearest girl, 
 
 This is no scene for thee ; go to thy chamber ; 
 I'll come to thee ere long. 
 
 [Exeunt Clem an the and Ha bra. 
 She is o'er wrought 
 By fear and joy for one whose infant hopes 
 Were mingled with her own, even as a brother's. 
 
 Tim. Ion ! 
 
 How shall we do thee honour? 
 
 Ion. None is due 
 
 Save to the gods whose gracious influence sways 
 The king ye deem'd relentless ; — he consents 
 To meet ye presently in council : — speed ! 
 This may be virtue's latest rally in him. 
 In fitful strength, ere it be quench'd for ever ! 
 
 Me. Haste to your seats ; I will but spsak a word 
 With our brave friend, and follow : though convened 
 In speed, let our assembly lack no forms 
 Of due observance, which to furious power 
 Plead with the silent emphasis of years. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Medon and Ion. 
 Ion, draw near me ; this eventful day 
 Hath shown thy nature's graces circled round 
 With firmness which accomplishes the hero ; — 
 And it would bring to me but one proud thought — 
 That virtues which required not culture's aid 
 Shed their first fragrance 'neath my roof, and there 
 Found shelter; — but it also hath reveal'd 
 What I may not hide from thee, that m,y child, 
 My blithe and innocent girl — more fair in soul, 
 More delicate in fancy, than in mould — 
 Loves thee with other than a sister's love. 
 I should have cared for this : I vainly deem'd 
 
SCENE II.] ION. 55 
 
 A fellowship in childhood's thousand joys 
 And household memories had nurtured friendship 
 Which might hold peaceful empire in the soul; 
 But in that guise the traitor hath stolen in, 
 And the fair citadel is thine. 
 
 Ion. 'Tis true. 
 
 I did not think the nurseling of thy house 
 Could thus disturb its holiest inmate's duty 
 With tale of selfish passion ; — but we met 
 As playmates who might never meet again, 
 And then the hidden truth flash'd forth, and show'd 
 To each the image in the other's soul 
 In 'one bright instant. 
 
 Me. Be that instant blest 
 
 Which made thee truly ours. My son ! my son ! 
 'Tis we should feel uplifted, for the seal 
 Of greatness is upon thee ; yet I know 
 That when the gods, won by thy virtues, draw 
 The veil which now conceals their lofty birthplace, 
 Thou wilt not spurn the maid who prized them lowly. 
 
 Ion. Spurn her ! My father ! 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon. 
 
 Me. Ctesiphon ! — and breathless — 
 
 Art come to chide me to the council ? 
 
 Ctes. No ; 
 
 To bring unwonted joy ; thy son approaches, [well ? 
 
 IVIe. Thank Heaven I Hast spoken with him ? Is he 
 
 Ctes. I strove in vain to reach him, for the crowd, 
 Koused from the untended couch and dismal hearth 
 By the strange visiting of hope, press'd round him ! 
 But, by his head erect and fiery glance, 
 I know that he is well, and that he bears 
 A message which shall shake the tyrant. [Shouts.] See ! 
 xue throng is tending this way — now it parts, 
 Ar.d 3^ields him to thy arms. 
 
 Enter Phocion. 
 Me. Welcome, my Phocion — 
 
 Long waited for in Argos ; how detain'd 
 
56 ION. [act il 
 
 Now matters not, since thou art here in joy. 
 Hast brought the answer of the god ? 
 
 Pho. I have 
 
 Now let Adrastus tremble ! 
 
 Me. May we hear it ? 
 
 Pho. I am sworn first to utter it to him. 
 
 Ctes. But it is fatal to him ! — Say but that ! 
 
 Pho. Ha, Ctesiphon ! — I mark'd thee not before : 
 How fares thy father X 
 
 Ion [to Phocion). Do not speak of him. 
 
 Ctes. {overhearing Ion). Not speak of him ! Dost think 
 there is a moment 
 When common things eclipse the burning thought 
 Of him and vengeance ? 
 
 Pho. Has the tyrant's sword — 
 
 Ctes. No, Phocion ; that were merciful and brave, 
 Compared to his base deed ; yet will I tell it 
 To make the flashing of thine eye more deadly, 
 And edge thy words that they may rive his heartstrings. 
 The last time that Adrastus dared to face 
 The Sages of the state, although my father, 
 Yielding to Nature's mild decay, had left 
 All worldly toil and hope, he gather'd strength, 
 In his old seat, to speak one word of warning. 
 Thou know'st how bland with years his wisdom grev/, 
 And with what phrases, steep'd in love, he sheathed 
 The sharpness of rebuke ; yet, ere his speech 
 Was closed, the tyrant started from his throne, 
 And with his base hand smote him ; 'twas his death- 
 The old man totter'd home, and only once [stroke ! 
 Raised his head after. 
 
 Pho. Thou wert absent ? Yes I 
 
 The heartless tyrant lives ! 
 
 Ctes. Had I beheld 
 
 That sacrilege, Adrastus had lain dead. 
 Or I had been torn piecemeal by his minions. 
 But I was far aw-ay : when I return'd, 
 [ found my father on the nearest bench 
 Within our door, his thinly silver'd head 
 Supported by wan hands, which hid his face 
 
SCENE II.] ION. 57 
 
 And would not be withdrawn ; — no groan, no sigh 
 
 Was audible, and we might only learn 
 
 By short convulsive tremblings of his frame 
 
 That life still flicker'd in it — yet at last, 
 
 By some unearthly inspiration roused, 
 
 He dropp'd his wither'd hands, and sat erect 
 
 As in his manhood's glory — the free blood 
 
 Flush'd crimson through his cheeks, his furrow'd brow 
 
 Expanded clear, and his eyes opening full 
 
 Gleain'd with a youthful fire ; — I fell in awe 
 
 Upon my knees before him.— still he spake not, 
 
 BijJ; slowly raised his arm untrembling ; clench'd 
 
 His hand as if it grasp'd an airy knife, 
 
 And struck in air : my hand vyas joined with his 
 
 In nc"«'vous grasp — my lifted eye met his 
 
 In steadfast gaze — my pressure answered his — 
 
 We knew at once each other's thought ; a smile 
 
 Of the old sweetness play'd upon his lips, 
 
 And life forsook him. Weaponless I flew 
 
 To seek the tyrant, and was driven with scoffs 
 
 From the proud gates which shelter him. He lives — 
 
 And I am here to babble of revenge ! [king ! 
 
 Pho. It comes, my friend — haste with me to the 
 
 Ion. Even while we speak, Adrastus meets his 
 council ; 
 There let us seek him : should ye find him touch'd 
 With penitence, as happily ye may, 
 O give allowa^^o to his soften'd nature! 
 
 Ctes. Show gra ^ to him ! — Dost dare ? — I had for- 
 Thou dost not know how a son loves a father ! [got. 
 
 Ion. I know enough to feel for thee ; I know 
 Thou hast endured the vilest wrong that tyranny 
 In its worst frenzy can inflict; — yet think, 
 O think ! before the irrevocable deed 
 Shuts out all thought, how much of power's excess 
 Is theirs who raise the idol : — do we groan 
 Beneath the personal force of this rash man, 
 Who forty summers since hung at the breast 
 A playful weakling ; whom the heat unnerves ; 
 The north wind pierces ; and the hand of death 
 
58 ION. [act II. 
 
 Will, in a moment, change to clay as vile 
 
 As that of the scourged slave whose chains it sev( i«^ 
 
 No ! 'tis our weakness gasping, or the shows 
 
 Of outward strength that builds up tyranny, 
 
 And makes it look so glorious : — If we shrink 
 
 Faint-hearted from the reckoning of our span 
 
 Of mortal days, we pamper the fond wish 
 
 For long duration in a line of kings : 
 
 If the rich pageantry of thoughts must fade 
 
 All unsubstantial as the regal hues 
 
 Of eve which purpled them, our cunning frailty 
 
 Must robe a living image with their pomp, 
 
 And wreath a diadem around its brow, 
 
 In which our sunny fantasies may live 
 
 Empearl'd, and gleam, in fatal splendour, far 
 
 On after ages. We must look within 
 
 For that which makes us slaves : — on sympathies 
 
 Which find no kindred objects in the plain 
 
 Of common life — affections that aspire 
 
 In air too thin — and fancy's dewy film 
 
 Floating for rest ; for even such delicate threads, 
 
 Gather'd by Fate's engrossing hand, supply 
 
 The eternal spindle whence she weaves the bond 
 
 Of cable strength in which our nature struggles ! 
 
 Ctes. Go talk to others, if thou wilt ; — to me 
 All argument, save that of steel, is idle. 
 
 Me. No more :- — let's to the council — there, my son. 
 Tell thy great message nobly ; — an'^ or thee. 
 Poor orphan'd youth, be sure the ^uus are just ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — The great Square of the City. Adrastus seated 
 on a throne ; Agenor, TimocleSt Cleon, and others, seated 
 as Councillors — Soldiers line the stage at a distance. 
 
 Adras. Upon your summons. Sages, I am here ; 
 Your king attends to know your pleasure ; speak it ! 
 
 Age. And canst thou ask ? If the heart dead within 
 Receives no impress of this awful time, [thee 
 
 An thou of sense forsaken ? Are thine ears 
 So charm 'd by strains of slavish minstrelsy. 
 
SCENE m.] ION. 59 
 
 That the dull groan and frenzy-pointed shriek 
 
 Pass them unheard to Heaven ? Or are thine eyes-. 
 
 So conversant with prodigies of grief, 
 
 They cease to dazzle at them ? Art thou arm'd 
 
 'Gainst wonder, while, in all things, Nature turns 
 
 To dreadful contraries ; — while Youth's full cheek 
 
 Is shrivell'd into farrows of sad years. 
 
 And 'neath its glossy curls untinged by care 
 
 Looks out a keen anatomy ; — while Age 
 
 Is stung by feverish torture for an hour 
 
 Into youth's strength; while fragile Womanhood 
 
 Siatis into frightful courage, all alike 
 
 Tile gentle strength its gentle weakness feeds 
 
 To make affliction beautiful, and stalks 
 
 Abroad, a tearless and unshuddering thing; — 
 
 While Childhood, m its orphan'd freedom blithe, 
 
 Finds, in the shapes of wretchedness which seem 
 
 Grotesque to its unsadden'd vision, cause 
 
 For dreadful mirth that shortly shall be hush'd 
 
 In never-broken silence ; and while Love, 
 
 Immortal through all change, makes ghastly Death 
 
 Its idol, and wi^^^h furious passion digs 
 
 Amid sepulchral images for gauds 
 
 To cheat its f uicy with ? — Do sights like these 
 
 Glare through the realm thou shouldst be parent to, 
 
 And canst thou find the voice to ask " our pleasure ?" 
 
 Adras. Cease, babbler ; — wherefore would ye stun 
 With vain recital of the griefs I know, [my ears 
 
 And cannot heal? — will treason turn aside 
 The shafts of fate, or medicine Nature's ills? 
 I have no skill in pharmacy, nor power 
 To sway the elements.- 
 
 Age. ■ Thou hast the power 
 
 To cast thyself upon the earth with us 
 In penitential shame ; or, if this power 
 Hith left a heart made weak by luxury 
 And hard by pride, thou hast at least the power 
 To cease the mockery of thy frantic revels. 
 
 Adras. I have yet power to punish insult — look 
 I use it not, Agenor ! — Fate may dash 
 
60 ION. [act II 
 
 My sceptre from me, but shall not command 
 
 My will to hold it with a feebler grasp ; 
 
 Nay, if few hours of empire yet are mine, 
 
 They shall be colour'd with a sterner pride, 
 
 And peopled with more lustrous joys, than flush'd 
 
 In the serene procession of its greatness. 
 
 Which look'd perpetual, as the flowing course 
 
 Of human things. Have ye beheld a pine 
 
 That clasp'd the mountain-summit with a root 
 
 As firm as its rough marble, and, apart 
 
 From the huge shade of undistinguish'd trees, 
 
 Lifted its head as in delight to share 
 
 The evening glories of the sky, and taste 
 
 The wanton dalliance of the heavenly breeze 
 
 That no ignoble vapour from the vale 
 
 Could mingle with — smit by the flaming marl. 
 
 And lighted for destruction ? How it stood 
 
 One glorious moment, fringed and wreathed with fire 
 
 Which showed the inward graces of its shape, 
 
 Uncumber'd now, and midst its topmost boughs, 
 
 That young ambition's airy fancies made 
 
 Their giddy nest, leap'd sportive ; — never clad 
 
 By liberal summer in a pomp so rich 
 
 As waited on its downfall, while it took 
 
 The storm-cloud roll'd behind it for a curtain 
 
 To gird its splendours round, and made the blast 
 
 Its minister to whirl its flashing shreds 
 
 Aloft towards heaven, or to the startled depths 
 
 Of forests that afar might share its doom ! 
 
 So shall the royalty of Argos pass 
 
 In festal blaze to darkness! Have ye spoken? 
 
 Age. I speak no more to thee ! — Great Jove, look 
 
 down ! [^Shouting without. 
 
 Adras. What factious brawl is this ? — disperse it, 
 
 soldiers. 
 [.Shouting renewed — As some of the soldiers are about to 
 march, Phocion rushes in, foMowed hy Ctesiphon, 
 Ion, and Medon. 
 Whence is this insolent intrusion ? 
 
SCENE ITI.] ION. 61 
 
 Pho. King ! 
 
 f bear Apollo's answer to thy prayer. 
 
 Adras. Has not thy travel taught thy knee its duty ? 
 Here we had school'd thee better. 
 
 Pho. Kneel to thee ! 
 
 Me. Patience, my son ! Do homage to the king. 
 
 Pho. Never ! — thou talk'st of schooling — know, 
 That I have studied in a nobler school [Adrastus, 
 Than the dull haunt of venal sophistry 
 Or the lewd guard-room ; o'er which ancient heaven 
 Extends its arch for all, and mocks the span 
 Of palaces and dungeons ; where the heart 
 In its free beatings, 'neath the coarsest vest, 
 Claims kindred with diviner things than power 
 Of kings can raise or stifle — in. the school 
 Of mighty Nature — where I learn'd to blush 
 At sight like this, of thousands basely hush'd 
 Before a man n»o mightier than themselves, 
 Save in the absence of that love that softens. 
 
 Adras. Peace ! speak thy message. 
 
 Pho. Shall I tell it here ? 
 
 Or shall I seek thy couch at dead of night. 
 And breathe it in low whispers ? — As thou wilt. 
 
 Adras. Here — and this instant! 
 
 Pho. Hearken then, Adrastus, 
 
 And hearken, Argives — thus Apollo speaks : — 
 
 [Reads a scroll, 
 " Argos ne'er shall find release 
 " Till her monarch's race shall cease.'' 
 
 Adras. 'Tis not God's will, but man's sedition speaks: — 
 Guards ! tear that lying parchment from his hands, 
 And bear him to the palace. 
 
 Me. Touch him not, — 
 
 He is Apollo's messenger, whose lips 
 Were never stain'd with falsehood. 
 
 Pho. Come on, all ! 
 
 Age. Sarrouiid him, Friends ! Die with him ! 
 
 Adras. Sol fliers, charge 
 
 Upon these rebels ; hew them down. On, on ! 
 6 
 
62 ION. [act II. 
 
 [The soldiers advance and surround the people ; they seize. 
 Phocion. Ion rushes from the back of the stage, and 
 throws himself between Adrastus an<^ Phocion. 
 
 Pko. [To Adrastus.] Yet I defy thee. 
 
 Ion. [ To Phocion.] Friend ! for sake of all, 
 Enrage him not, — wait while I speak a word — 
 [ To Adrastus.] My sovereign, I implore thee, do not stain 
 This sacred place with blood ; in Heaven's great name 
 I do conjure thee — and in hers, whose shade 
 Is miurning for thee now ! 
 
 Adras. Release the stripling — 
 
 Let him go spread his treason where he will : 
 He is not worth my anger. To the palace ! 
 
 Ion. Nay, yet an instant ! — let my speech have power 
 From Heaven to move thee further : thou hast heard 
 The sentence of the god, and thy heart owns it ; 
 If thou wilt cast, aside this cumbrous pomp, 
 And in seclusion purify thy soul 
 Long fever'd and sophisticate, the gods 
 May give thee space for penitential thoughts ; 
 If not — as surely as thou standest here, 
 Wilt thou lie stiff and weltering in thy blood — 
 The vision presses on me now. 
 
 Adras Art mad ? 
 
 Resign thy state ? Sue to the gods for life, 
 The common life which every slave endures, 
 And meanly clings to ? No ; within yon walls 
 I shall resume the banquet, never more 
 Broken by man's intrusion. Councillors, 
 Farewell ! — go mutter treason till ye perish ! 
 
 [Exeunt Adrastus, Crythes and Soldiers. 
 
 Ion. {icho stands apart leaning on a pedestal). 'Tis 
 seal'd ! 
 
 Me. Let us withdraw, and strive 
 
 By sacrifice to pacify the gods ! 
 
 (Medon, Agenor, and Councillors, retire : they leave 
 Ctesiphon, Phocion, and Ion. Ion still stands apart, 
 as rapt in meditation. 
 
 Ctes. 'Tis well : the measure of his guilt is fill'd. 
 Where shal) we meet at sunset? 
 
 Pho In the grove, 
 
SCENE III.] ION. 63 
 
 Which with its matted shade imbrowns the vale, 
 Between those buttresses of rock that guard 
 The sacred mountain on its western side, 
 Stands a rude altar — overgrown with moss. 
 And stain'd with drippings of a million showers, 
 So old, that no tradition names the power 
 That hallow'd it, — which we will consecrate 
 Anew to freedom and to justice. 
 
 Ctes. Thither 
 
 Will I bring friends to meet thee. Shall we speak 
 "To yon rapt youth ? [Pointing to Ion. 
 
 Pho. His nature is too gentle. 
 
 At'sunset we will meet. — With arms? 
 
 Ctes. A knife — 
 
 One sacrificial knife will serve. 
 
 Pho. At sunset ! 
 
 [Exeunt Ctesiphon and Fhocion severally. Ion comes 
 forward. 
 
 Ion. O wretched King, thy words have seal'd thy doom ! 
 Why should I shiver at it, when no way. 
 Save this, remains to break the ponderous cloud 
 That hangs above rny wretched country ? — death — 
 A single death, the common lot of all. 
 Which it will not be mine to look upon, — 
 And yet its ghastly shape dilates before me ; 
 I cannot shut it out ; my thoughts grow rigid. 
 And as that grim and prostrate figure haunts them, 
 My sinews stiffen like it. Courage, Ion ! 
 No spectral form is here ; all outward things 
 Wear their own old familiar looks : no dye 
 Pollutes them. Yet the air has scent of blood, 
 And now it eddies with a hurtling sound, 
 As if some weapon swiftly clove it. No — 
 The falchion's course is silent as the grave 
 That yawns before its victim. Gracious powers ! 
 If the great duty of my life be near. 
 Grant it may be to suffer, not to strike ! [Eatt. 
 
64 ION. [act III. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — ^4 Terrace of the Temple. 
 Clemanthe, Ion. 
 
 Cle. Nay I must chide this sorrow from thy brow, 
 Or 'twill rebuke my happiness ; — I know 
 Too well the miseries that hem us round ; 
 And yet the inward sunshine of my soul, 
 Unclouded by their melancholy shadows, 
 Bathes in its deep tranquillity one image — 
 One only image, which no outward storm 
 Can ever ruffle. Let me wean thee, then, 
 From this vain pondering o'er the general woe, 
 Which makes my joy look guilty. 
 
 Ion. No, my fair one, 
 
 The gloom that wrongs thy love is unredeemed 
 By generQUS sense of others' woe : too sure 
 It rises from dark presages within. 
 And will not from me. 
 
 Cle. Then it is most groundless ! 
 
 Hast thou not won the blessings of the perishing 
 By constancy, the fame of which shall live 
 While a heart beats in Argos ? — hast thou not 
 Upon one agitated bosom pour'd 
 The sweetest peace ? and can thy generous nature, 
 While it thus sheds felicity around it, 
 Eemain itself unbless'd ! 
 
 Ion. I strove awhile 
 
 To think the assured possession of thy love 
 With too divine a burthen weigh'd my heart 
 And press'd my spirits down ; — ^but 'tis not so : 
 Nor will I with false tenderness beguile thee, 
 By feigning that my sadness has a cause 
 So exquisite. Clemanthe ! thou wilt find me 
 A sad companion ; — I who knew not life. 
 Save as the sportive breath of happiness. 
 Now feel my minutes teeming as they rise, 
 With grave experiences ; I dream no more 
 Of azure realms where restless beauty sports 
 
SCENE I.] ION. Bo 
 
 In myriad shapes fantastic; dismal vaults 
 
 In black succession open, till the gloom 
 
 Afar is broken by a streak of fire 
 
 That shapes my name— the fearful wind that moans ■ 
 
 Before the storm articulates its sound ; 
 
 And as I pass'd but now the solemn range 
 
 Of Argive monarchs, that in sculptursd mockery 
 
 Of present empire sit, their eyes of stone 
 
 Bent on me instinct with a frightful life 
 
 That drew me into fellowship with them, 
 
 As conscious marble ; while their ponderuos lips — 
 
 Fit organs of eternity — unclosed, 
 
 Andr as I live to tell thee, murmur 'd " Hail ! 
 
 Hail ! Ion the Devoted !" 
 
 Cle. These are fancies. 
 
 Which thy soul, late expanded with great purpose, 
 Shapes, as it quivers to its natural circle 
 In which its joys should lurk, as in the bud 
 The cells of fragrance cluster. Bid them from thee, 
 And strive to be thyself. 
 
 Ion. I will do so ! 
 
 I'll gaze upon thy loveliness, and drink 
 Its quiet in ; — how beautiful thou art ! — 
 My pulse throbs now as it was wont; — a being, 
 Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it, 
 Cannot show darkly. 
 
 Cle. We shall soon be happy; 
 
 My father will rejoice to bless our love, 
 And Argos waken ; — for her tyrant's course 
 Must have a speedy end. 
 
 Ion. It must ! it must ! 
 
 Cle. Yes ; for no empty talk of public wrongs 
 Assails him now ; keen hatred and revenge 
 Are roused to crush him. 
 
 Ion. Not by such base agents 
 
 May the august lustration be achieved : 
 He who shall cleanse his country from the guilt 
 For which Heaven smites her, should be pure of soul, 
 Guileless as infancy, and undisturb'd 
 By personal anger as thy father is, 
 6* 
 
66 ION. [act m. 
 
 When, with unswerving hand and piteous eye, 
 He stops the brief Hfe of the innocent kid 
 Bound with white fillets to the altar ; so 
 Enwreathed by fate the royal victim heaves, 
 And soon his breast shall shrink beneath tlie knife 
 Of the selected slayer ! 
 
 Cle. " 'Tis thyself 
 
 Whom thy strange language pictures — Ion ! thou — 
 
 Ion. She has said it I Her pure lips have spoken out 
 What all things intimate ; — did'st thou not mark 
 Me for the office of avensfer — me ? 
 
 Cle. No ; — save from the wild picture that thy fancy — 
 Thy o'erwrought fancy drew; I thought it look'd 
 Too like thee, and I shadder'd. 
 
 Ion. So do I ! 
 
 And yet I almost wish I shudder'd more, 
 For the dire thought has grown familiar with me— 
 Could I escape it ? 
 
 Cle. 'Twill away in sleep. 
 
 Ion. No, no ! I dare not sleep — for well I know 
 That then the knife will gleam, the blood will gush, 
 The form will stiffen ! — I will walk awhile 
 In the sweet evening light, and try to chase 
 These fearful images away. 
 
 Cle. Let me 
 
 Go with thee. 0, how often hand in hand 
 In such a lovely light have we roamed westward 
 Aimless and blessed, when we were no more 
 Than playmates ; — surely we are not grown stranger 
 Since yesterday ! 
 
 Ion. No, dearest, not to-night : 
 
 The plague yet rages fiercely in the vale, 
 And I am placed in grave commission here 
 To watch the gates ; — indeed thou must not pass , 
 I will be merrier when we meet again, — 
 Trust me my love, I will ; farewell ! [Exit Ion. 
 
 Cle. Farewell then ! 
 
 How fearful disproportion shows in one 
 Whose life hath been all harmony I He bends 
 Towards that thick covert where in blessed hour 
 
SCENE II.] TON. 67 
 
 My father found him, which has ever been 
 
 His chosen place of musing. Shall I follow? 
 
 Am 1 already grown a selfish mistress, 
 
 To watch his solitude with jealous eye, 
 
 And claim him all? — That let me never be — 
 
 Yet danger from within besets him now, 
 
 Known to me only — I will follow him ! [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — An opening in a deep wood — in front an old grey 
 
 altar. 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 Ion. O winding pathways, o'er whose scanty blades 
 Of unaspiring grass mine eyes have bent 
 So often when by musing fancy sway'd. 
 That craved alliance with no wider scene 
 Than your fair thickets border'd, but was pleased 
 To deem the toilsome years of manhood flown, 
 And, on the pictured mellowness of age 
 Idly reflective, image my return 
 From careful wanderings, to find ye gleam 
 With unchanged aspect on a heart unchanged, 
 And melt the busy past to a sweet dream 
 As then the future was ; — why should ye now 
 Echo my steps with melancholy sound 
 As ye were conscious of a guilty presence ? 
 The lovely light of eve, that, as it waned, 
 Touch'd ye with softer, homelier look, now fades 
 In dismal blackness ; and yon twisted roots 
 Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms 
 My thoughts grew humorous, look terrible. 
 As if about to start to serpent life, 
 And hiss around me ; — whither shall I turn ? 
 Where fly? — I see the myrtle-cradled spot 
 Where human love instructed by divine 
 Found and embraced me first ; 1*11 cast me down 
 Upon that eaith as on a mother's breast. 
 In hope to feel myself again a child. 
 
 [Ion goes into the wood. 
 
68 ION. [act III. 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and other Argive youths. 
 
 Ctes. Sure this must be the place that Phocion spoke 
 The twilight deepens, yet he does not come. [of; — ■ 
 0, if, instead of idle dreams of freedom. 
 He knew the sharpness of a grief like mine, 
 He would not linger thus ! 
 
 Cas. The sun's broad disk 
 
 Of misty red, a few brief minutes since, 
 Sank 'neath the leaden wave ; but night steals on 
 With rapid pace, to veil us, and thy thoughts 
 Are eager as the favouring darkness. 
 
 Enter Phocion. 
 
 Ctes, Welcome ! 
 
 Thou know'st all here. 
 
 Pho. Yes; I rejoice, Cassander, 
 
 To find thee my companion in a deed 
 Worthy of all the dreamings of old days, 
 When we, two rebel youths, grew safely brave 
 In visionary perils. We'll not shame 
 Our young imaginations. Ctesiphon, 
 We look to thee for guidance in our aim. 
 
 Ctes. I bring you glorious news. There is a soldier, 
 Who in his reckless boyhood was my comrade, 
 And though by taste of luxury subdued 
 Even to brook the tyrant's service, burns 
 With generous anger to avenge that grief 
 I bear above all others. He has made 
 The retribution sure. From him I learnt 
 That when Adrastus reach'd his palace court, 
 He paused, to struggle with some mighty throe 
 Of passion ; then call'd eagerly for wine. 
 And bade his soldiers share his choicest stores, 
 And snatch, like him, a day from Fortune. Soon, 
 As one worn out by watching and excess, 
 He stagger'd to his couch, where now he lies 
 Oppress'd with heavy sleep, while his loose soldiers, 
 Made by the fierce carousal vainly mad 
 Or grossly dull, are scatter'd through ihe courts 
 Unarmed and cautioriless. The eastern portal 
 
SCENE II.] ION. 69 
 
 Is at this moment open ; by that gate 
 Wq all may enter unperceived and line 
 The passages which gird the royal chamber, 
 Vvhile one blest hand accomplishes the doom 
 Which Heaven pronounces. Nothing now remains, 
 But that as all would share this action's glory. 
 We join in one great vow, and choose one arm 
 Our common minister. Oh, if these sorrows 
 Confer on me the office to return 
 Upon the tyrant's shivering heart the blow 
 Which crush'd my father's spirit, I will leave 
 To him who cares for toys the patriot's laurel 
 And the applause of ages I 
 
 Pko. Let the gods 
 
 By the old course of lot reveal the name 
 Of the predestined champion. For myself, 
 Here do I solemnly devote all powers 
 Of soul and body to that glorious purpose 
 We live but to fulfil. 
 
 Ctes. And I! 
 
 Cas. And I! 
 
 loTi. [WTio has advanced from the wood, rushes to the 
 altar and exclaims^ And I ! 
 
 Pho. Most welcome ! The serenest powers of justice, 
 In prompting thy unspotted soul to join 
 Our bloody councils sanctify and bless them ! 
 
 Ion. The gods have prompted me, for they have given 
 One dreadful voice to all things which should be 
 Else dumb or musical : and I rejoice 
 To step from the grim ground or waking dreams 
 Into this fellowship which makes all clear. 
 Wilt trust me, Ctesiphon ? 
 
 Ctes. Yes : but we waste 
 
 The precious minutes in vain talk : if lots 
 Must guide us, have ye scrolls ? 
 
 Pho. Cassander has them : 
 
 The flickering light of yonder glade will serve him 
 To inscribe them with our names. Be quick, Cassander ! 
 
 Ctes. I wear a casque, beneath whose iron crrcle*^ 
 
70 ION. [act hi 
 
 My father's dark hairs whiten'd ; let it hold 
 The immes of his avengers ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon takes off his helmet and gives it to Cassander 
 who retires with it. 
 Pho. \to Ctesiphon]. He whose name 
 
 Thoo. shalt draw first, shall fill the post of glory. 
 Were it not also well, the second name 
 Should designate another charged to take 
 The same great office, if the first should leave 
 His work imperfect ? 
 
 Ctes. There can scarce be need ; 
 
 Yet as thou wilt. May the first chance be mine ! 
 I will leave little for a second arm. 
 
 [Cassander returns with the helmet 
 Ctes. Now, gods, decide ! 
 
 (Ctesiphon draws a lot from the helmet 
 Pho. The name ? Why dost thou pause ? 
 Ctes. 'Tis Ion ! 
 Ion. Well I knew it would be mine ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon draws another lot 
 Ctes. Phocion ! it will be thine to strike him dead 
 if he should prove faint-hearted. 
 
 Pho. With my life 
 
 I'll ansvirer for his constancy. 
 
 Ctes. [to Ion.] Thy hand ! 
 
 'Tis cold as death. 
 
 Ion. Yes ; but it is as firm. 
 
 What ceremony next ? 
 
 [Ctesiphon leads Ion to the altar and gives him, a knife 
 Ctes. Receive this steel, 
 
 For ages dedicate in my sad home 
 To sacrificial uses ; grasp it nobly 
 And consecrate it to untrembUng service 
 Against the King of Argos and his race. 
 
 Ion. His race ! Is he not left alone on earth ? 
 He hath no brother, and no child 
 
 Ctes. Such words 
 
 The god hath used who never speaks in vain. 
 
 Pho. There v/ere old rumours of an infant borr; 
 And strano'ely vanishing ; — a tale of guilt 
 Haif-hush'd, perchance distorted in the hushing. 
 
SCENE II.] ION. 7] 
 
 And by the wise scarce heeded, for they deem'd it 
 One of a thousand guilty histories, 
 Which, i*f the walls of palaces could speak, 
 Would show that, nursed by prideful luxury, 
 To pamper which the virtuous peasant toils, 
 Crimes grow unpunish'd, which the pirates' nest, 
 Or want's foul hovel, or the cell which justice 
 Keeps for unlicensed guilt, would startle at ! 
 We must root out the stock, that no stray scion 
 Renew the tree, whose branches, stifling virtue. 
 Shed poison-dews on life. 
 
 Ion. [^Approaches the altar, and lifting up the knife, 
 speaks,^ Ye eldest gods. 
 
 Who in no statues of exactest form 
 Are palpaWe; who shun the azure heights 
 Of beautiful Olympus, and the sound 
 Of ever-young Apollo's minstrelsy; 
 Yet, mindful of the empire which ye held 
 Over dim Chaos, keep revengeful wrath 
 On falling nations, and on kingly lines 
 About to sink for ever : ye, who shed 
 Into the passions of earth's giant brood 
 And their fierce usages the sense of justice ; 
 Who clothe the fated battlements of tyranny 
 With blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe. 
 Through the proud halls of time-emboldened guilt 
 Portents of ruin, hear me ! — In your presence, 
 For now I feel ye nigh, I dedicate 
 This arm to the destruction of the king 
 And of his race ; O keep me pitiless : 
 Expel all human weakness from my frame, 
 That this keen weapon shake not when his heart 
 Should feel its point ; and if he has a child 
 Whose blood is needful to the sacrifice 
 My country asks, harden my soul to shed it ! — 
 Was not that thunder ? 
 
 Ctes. No ; I heard no sound. 
 
 Now mark me, Ion ! thou shah straight be led 
 To the king's chamber : we sliall be at hand ; 
 Nothing can give thee pause. Hold ! one should watch 
 
72 ION. [act III. 
 
 The city's eastern portal, lest the troops, 
 
 Returning from the work of plunder home, 
 
 Surround us unprepared. Be that thy duty. [To Phocion. 
 
 Pho. I aLTL to second Ion if he fail. 
 
 Ctes. He cannot fail ; — I shall be nigh. What, Ion ? 
 
 Ion. Who spake to me ? Where am I ? Friends, 
 your pardon ; 
 I am prepared ; yet grant me for a moment, 
 One little moment to be left alone. 
 
 Ctes. Be brief then, or the season of revenge 
 Will pass. At yonder thicket we'll expect thee. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Ion. 
 
 Ion. Methinks I breathe more freely, now my lot 
 Is palpable, and mortals gird me round, 
 Though my soul owns no sympathy with theirs. 
 Some one approaches — I must hide this knife — 
 Hide ! I have ne'er till now had aught to hide 
 From any human eye. [He conceals the knife in his vest. 
 
 Enter Clemanthe. 
 
 Clemanthe here ! 
 
 Cle. Forgive me that I break upon thee thus : 
 I meant to watch thy steps unseen ; but night 
 Is thickening ; thou art haunted by sad fancies, 
 And 'tis more terrible to think upon thee 
 Wandering with such companions in thy bosom, 
 Than in the peril thoa art wont to seek 
 Beside the bed of death. 
 
 Ion. Death, say'st thou ? Death ? 
 
 Is it not righteous when the gods decree it ? 
 And brief its sharpest agony ? Yet, fairest, 
 It is no theme for thee. Go in at once. 
 And think of it no more. 
 
 Cle. Not without thee. 
 
 Indeed thou art not well ; thy hands are marble ; 
 Thine eyes are fixed ; Let me support thee, love : — 
 
 Tla ! 
 
 what is that gleaming within thy vest? 
 
 A knife ! Tell me its purpose, Ion ! 
 
 Ion. No ; 
 
 My oath forbids. 
 
SCENE Jri.J ION. 73 
 
 Cle. An oath! O gentle Ion, 
 
 What can have link'd thee to a cause which needs 
 A stronger cement than a good man's word? 
 There's danger in it. Wilt thou keep it from me ? 
 
 Ion. Alas, I must. Thou wilt know all full soon — 
 
 [ Voices call Ion ! 
 Hark ! I am call'd. 
 
 Cle. Nay, do not leave me thus. 
 
 Ion. 'Tis very sad [voices again] — I dare not stay 
 farewell ! [Exit- 
 
 Cle. It must be to Adrastus that he hastes ! 
 If by his hand the fated tyrant die, 
 Au^ere remembrance of the deed will hang 
 Upon his delicate spirit like a cloud. 
 And tinge its world of happy images 
 With hues of horror. Shall I to the palace, 
 And, as the price of my disclosure, claim 
 His safety ? No ! — 'Tis never woman's part 
 Out of her fond misgivings to perplex 
 The fortunes of the man to whom she cleaves ; 
 'Tis hers to weave all that she has of fair 
 And bright in the dark meshes of their web 
 Inseparate from their windings. My poor heart 
 Hath found its refuge in a hero's love, 
 Whatever destiny his generous soul 
 Shape for him ; — 'tis its duty to be still 
 And trust him till it bound or break with his. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — A Chamber in the Temple- 
 Enter Medoih , follovjed by Habra. 
 
 Me. My daughter not within the temple, say'st thou ? 
 Abroad at such an hour? Sure not alone 
 She wandered : tell me truly, did not Phocion 
 Or Ion bear her company ? 'twas Ion — 
 Confess — was it not he ? I shall not chide, 
 Indeed I shall not. 
 
 Hab. She went forth alone ; 
 
 But it is true that Ion just before 
 Had taken the same path. 
 7 
 
74 ION. [act III. 
 
 Me. It was to meet him. 
 
 I would they were return'd ; the night is grown 
 Of an unusual blackness. Some one comes — 
 Look if it be my daughter. 
 
 Hob. \looMng out]. No ; young Irus, 
 
 The little slave, whose pretty tale of grief 
 Agenor, with so gracious a respect, 
 This Hiorning told us. 
 
 Me. Let him come ; he bears 
 
 Some message from his master. 
 
 Enter Irus. 
 
 Me. [to Irus.] Thou art pale : 
 
 Has any evil happen'd to Agenor? 
 
 Irus. No, my good lord ; I do not come from him; 
 I bear to thee a scrool from one who now 
 Is number'd with the dead ; he was my kinsman, 
 But I had never seen him till he lay 
 Upon his death-bed ; for he left these shores 
 Long before I was born, and no one knew 
 His place of exile ; — on this mournful day 
 He landed, was plague-stricken, and expired. 
 My gentle master gave me leave to tend 
 His else unsolaced death-bed ; — when he found 
 The clammy chillness of the grave steal on, 
 He call'd for parchment, and with trembling hand, 
 That seem'd to gather firmness from its task. 
 Wrote earnestly ; conjured me take the scroll 
 Instant to thee ; and died. 
 
 [Irus gives a scroll to Medon. 
 
 Me. [reading the scroll]. These are high tidings. 
 Habra ! is not Clemanthe come ? I long 
 To tell her all. 
 
 Enter Clemanthe. 
 
 Me. Sit down, my pensive child. 
 
 Habra, this boy is faint ; see him refresh'd 
 With food and wine before thou lett'st him pass. 
 
 Irus. I have too long been absent from Agenor, 
 Who needs my slender help. 
 
 i 
 
SCENE III.] ION. 75 
 
 Me. Nay, I will use 
 
 Thy master's firmness here, and use it so 
 As he would use it. Keep him prisoner, Habra, 
 Till he has done my bidding. [Exeunt Habra and Irus. 
 
 Now, Clemanthe, 
 Though thou hast play'd the truant and the rebel, 
 I will not be too strict in my award, 
 By keeping from thee news of one to thee 
 Most dear — nay, do not blush — I say most dear. 
 
 Cle. It is of Ion ; — no — I do not blush, 
 But tremble. my father, what of Ion ? 
 
 Me. How often have we guess'd his lineage noble ! 
 And now 'tis proved. The kinsman of that youth 
 Was with another hired to murder him 
 A babe ; — they tore him from his mother's breast, 
 And to a sea-girt summit where a rock 
 O'erhung a chasm, by the surge's force 
 Made terrible, rush'd with him. As the gods 
 In mercy order'd it, the foremost ruffian. 
 Who bore no burden, pressing through the gloom 
 In the wild hurry of his guilty purpose, 
 Trod at the extreme verge upon a crag 
 Loosen'd by summer from its granite bed, 
 And suddenly fell with it ; — with his fall 
 Sank the base daring of the man who held 
 The infant ; so he placed the unconscious babe 
 Upon the spot where it was found by me ; 
 Watch'd till he saw the infant safe ; then fled. 
 Fearful of question ; and return 'd to die. 
 That child is Ion. Whom dost guess his sire ? — 
 The first in Argos. 
 
 Cle. Dost thou mean Adrastus ? 
 
 He cannot — must not — ^be that tyrant's son ! 
 
 Me. It is most certain. Nay, my thankless girl, 
 He hath no touch of his rash father's pride ; 
 For Nature, from whose genial lap he smiled 
 iJpon us first, hath moulded for her own 
 The suppliant of her bounty ; — thou art bless'd ; 
 Thus, let me bid thee joy. 
 
76 ION. [act ni. 
 
 Cle. Joy, sayst thou — ^joy ! 
 
 Then I must speak — he seeks Adrastus' life ; 
 And at this moment while we talk may stain 
 His soul with parricide. 
 
 Me. Impossible ! 
 
 Ion, the gentlest 
 
 Cle. It is true, my father; 
 
 I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest; 
 I heard him call'd ! 
 
 Me. Shall I alarm the palace? 
 
 Cle. No; in the fierce confusion he would fall 
 Before our tale could be its safeguard. Gods ! 
 Is there no hope, no refuge? 
 
 Me. Yes, if Heaven 
 
 Assist us. I bethink me of a passage. 
 Which, fashioned by a king in pious zeal. 
 That he might. seek the altar of the god 
 In secret, from the temple's inmost shrine 
 Leads to the royal chamber. I have track'd it 
 In youth for pastime. Could I thread it now, 
 I yet might save him. 
 
 Cle. O, make haste my father! 
 
 Shall I attend thee ? 
 
 Me. No; thou wouldst impede 
 
 My steps ; — thou art fainting ; when I have lodged thee 
 In thy own chamber, I will light the torch, [safe 
 
 And instantly set forward. 
 
 Cle. Do not waste 
 
 An instant's space on me ; speed, speed, my father — 
 The fatal moments fly ; I need no aid ; 
 Thou seest I am calm, quite calm. 
 
 Me. The gods protect thee ! 
 
 [^Exeunt severally. 
 
SCENE I.] ION. 77 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — The Royal Chamber. Adrastus on a couch, asleep. 
 Enter Ion with the knife. 
 
 Ion. Why do I creep thus steahhily along 
 With trembling steps ? Am I not arm'd by Heaven 
 To execute its mandate on a king 
 Whom it hath doom'd ? And shall I falter now, 
 While every moment that he breathes may crush 
 Some life else happy ? — Can I be deceived 
 By some foul passion, crouching in my soul, 
 Which takes a radiant form to lure me on ? 
 Assure me, gods ! — Yes ; I have heard your voices ; 
 For I dare pray ye now to nerve my arm 
 And see me strike ! IHe goes to the couch. 
 
 He's smiling in his slumber 
 As if some happy thought of innocent days 
 Play'd at his heart-strings ; must I scare it thence 
 With death's sharp agony ? He lies condemn'd 
 By the high judgment of supernal Powers, 
 And he shall know their sentence. Wake, Adrastus! 
 Collect thy spirits, and be strong to die ! 
 
 Adras. Who dares disturb my rest ? Guards ! Sol- 
 diers ! Recreants ! 
 Where tarry ye ? Why smite ye not to earth 
 This bold intruder ? — Ha ! no weapon here ! — 
 What wouldst thou with me, ruffian ? [Rising. 
 
 Ion. I am none. 
 
 But a sad instrument in Jove's great hand 
 To take thy life, long forfeited — Prepare 
 Thy hour is come ! 
 
 Adras. Villains ! does no one hear ? 
 
 Ion. Vex not the closing minutes of thy being 
 With torturing hope or idle rage ; thy guards, 
 Palsied with revelry, are scatter'd senseless, 
 While the most valiant of our Argive youths 
 Hold every passage by which human aid 
 Could reach thee. Present death is the award 
 7^ 
 
78 ION. [act IV. 
 
 Of powers who watch above me while I stand 
 To execute their sentence. 
 
 Adras. Thou ! — I know thee — 
 
 The youth I spared this morning; in whose ear 
 I pour'd the secrets of my bosom. Kill me, 
 If thou darest do it ; but bethink thee first 
 How the grim memory of thy thankless deed 
 Will haunt thee to the grave! 
 
 Ion. It is most true; 
 
 Thou sparedst my life, and therefore do the gods 
 Ordain m.e to this office, lest thy fall 
 Seem the chance forfeit of some single sin, 
 And not the great redress of Argos. Now — 
 Now, while I parley — Spirits that have left, 
 Within this hour, their plague-tormented flesh 
 To rot untomb'd, glide by, and frown on me, 
 Their slow avenger — and the chamber swarms 
 With looks of furies — Yet a moment wait. 
 Ye dreadful prompters ! — If there is a friend. 
 Whom dying thou wouldst greet by word or token, 
 Speak thy last bidding. 
 
 Adras. I have none on earth. 
 
 If thou hast courage, end me ! 
 
 Ion. Not one friend' 
 
 Most piteous doom ! 
 
 Adras. Art melted ? 
 
 Ion. If I am, 
 
 Hope nothing from my weakness ; mortal arms, 
 And eyes unseen that sleep not, gird us round, 
 And we shall fall together. Be it so ! 
 
 Adi'as. No ; strike at once ; my hour is come : in 
 I recognize the minister of Jove, [thee 
 
 And, kneeling thus, submit me to his power. 
 
 [Adrastus kneels. 
 
 Ion. Avert thy face ! 
 
 Adras. No ; let me meet thy gaze ; 
 
 For breathing pity lights thy features up 
 Into more awful likeness of a form 
 Which once shone on me ; and which now my sense 
 Shapes palpable — in habit of the grave 
 
SCENE I.] I JN . 79 
 
 Inviting me to the sad realm where shades 
 Of innocents whom passionate regard 
 Link'd with the guilty, are content to pace 
 With them the margin of the inky flood 
 Mournful and calm ; — 'tis surely there ; — she waves 
 Her pallid hand in circle o'er thy head, 
 As if to bless thee — and I bless thee too,- 
 Death's gracious angel ! — Do not turn away. 
 
 Ion. Gods ! to what office have ye doom'd me! Now! 
 
 [Ion raises his arm to stab Adrastus, who is kneeling, 
 
 and gazes steadfastly vpon him. The voice of Medon 
 
 is heard without., calling Ion ! Ion ! — Ion drops his 
 
 * arm. 
 
 Adras. Be quick, or thou art lost ! 
 \_As Ion has again raised his arm to s^n^e, Medon rushes 
 in behind him. 
 
 Me. Ion, forbear ! 
 
 Behold thv son, Adrastus ! 
 
 [Ion stands for a moment stwpified with horror., drops 
 the knife, and falls senseless on the ground. 
 
 Adras. What strange words 
 
 Are these which call my senses from the death 
 They were composed to welcome ? Son 1 'tis false — 
 I had but one — and the deep wave rolls o'er him ! 
 
 Me. That wave received, instead of the fair nurseling, 
 One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight 
 In wicked haste to slay ; — I'll give thee proofs. 
 
 Adras. Great Jove, I thank thee ! — raise him gen- 
 Are there not here the lineaments of her [tly — proofs I 
 Who made me happy once — the voice, now still, 
 That bade the long-seal'd fount of love gush out, 
 While with a prince's constancy he came 
 To lay his noble life down ; and the sure. 
 The dreadful proof, that he whose guileless brow 
 Is instinct with her spirit, stood above me, 
 Arm'd for the traitor's deed ? — It is my child ! 
 
 [loN reviving, sinks on one knee before Adrastus. 
 
 Ion. Father ! [Noise ivithout. 
 
 Me. The clang of arms ! 
 
 Ion. [starting up]. They come! they come' 
 
so ION. [act IV. 
 
 They who are leagued with me against thy life. 
 Here let us fall ! 
 
 Adras. I will confront them yet. 
 
 Within I have a weapon which has drunk 
 A traitor's blood ere now ; — there will I wait them : 
 No power less strong than death shall part us now. 
 [Exeunt Adrastus and Ion as to an inner chamber 
 
 Me. Have mercy on him, gods, for the dear sake 
 Of your most single-hearted worshipper ! 
 
 jEnier Ctesiphon, Cassander, and others. 
 
 Ctes. What treachery is this — the tyrant fled, 
 And Ion fled too ! — Comrades, stay this dotard, 
 While I search yonder chamber. 
 
 Me. Spare him, friend, — 
 
 Spare him to clasp awhile his new-found son ; 
 Spare him as Ion's father! 
 
 Ctes. Father ! yes — 
 
 That is indeed a name to bid me spare ; 
 Let me but find him, gods ! 
 
 [He rushes into the inner chamber. 
 
 Me. [to Cassander and the others'] Had ye but seen 
 What I have seen, ye would have mercy on him. 
 
 Crvthes enters with Soldiers. 
 Ha, soldiers ! hasten to defend your master ; 
 
 That way 
 
 [^5 Crythes is dbaut to enter the inner chamber, Ctesi- 
 PHON rushes from it with a bloody dagger, and stops 
 them. 
 Ctes. It is accomplished ; the foul blot 
 
 Is wiped away. Shade of my murder'd father, 
 Look on thy son, and smile ! 
 
 Cry. Whose blood is that? 
 
 It cannot be the king's ! 
 
 Ctes. It cannot be ! 
 
 Think's thou, foul minion of a tyrant's will, 
 He was to crush, and thou to crawl for ever? 
 Look there, and tremble ! 
 
 Cry. Wretch ! thy life shall pay 
 
 The forfeit of this deed. 
 
 [Crythes and Soldiers seize Ctesiphon- 
 
SCENE I.] ION. SI 
 
 Enter Adrastus mortally wounded, supported hy Ion. 
 
 Adras. Here let me rest; 
 
 In this old chamber did my life begin, 
 And here I'll end it : Crythes ! thou hast timed 
 Thy visit well, to bring thy soldiers hither 
 To gaze upon my parting. 
 
 Cry. To avenge thee ; — 
 
 Here is the traitor ! 
 
 Adras. Set him free at once ; 
 
 Why do ye not obey me ? Ctesiphon, 
 I gave thee cause for this ; — believe me now 
 That thy true steel has made thy vengeance sure ; 
 And as we now stand equal, I will sue 
 For a small boon — let me not see thee more. 
 
 Ctes. Farewell ! [Exit Ctesiphon. 
 
 Adras. \to Crythes and the Soldiers]. Why do ye 
 tarry here ? 
 Begone I- —still do ye hover round my couch I 
 If the commandment of a dying king 
 Is feeble, as a man who has embraced 
 His child for the first time since infancy, 
 And presently must part with him for ever, 
 I do adjure ye leave us ! 
 
 [Exeunt all but Ion and Adrastus. 
 
 Ion. my father ! 
 
 How is it with thee now ? 
 
 Adras. Well ; very weL ; — 
 
 Avenging Fate hath spent its utmost force 
 Against me; and I gaze upon my son 
 With the sweet certainty that nought can part us 
 Till all is quiet here. How like a dream 
 Seems the succession of my regal pomps 
 Since I embraced my new-born child ! To 
 The interval hath been a weary one : 
 How hath it pass'd with thee? 
 
 Ion. But that my heart 
 
 Hath sometimes ached for the sweet sense of kindred, 
 I had enjoy'd a round of liappy years 
 As cherish'd youth e'er knew. 
 
 Adras. I bless the gods 
 
82 ION. [act IV 
 
 That they have strewn along thy humble path 
 Delights unblamed ; and in this hour I seem 
 Even as I had lived so; and I feel 
 That I shall live in thee, unless that curse — 
 Oh, if it should survive me ! 
 
 Ion. Think not of it ; 
 
 The gods have shed such sv^reetness in this moment, 
 That, howsoe'er they deal with me hereafter, 
 I shall not deem them angry. Let me call * 
 For help to staunch thy wound; thou art strong yet, 
 And yet may live to bless me. 
 
 Adras. Do not stir; 
 
 My strength is ebbing fast ; yet as it leaves me, 
 The spirit of my stainless days of love 
 AAvakens ; and their images of joy. 
 Which at thy voice started from blank oblivion. 
 When thou wert strange to me, and then half-shown 
 Look'd sadly through the mist of guilty years. 
 Now glimmer on me in the lovely light 
 Which at thy age they wore. Thou art all thy mother's, 
 Her elements of gentlest virtue cast 
 In mould heroical. 
 
 Ion. Thy speech grows fainter; 
 
 Can I do nothing for thee ? 
 
 Adras. Yes : — my son, 
 
 Thou art the best, the bravest of a race 
 Of rightful monarchs ; thou must mount the throne 
 Thy ancestors have fill'd, and by great deeds 
 Efface the memory of thy fated sire, 
 And win the blessing of the gods for men 
 Stricken for him. Swear to me thou wilt do this, 
 And I shall die forgiven. 
 
 Ion. I will. 
 
 Adras. Rejoice, 
 
 Sufferers of Argos ! I am growing weak. 
 And my eyes dazzle ; let me rest my hands, 
 Ere they have lost their feeling, on thy head. — 
 So ! So ! — thy hair is glossy to the touch 
 As when I last enwreath'd its tiny curl 
 ALbout my finger ; I did image then 
 
SCENE II.] ION. 83 
 
 Thy reign excelling mine ; it is fulfill'd, 
 
 And I die happy. Bless thee, King of Argos ! . [Dies. 
 
 Ion. He is dead ! and I am fatherless again. — 
 King did he hail me ? shall I make that word 
 A spell to bid old happiness awake 
 Throughout the lovely land that father'd me 
 In my forsaken childhood ? 
 
 [He sees the knife on the ground, and takes it up 
 Most vain dream ! 
 This austere monitor had bid thee vanish 
 Ere half-re veal 'd. Come back, thou truant steel ; 
 HaJi" of thy work the gods absolved thee from — 
 The rest remains ! Lie there ! 
 
 [He conceals the knife in his vest. Shouts heard without. 
 
 The voice of joy ! 
 Is this thy funeral wailing ? O my father ! 
 Mournful and brief will be the heritage 
 Thou leavest me ; yet I promised thee in death 
 To grasp it ; — and I will embrace it now. 
 
 Enter Agenor and others. 
 
 Age. Does the king live ? 
 
 Ion. Alas ! in me. The son 
 
 Of him whose princely spirit is at rest, 
 Claims his ancestral honours. 
 
 Age. That high thought 
 
 Anticipates the prayer of Argos, roused 
 To sudden joy. The sages wait without 
 To greet thee ; wilt confer with them to-night, 
 Or wait the morning? 
 
 Ion. Now. The city's state 
 
 Allows the past no sorrow. I attend them. [Exeunt 
 
 Scene II. — Before the Gate of the City. 
 Pi-iocioN on Q-uord. 
 
 b 
 
 Pho. Fool that I was to take this idle office 
 AlI most inglorious distance from the scene 
 Which shall be freedom's birth-place ; to endure 
 The phantasies of danger which the soul 
 
84 1 N . [act IV. 
 
 Uncheer'd by action coldly dallies with 
 Till it begins to shiver ! Long ere this, 
 If Ion's hand be firm, the deed is past, 
 And yet no shout announces that the bonds 
 Of tyranny are broken. [Shouts at a distance. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis done ! 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon. 
 
 All hail, my brother freeman ? — art not so ? — 
 Thy looks are haggard — is the tyrant slain ? 
 Is liberty achieved ? 
 
 Ctes. The king is dead ; 
 
 This arm — I bless the righteous Furies ! — slew him. 
 
 Pho. Did Ion quail, then ? 
 
 Ctes. Ion ! — Clothe thy speech 
 
 In phrase more courtly ; he is King of Argos, 
 Accepted as the tyrant's son, and reigns. 
 
 Pho. It cannot be ; I can believe him born 
 Of such high lineage ; yet he will not change 
 Ris own rich treasury of unruffled thoughts 
 For all the frigid glories that invest 
 The loveless state in which the monarch dwells 
 A terror and a slave. [Shouts again. 
 
 Ctes. Dost hear that shout? 
 
 Tis raised for him ! — the craven-hearted world 
 Is ever eager thus to hail a master, 
 And patriots smite for it in vain. Our Soldiers, 
 In the gay recklessness of men who sport 
 With life as with a plaything ; Citizens 
 On wretched beds gaping for show ; and Sages, 
 Vain of a royal sophist, madly join 
 In humble prayer that he would deign to tread 
 Upon their necks; and he is pleased to grant it. 
 
 Pho. He shall not grant it ! If my life, my sense 
 My heart's affections, and my tongue's free scope 
 Wait the dominion of a mortal will, 
 What is the sound to me, whether my soul 
 Bears " Ion " or " Adrastus " burnt within it 
 As my soul's owner ? Ion tyrant ? No ! 
 Grant me a moment's pleading with his heart, 
 
SCENE II.] ION. 85 
 
 Which has not known a selfish throb till now, 
 
 And thou shalt see him smile this greatness from him. 
 
 Ctes. Go teach the eagle when in azure heaven 
 He upward darts to seize his madden'd prey, 
 Shivering through the death-circle of its fear. 
 To pause and let it 'scape, and thou mayst win 
 Man to forego the sparkling round of power, 
 When it floats airily within his grasp ! 
 
 Pho. Why thus severe ? Our nature's common wrongs 
 Aflfect thee not ; and that which touch'd thee nearly 
 Is well avenged. 
 
 Qtes. Not while the son of him 
 
 Who smote my father reigns! I little guess'd 
 Thou wouldst require a prompter to awake 
 The memory of the oath so freshly sworn, 
 Or of the place assigned to thee by lot, 
 Should our first champion fail to crush the race — 
 Mark me ! — " the race" of him my arm has dealt with 
 Now is the time, the palace all confused, 
 And Ion dizzy with strange turns of fortune, 
 To do thy part. 
 
 Pho. Have mercy on my weakness ! 
 
 If thou hadst known this comrade of my sports, 
 One of the same small household whom his mirth 
 Unfailing gladden'd ; — if a thousand times 
 Thou hadst, by strong prosperity made thoughtless, 
 Touch'd its unfather'd nature in its nerve 
 Of agony, and felt no chiding glance ; — 
 Hadst thou beheld him overtax his strength 
 To serve the wish his genial instinct guess'd. 
 Till his dim smile the weariness betray'd. 
 Which it would fain dissemble ; hadst thou known 
 In sickness the sweet magic of his care, 
 Thou couldst not ask it. — Hear me, Ctesiphon ! — 
 I had a deadly fever once, and slaves 
 Fled me: he watch'd, and glided to my bed. 
 And sooth 'd my dull ear with discourse which grew 
 By nice degrees to ravishment, till pain 
 Seem'd an heroic sense, which made me kin 
 To the great deeds he pictured, and the brood 
 8 
 
86 ION. [act IV. 
 
 Of dizzy weakness flickering through the gloom 
 Of my small curtain'd prison caught the hues 
 Of beauty spangling out in glorious change ; 
 And it became a luxury to lie 
 And faintly listen. Canst thou bid me slay him ? 
 
 Ctes. The deed be mine. Thou'lt not betray me ? 
 
 [ Going, 
 
 Pho. Hold ! 
 
 If by our dreadful compact he must fall, 
 I will not smite him with my coward thought 
 Winging a distant arm ; I will confront him 
 Arm'd with delicious memories of our youth, 
 And pierce him through them all. 
 
 Ctes. Be speedy, then ! 
 
 Pho. Fear not that I shall prove a laggard, charged 
 With weight of such a purpose. — Fate commands, 
 And I live now but to perform her bidding. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene III. — A Terrace in the Garden of the Palace, by 
 
 Moonlight. 
 
 Enter Ion and Agenor. 
 
 Age. Wilt thou not seek repose ? 
 
 Ion. My rest is here — 
 
 Beneath the greatness of the heavens, v/hich awes 
 My spirit, toss'd by sudden change, and torn 
 By various passions, to repose. Yet age 
 Requires more genial nourishment — pray seek it — 
 I will but stay thee to inquire once more 
 If any symptom of returning health 
 Bless the w^an city ? 
 
 Age. No — the perishing 
 
 Lift up their painful heads to bless thy name, 
 And their eyes kindle as they utter it ; 
 But still they perish. 
 
 Ion. So ! — give instant order. 
 
 The rites which shall confirm me in my throne 
 Be solemnized to-morrow. 
 
SCENE ITI.] ION. 87 
 
 Age. How ! so soon, 
 
 While the more sacred duties to the dead 
 Remain unpaid ? 
 
 Ion. Let them abide my time — 
 
 They will not tarry long. I see thee gaze 
 With wonder on me — do my bidding now, 
 And trust me till to-morrow. Pray go in. 
 The night will chill thee else. 
 
 Age. Farewell, my lord. [Exit 
 
 Ion. Now all is stillness in my breast — how soon 
 To be displaced by more profound repose, 
 In which no thread of consciousness shall live 
 To feel how calm it is ! — O lamp serene, 
 Do I lift up to thee undazzled eyes 
 For the last time ? Shall I enjoy no more 
 Thy golden haziness which seemed akin 
 To my young fortune's dim felicity ? 
 And when it coldly shall embrace the urn 
 That shall contain my ashes, will no thought 
 Of all the sweet ones cherish'd by thy beams 
 Awake to tremble with, them ? Vain regret ! 
 The pathway of my duty lies in sunlight, 
 And I would tread it with as firm a step, 
 Though it should terminate in cold oblivion, 
 As if Elysian pleasures at its close 
 Flash'd palpable to sight as things of earth. 
 Who passes there ? 
 
 Enter Phocion behind, who strikes at Ion with a dagger. 
 
 Pho. This to the king of Argos ! 
 
 [Ion struggles with him, seizes the dagger which he throws away. 
 
 Ion. I will not fall by thee, poor wavering novice 
 In the assassin's trade ! — thy arm is feeble — 
 
 {He confronts Phocion. 
 Phocion ! — was this well aim'd ? thou didst not mean — 
 
 Pho. I meant to take thy life, urged by remembrance 
 Of yesterday's great vow. 
 
 Ion. , And couldst thou think 
 
 I had forgotten ? 
 
 Pho. Thou ? 
 
88 ION. [act IV 
 
 Ion. Couldst thou believe, 
 
 That one, whose nature had been arm'd to stop 
 The life-blood's current in a fellow's veins, 
 Would hesitate when gentler duty turn'd 
 His steel to nearer use ? To-morrow's dawn 
 Shall see rae wield the sceptre of my fathers : 
 Come, watch beside my throne, and, if I fail 
 In sternest duty which my country needs, 
 My bosom will be open to thy steel, 
 As now to thy embrace ! 
 
 Pho. Thus let me fall 
 
 Low at thy feet, and kneeling here receive 
 Forgiveness ; do not crush me with more love 
 Than lies in the word " pardon." 
 
 Ion. And that word 
 
 I will not speak ; — what have I to forgive ? 
 A devious fancy, and a muscle raised 
 Obedient to its impulse I Dost thou think 
 The tracings of a thousand kindnesses, 
 Which taught me all I guess'd of brotherhood, 
 And in the rashness of a moment lost ? 
 
 Pho. I cannot look upon thee ; let me go. 
 And lose myself in darkness. 
 
 Ion. Nay, old playmate, 
 
 We part not thus — the duties of my state 
 Will shortly end our fellowship ; but spend 
 A few sweet minutes with me. Dost remember 
 How in a night like this we clirab'd yon walls — 
 Two vagrant urchins, and with tremulous joy 
 Skimm'd through these statu e-border'd walks that gleam'd 
 In bright succession ? Let us tread them now ; 
 And think we are but older by a day. 
 And that the pleasant walk of yesternight 
 We are to-night re-tracing. Come, my friend ! — 
 What, drooping yet ! thou wert not wont to seem 
 So stubborn — cheerily, my Phocion — come ! [Exeunt. 
 
SCENE I.] ION. S9 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene L—Time — The Morning of the second day. The 
 Terrace of the Palace. 
 
 Two Soldiers on guard. 
 
 1 Sold. 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 such reckless hurry, seize 
 The gaudy shows of power ! 
 
 2 Sold. 'Tis honest nature ; 
 The royal instinct was but smouldering in him, 
 And now it blazes forth, T pray the gods 
 
 He may not give us cause to mourn his sire. 
 1 Sold. 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 Sold. We have been on guard 
 
 Here by Agenor's order since the nightfall. 
 
 Ion. On guard ! Well, hasten nov/ and see it done ; 
 I need no guards. {Exeunt Soldiers. 
 
 The awful hour draws near ; 
 I think that I can meet it. — Phocion comes : 
 He will unman me ; yet he must not go, 
 Thinking his presence painful. 
 
 Enter Phocion. 
 
 Friend, good morrow; 
 Thou play'st the courtier early. 
 
 Pho. Canst thou speak 
 
 In that old tone of common cheerfulness, 
 That blithely promises delightful years, 
 And hold thy dreadful purpose? 
 8* 
 
90 ION. [act V 
 
 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 deep and dreamless have my slumbers been. 
 If sight of thee renews the thoughts of life 
 Too busily, — I prize the love that wakes them. 
 
 Pho. Oh, 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, 
 aAnd who so late was arm'd Fate's minister, 
 Implore thee ! 
 
 Ion. Speak to me no more of life ! 
 
 There is a dearer name I would recall — 
 Thou understand'st me — 
 
 Enter Agenor. 
 
 Age. 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 bro- 
 ken hy 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 ! — 
 
SCENE I.] ION. 91 
 
 Ent?r Cle-on. 
 
 Clean. 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 ChEO^ 
 
 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 an honest treason. 
 
 Enter Cassander. 
 
 Cas. 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 ana comes 
 to him. 
 
 Come back, Cassander ! see 
 How greatness frets the temper. 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. 
 
92 ION. [act v. 
 
 Pho. 'Tis time we seek 
 
 The temple. 
 
 Ion. Phocion ! must I seek the temple ? 
 
 Pho. There sacrificial rites must be perform'd 
 Before thou art enthroned. 
 
 Ion. Then I must gaze 
 
 On things which will arouse the struggling thoughts 
 I had subdued — perchance may meet with her 
 Whose name I dare not utter. I am ready. [Exeunt 
 
 Scene II . — The Temple. 
 
 Clemanthe, Habra. 
 
 Hab. Be comforted, dear lady ; — he must come 
 To sacrifice. 
 
 Cle. 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 hath left 
 To feed upon. 
 
 Hob. I see him now with Phocion 
 
 Pass through the inner court. 
 
 Cle. He will not come 
 
 This way, then, to the place for sacrifice. 
 I can endure no more : speed to him, Habra ; 
 And bid him, if he holds Clemanthe's life 
 Worthy a minute's loss, to seek me here. 
 
 Hob. Dear lady ! — 
 
 Cle. Do not answer me, but run, 
 
 Or I shall give yon crowd of sycophants 
 To gaze upon my sorrow. \Exit Habra. 
 
 It is hard ; 
 Yet I must strive to bear it, and find solace 
 In that high fortune which has made him strange. 
 
SCEiNE II.] ION. 93 
 
 He bends this way — ^but slowly — mournfully. 
 0, lie is ill ; how has my slander wrong'd him ! 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 Ion. What wouldst thou with me, lady? 
 
 Cle. 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 seek. 
 
 ion. A goodly dream ; 
 
 But thou art right to think it was no more. 
 And study to forget it. 
 
 Cle. To forget it? 
 
 Indeed, my lord, I cannot wish to lose 
 What, being past, is all my future hath, 
 All I shall live for : do not grudge me this, 
 The brief space I shall need it. 
 
 Ion. Speak not, fair one, 
 
 ^11 tone so mournful, for it makes 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. 
 
 Cle. 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, rich in spirit, thou to strangers' eyes 
 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 ! 
 
94 ION. [ 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Ch. Thou dost accuse 
 
 Thy state too hardly. It may give some room, 
 Some little space, amidst its radiant folds, 
 For love to make its nest in ! 
 
 Ion. Not for me : 
 
 My pomp mxust 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 sceptre'd 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! 
 
 Cle. unkind ! 
 
 And shall we never see each other ? 
 
 Ion. {after a pause). Yes! 
 
 X have ask'd that dreadful question of the hills 
 That look eternal ; of the flowing streams 
 That lucid flow for ever ; of the stars, 
 Am.id 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 ! 
 
 Cle. Bless thee for that name ; 
 
 Call me that name again ; thy words sound strangely, 
 Yet they breathe kindness. 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 ! 
 
SCENE III.] ION. 95 
 
 Ion. No : thou must live, my fair one : 
 
 Th(.Te 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 lengtn will bring repose 
 To the sad mind that studies to perform them. 
 Thou dost not mark me. 
 
 Cle. Oh, I dol 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. 
 
 Cle. 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. 
 
 Age. My lord, 
 
 The sacrificial rites await thy presence. 
 
 Ion. I come. — One more embrace — the last, the last. 
 In this world ! Now, farewell ! {Exit. 
 
 Cle. 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 state ; Minerva's shrine 
 Will shelter me from vulgar gaze ; I'll hasten. 
 And feast my sad eyes with his greatness there I {Exit. 
 
 ScFNE III. — The Great Square of the City^ — on one side a 
 Throne of State prepared, — on the other an Altar ^ — the Statues 
 decorated with garlands. ■ 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon and Cassander. 
 
 Cies. Vex me no more by telling me, Cassander, 
 If his fair speech: I prize it at its worth; 
 
96 ION. [act v. 
 
 Thou'lt see how he will act when seated firm 
 Upon the throne the craven tyrant fiU'd, 
 Whose blood he boasts, unless some honest arm 
 Should shed it first. 
 
 Cas. Hast thou forgot the time 
 
 When thou thyself wert eager to foretell 
 His manhood's glory from his childish virtues? 
 Let me not think thee one of those fond prophets, 
 Who are well pleased still to foretell success, 
 So it remain their dream. 
 
 Ctes. 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 Medovi, Agenor, Phocion, Timo- 
 CLES, Cleon, Sages and People ; Ion last, in Royal 
 robes. He advances amidst shouts, and speaks. 
 
 Ion. I thank you for your greeting — 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 ? 
 
 Me. Permit thy earliest friend, 
 
 Who propp'd in infancy thy tottering steps. 
 To lead thee to thy throne, — and thus fulfil 
 His fondest vision. 
 
 Ion. Thou art still most kind — - 
 
 Me. Nay, do not think of me, my son ! my son ! 
 What ails thee ? When thou shouldst reflect the joy 
 Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave 
 Marbles thy face. 
 
 Ion. ' Am I indeed so pale ? 
 
 It is a solemn office I assume; 
 Yet thus, with Phoebus' blessing I embrace it. 
 
 [Sits on the throne. 
 Stand forth, Agenor ! 
 
 Age. I wait thy will. 
 
 Ion. To thee I look as to the wisest friend 
 Of this afflicted people ; — thou must leave 
 
SCENE III.] ION. 97 
 
 Awhile the quiet which thy life hath earn'd, 
 
 To rule our councils ; fill the seats of justice 
 
 With good men not so absolute in goodness, • 
 
 As to forget what human frailty is ; 
 
 And order my sad country. 
 
 Age. Pardon me — 
 
 Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request; 
 Thou never couldst deny me what I sought 
 In boyish wantonness, and shalt not grudge 
 Thy wisdom to me, till our state revive 
 From its long anguish ; — it will not be long 
 If Heaven approve me here. Thou hast all power 
 Whether I live or die. 
 
 Age. Die ! I am old — 
 
 Ion. Death is not jealous of thy mild decay, 
 Which gently wins thee his ; exulting Youth 
 Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride, 
 And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp 
 His shivering prey at noontide. Let me see 
 The captain of the guard. 
 
 Cry. I kneel to crave 
 
 Humbly the favour which thy sire bestow'd 
 On one who loved him well. 
 
 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 my stores contain, 
 To grace thy passage to some distant land, 
 Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword, 
 May glorious laurels wreath it! In our realm 
 We shall not need it longer. 
 
 Cry. Dost intend 
 
 To banish the firm troops before whose valour 
 Barbarian millions shrink appall'd, and leave 
 Our city naked to the first assault 
 Of reckless foes ! 
 
 Ion. No, Crythes! — in ourselves, 
 
 9 
 
98 ION. [act v. 
 
 In our own honest hearts and chainless hands 
 
 Will be our safeguard : — while we seek no use 
 
 Of arms, we would not have our children blend 
 
 With their first innocent wishes ; while the love 
 
 Of Argos and of justice shall be one 
 
 To their young reason ; while their sinews grow 
 
 Firm 'midst the gladness of heroic sports : 
 
 We shall not ask to guard our country's peace 
 
 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 
 
 [nfect us. See that they embark, Agenor, 
 
 £re night. 
 
 Cry. My lord — 
 
 Ion. No more — my word hath pass'd 
 
 tiedon, there is no office I can add 
 '.*o those thou hast grown old in ; thou wilt guard 
 The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home — 
 Thy too delightful home — befriend the stranger 
 As thou didst me; — there sometimes waste a thought 
 On thy spoil'd inmate ! 
 
 Me. Think of thee, my lord ? 
 
 Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign — 
 
 Ion. Prithee no more. Argives ! I have a boon 
 To crave of you — whene'er I shall rejoin 
 In death the father from whose heart in life 
 Stern Fate divided me, think gently of him ! 
 For ye, who saw him in his full-blown pride, 
 Knew little of affections crush'd within. 
 And wrongs which frenzied him ; yet never more 
 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 sovereign rule : — our narrow space, 
 So happy in its confines, so compact. 
 Needs not the macic of a single name 
 Which wider regions may require to draw 
 Their interests into one ; but circled thus, 
 
SCENE III.J ION. 99 
 
 Like a bless'd family by simple laws, 
 
 May tenderly be govern'd ; all degrees 
 
 Moulded together as a single form 
 
 Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords 
 
 Of sympathy pervading shall suffuse 
 
 In times of quiet with one bloom, and fill 
 
 With one resistless impulse, if the hosts 
 
 Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me 
 
 That ye will do this ! 
 
 Me. Wherefore ask this now ? 
 
 Thou shalt live long ; — the paleness of thy face 
 Which late appal I'd me wears a glory now, 
 And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy 
 Of lustrous years. 
 
 Ion. The gods approve me then ! 
 
 Yet I will use the function of a king, 
 And claim obedience. Promise if I leave 
 No issue, that the sovereign power shall live 
 In the affections of the general heart, 
 And in the wisdom of the best. 
 
 Medon, and others. We 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 support him. 
 
 Ctesiphon, thou art 
 Avenged and wilt forgive me. 
 
 Ctes. Thou hast pluck'd 
 
 The poor disguise of hatred from my soul, 
 
100 ION. [act v. 
 
 And made me feel how evil is the wish 
 Of vengeance. Could I die to save thee ! 
 
 Clemanthe rushes forward. 
 
 Cle. ^ 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 ! 
 
 Cle. And for this it was 
 
 Thou wouldst have wean'd me from thee ? Couldst thou 
 I would be so divorced ? [think 
 
 Ion. Thou art right, Clemanthe, — 
 
 It was a shallow and an idle thought ; 
 'Tis past ; no show of coldness frets us now ; 
 No vain disguise, my love. Yet thou wilt think 
 On that which, when I feign'd I truly said — 
 Wilt thou not, sweet one ? 
 
 Cle. 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. \spri7igs on his feet]. Do ye not hear ! 
 Why shout ye not ? — ye are strong — think not of me ; 
 Hearken ! the curse my ancestry has 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 Med on ! cherish him as thou hast one 
 Who dying blesses thee ; — my own Clemanthe ! 
 Let this console thee also — Argos lives — 
 The offering is accepted — all is well ! [Dies. 
 
 The curtain falls. 
 
THE 
 
 ATHENIAN CAPTIVE; 
 
 A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS 
 
TO THE 
 
 EIGHT HON. THOPviAS LORD DENMAN, 
 
 Lord Chief Justice of Her Majesty^ s Court of Queen's Bench, 
 IN TESTIMONY OF WARM ADMIRATION 
 
 OF THOSE QUALITIES WHICH WERE THE GRACE AND DELIGHT 
 
 OF THE BAR, 
 
 AND WHICH HAPPILY ADORN THE BENCH ; 
 
 AND IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF MANY CHEERING 
 KINDNESSES ; 
 
 IS, WITH HIS PERMISSION, 
 
 RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The following notice was prefixed to the first edition of this 
 drama, which was prepared in the expectation that it would be 
 performed on the eve of its publication : — 
 
 " The existence of the following scenes is entirely to be attri- 
 buted to the earnest desire which I felt, to assist, even in the 
 slightest degree, the endeavour which Mr. Macready has made 
 this season in the cause of the acted Drama. More than content- 
 ed v/ith the unhoped for association I had obtained with the living 
 influences of scenic representation, in the indulgence accorded to 
 * Ion,' I should have postponed all thought of again venturing be- 
 fore the public, until years had brought leisure, which might en- • 
 able me to supply, by labour and by care, what I knew to be want- 
 ing in the higher requisites of tragic style. But I could not per- 
 ceive a gentleman, whose friendship I had long enjoyed, forsaking 
 the certain rewards of his art, and the tranquil pleasures of do- 
 mestic lifS, to engage in the chivalrous endeavour to support a 
 cause, which I believe to be that of humanity and of goodness, 
 and which seemed almost desperate, without a feverish anxiety 
 to render him assistance, and perhaps a tendency to mistake the 
 will for the power. The position of the two great theatres — with 
 a legal monopoly, which has been frittered away piecemeal with- 
 out recompense, until nothing remains but the debts which were 
 contracted on the faith of its continuance, and the odium of its 
 name ; — opposed to a competition with numerous establishments, 
 dividing the dramatic talent and dissipating the dramatic interest 
 of the town, — rendered the determination of Mr. Macready to risk 
 his property, his time and his energies, in the management of one 
 of them, a subject of an interest almost painful. Impressed with 
 this sentiment, at a time when it was unforeseen that one of the 
 most distinguished of our authors woulr Wnd his aid — when no 
 tragic ere ition of Knowles * cast its shadow before,' with its as- 
 
104 PREFACE. 
 
 surance of power and of beauty, — when the noble revivals of Lear 
 and of Coriolanus were only to be guessed at from those of Hamlet 
 and Macbeth, — I determined to make an attempt, marked, 1 fear, 
 with more zeal than wisdom. Having submitted the outline of 
 this Drama to the friend and artist most interested in the result, 
 and having received his encouragement to proceed, I devoted my 
 little vacation of Christmas to its composition ; — and succeeded so 
 far as to finish it before the renewal of other (I can hardly say) 
 severer labours. Whether I may succeed in doing more than thus 
 gratifying my own feelings, and testifying their strength by the 
 effort, is, at this time, doubtful ; — but, in no event, shall I regret 
 having made it. 
 
 " At this period I can only, of course, imperfectly, estimate the 
 extent of the obligation I shall owe to the performers ; but, as 
 no other opportunity may occur, I cannot refrain from thanking 
 them for the zeal and cordiality with which they have thus far 
 supported me. Among them I am happy to find my old and con- 
 stant friend, Mr. Serle, — who should rather be engaged in embo- 
 dying his own conceptions than in lending strength to mine. And 
 I cannot refrain from mentioning the sacrifice made to the com- 
 mon cause by Miss Helen Faucit, in consenting to perform a char- 
 acter far beneath the sphere in which she is entitled to move ; 
 and which, even when elevated and graced by her, will, I fear, be 
 chiefly noted for her good-nature in accepting it." 
 
 The representation of this play at Covent Garden Theatre was 
 prevented by the occurrence of an event " untoward" as regarded 
 the hopes of the author, — an addition to the family of Mrs. War- 
 ner, who had prepared to represent Ismene. It was subsequently 
 produced at the Haymarket Theatre, under the management of 
 Mr. Webster ; and, notwithstanding the diminution of interest 
 caused by its previous publication, was rendered more successful, 
 by the powers of Mr. Macready and Mrs. Warner, than I had 
 ventured to anticipate, even when I expected that they would be 
 supported by Miss Helen Faucit and Mr. Anderson. It has since 
 been repeatedly represented in the country at the instance of Mr. 
 Henry Betty, who has illustrated the part of Thoas with energy 
 anti grace, which all who recollect the brilliant passages of his 
 father's youth, or who are acquainted with his own modest worth, 
 will rejoice to find ensuring the best rewards which the present 
 condition of the stage allows to its professors. 
 
 The catastrophe of this Drama, as originally written, differs from 
 
PREFACE. 105 
 
 that with which it now closes, — the death of Thoas by his own 
 hand in the scene of trial. According to the first design, after 
 Ismene had retired from the Temple on the refusal of her son to 
 acquiesce in the condemnation of Hyllus, Thoas, by the aid of the 
 Athenian troops, awes and compels the Corinthians to leave the 
 prisoner with him, and then implores his death from Hyllus, 
 whom he urges to revenge his father ; — Hyllus yields ; — and ac- 
 companying Thoas to the tomb of Creon, there accomplishes the 
 wish of his repentant friend and the revenge of his father. This 
 scheme, involving scenic difficulties, and perhaps more serious 
 danger, was objected to by Mr. Macready, with good reason, and 
 supplied by the present termination. While I have no doubt that, 
 for ttieatrical purposes, the alteration was judicious, I retain the 
 opinion that the original scheme was more in accordance with the 
 severe spirit of the Grecian Drama of which this Play is a faint 
 shadow; and, therefore, I have placed in the Appeivdix the 
 closing scenes as first written. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 Creon, King of Corinth. 
 
 Hyllus, Son of Creon. 
 
 Iphitus, Priest of the temple of Jupiter the Avenger, at Corinth. 
 
 Calchas, an Athenian, living at Corinth. 
 
 Thoas, an Athenian Warrior. 
 
 Pentheus, an Athenian Warrior, his Friend. 
 
 Lycits, Master of the Slaves to the King of Corinth. 
 
 Athenian and Corinthian Soldiers, 8fc. 
 IsMEivE, Queen of Corinth; second wife of Creon. 
 Creusa, Daughter of Creon ; twin-born of his first wife with 
 Hyllus. 
 
 Scene — Corinth^ and its immediate neighbourhood. 
 
 Time of Action — Two days. 
 
THE 
 
 ATHENIAN CAPTIVE; 
 
 A TKAGEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The Acropolis of Corinth.' 
 
 Creon reclining on a bench, beneath open columns — Iphitus 
 a little behind him, in th°: dress of Augury, loatching the 
 flight of birds. The Sea seen far below, m the distance. 
 
 Iph. Wheel through the ambient air, ye sacred 
 In circles still contracting, that aspire [birds, 
 
 To share the radiance of yon dazzling beams. 
 And 'midst them float from mortal gaze; ye speak 
 In no uncertain language to the sons 
 Of Corinth, that the shames they bear from Athens 
 Shall speedily be lost in glories won 
 From "insolent battalions, that have borne 
 Their triumphs to our gates. Rejoice, my king ! 
 Leave mournful contemplation of the dust, 
 To hail the omen ! 
 
 Creooi. I am so perplex'd 
 
 With the faint tracings age's weakness shapes, 
 That I distinguish not the winged forms 
 Thou speakest of, from the mists that flicker quick 
 On eyes which soon must be all dark. To me 
 No omen can be otherwise than sad ! 
 
 Iph. Surely, my king — for I will answer thee 
 Untrerabling, as Jove's minister— these signs 
 
108 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT I. 
 
 Should make thy heart beat proudly ; hast not felt 
 
 Upon our loftiest eminence the blight 
 
 Of that dishonour which alone can slay 
 
 The spirit of a people : — seen our fanes 
 
 Crowded with suppliants from our wasted fields, 
 
 Shrieking for help in vain, and mourn'd the power 
 
 Of Athens to convert our cloudless sky. 
 
 And the bright sea which circles us, to bounds 
 
 Of a great prison ? If thy kingly soul 
 
 Hath shrunk — as well I know it bath — from shame 
 
 Without example in our story, now 
 
 Bid it expand, as our beleaguer'd gates 
 
 Shall open wide to let our heroes pass, 
 
 Wiih brows which glisten to receive the laurel 
 
 From their king's hand. 
 
 Creon. Perchance to see him die. 
 
 O, Iphitus ! thy king hath well nigh spent 
 His store of w^ealth, of glory, and of power, 
 Which made him master of the hopes and strengths 
 Of others ! While the haggard Fury waits 
 To cut the knot which binds his thousand threads 
 Of lustrous life., and the sad ghost forsakes 
 The palace of its regal clay, to shrink, 
 Thin as a beggar's, sceptreless, uncrown'd, 
 Unheeded, to the throng'd and silent shore 
 Where flattery soothes not, think'st thou it can draw 
 A parting comfort from surrounding looks 
 Of lusty youth, prepar'd, with beaming joy, 
 To hail a young successor? 
 
 Iph. Still thine age 
 
 Is green and hopeful ; there is nought about thee 
 To speak of mortal sickness, and unnerve 
 A soul of noble essence. 
 
 Creon. Priest, forbear ! 
 
 The life that lingers in me is the witness 
 With which I may not palter. I may seem 
 To-day to wear the look of yesterday, — 
 A shrivell'd, doting, peevish, weak old man, 
 Who may endure some winters more to strip 
 A leaflet daily from him, till he stands 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 109 
 
 So bare of happiness, that Death hath scarce 
 
 An art to make him nakeder. My soul 
 
 Begins its solemn whispers of adieu 
 
 To earth's too sweet companionship. Yet, hark ! 
 
 It is Creusa's footstep; is 't not, priest? 
 
 Is not my child approaching us ? 
 
 Iph. Afar 
 
 I see the snowy foldings of a robe 
 Wave through the column'd avenue ; thy sense 
 Is finer than the impatient ear of youth. 
 That it should catch the music of a step 
 So distant and so gentle. 
 
 0reon. If thou wert 
 
 A father, thou would'st know a father's love 
 'Mid nature's weakness; for one failing sense 
 Still finds another sharpen'd to attend 
 Its finest ministries. Unlike the pomps 
 That make the dregs of life more bitter, this 
 Can sweeten even a king's. 
 [Creusa passes across the stage behind Creon, bearing offerings. 
 
 She passes on ; 
 So ! So ! all leave me. Call her, Iphitus, 
 Though that her duty own no touch of fondness, 
 I will command her. Am I not her king \ 
 Why dost not call ? 
 
 Re-enter Creusa, ivho kneels in front to Creon. 
 Ah ! thou art there, my child ; 
 Methinks my waning sight grows clear, to drink 
 The perfect picture of thy beauty in ; 
 And I grow gentle — Ah ! too gentle, girl — 
 Wherefore didst pass me by without regard, 
 Who have scant blessing left save thus to gaze 
 And listen to thee ? 
 
 Creusa. Pardon me, my father, 
 
 If, bearing offerings to the shrine of Jove 
 For my sweet brother's safety, anxious thoughts 
 Clove to him in the battle with a force 
 Which made its strangest hopes of horror live. 
 As present things ; and, lost in their pursuit, 
 I heeded not my father. 
 10 
 
110 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT I. 
 
 Creon. In the battle ? 
 
 Is Hyllus in the combat 'mid those ranks 
 Of iron? He who hath not rounded yet 
 His course of generous exercise ? I'm weak ; 
 Is that the cause ? Is he impatient grown 
 To put the royal armour on, his sire 
 Must never wear again ? Oh, no ! his youth, 
 In its obedient gentleness, hath been 
 An infancy prolong'd ! It is the Power 
 Which strikes me with the portents of the grave, 
 That by the sight of his ensanguined corpse 
 Would hasten their fulfilment ; 'tis well aim'd, 
 I shall fall cold before it. 
 
 Creusa. 'Twas a word, 
 
 Dropp'd by the queen in answer to some speech 
 In which she fancied slight to Athens, roused 
 His spirit to an ecstacy ; he spurn'd 
 The light accoutrements of mimic war ; 
 Borrow'd a soldier's sword, and, with the troops 
 Who sallied forth at day-break, sought the fields — 
 Where Jupiter protect him ! 
 
 Creon, Bid the queen 
 
 Here answer to us [Exit Iphitus. 
 
 Rarely will she speak, 
 And calmly, yet her sad and solemn words 
 Have power to thrill and madden. my child. 
 Had not my wayward fancy been enthrall'd 
 By that Athenian loveliness which shone 
 From basest vestments, in a form whose grace 
 Made the cold beauty of Olympus earth's. 
 And drew me to be traitor to the urn 
 Which holds thy mother's ashes, I had spent 
 My age in sweet renewal of my youth 
 With thought of her who gladden'd it, nor known 
 The vain endeavour to enforce reg-ard 
 From one whose heart lies dead amidst the living. 
 
 Re-enter Iphitus. 
 
 Creon. Comes the queen hither ? Does she mock out- 
 bidding ? 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. Ill 
 
 Iph. At stern Minerva's inmost shrine she kneels, 
 And with an arm as rigid and as pale 
 As is the giant statue, clasps the foot 
 That seems as it would spurn her, yet were stay'd 
 By the firm suppliant's will. She looks attent 
 As one who caught fine hint of distant sounds, 
 Yet none from living intercourse of man 
 Can pierce that marhle solitude. Her face 
 Upraised, is motionless, — yet while I mark'd it — 
 As from its fathomless abode a spring 
 Breaks on the bosom of a sullen lake 
 And in an instant grows as still, — a hue 
 Of blackness trembled o'er it ; her large eye 
 Kindled with frightful lustre ; — ^but the shade 
 Pass'd instant thence ; her face resum'd its look 
 Of stone as deathlike as the aspect pure 
 Of the great face divine to which it answered. 
 I durst not speak to her. 
 
 Creon. I see it plain ; 
 
 Her thoughts are with our foes, the blood of Athens 
 Mantles or freezes in her alien veins ; 
 Let her alone. [Shouts without. 
 
 Creusa. Hark ! — They would never shout 
 
 If Hyllas were in peril. 
 
 Creon. Were he slain 
 
 In dashing back the dusky wall of shields, 
 Beneath which Athens masks her pride of war. 
 They would exult and mock the slaughter 'd boy 
 With Paeans. 
 
 Creusa. So my brother would have chosen ! 
 
 [Shouts renewed. 
 
 Enter Corinthian Soldier. 
 Soldier. Our foes are driven to their tents, the field 
 Is ours — 
 
 Creon. [hastily interrupting him]. What of the prince — 
 my son ? 
 Thou dost avoid his name ; — have ye achieved 
 This noisy triumph with his blood? 
 
 Soldier. A wound. 
 
 Slight, as we hope, hath graced his early valour, 
 
112 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT I. 
 
 And though it draws some colour from his cheek 
 Leaves the heart fearless. 
 
 Creon. I will well avenge 
 
 The faintest breath of sorrow which hath dimm'd 
 The mirror of his youth. Will he not come ? 
 Why does he linger if his wound is slight, 
 From the fond arms of him who will avenge it? 
 
 Soldier. He comes, my lord. 
 
 Creon. Make way there ! let me clasp him ! 
 
 Enter Hyllus, pale, as slightly wounded. 
 
 Why does he not embrace me ? 
 
 [Creusa runs to Hyllus, and supports him as he moves 
 towards Creon. 
 Creusa. He is faint, 
 
 Exhausted, breathless, — bleeding. Lean on me, 
 
 [7b Hyllus. 
 And let me lead thee to the king, who pants 
 To bid his youngest soldier welcome. 
 
 Hyl ^ Nay 
 
 'Tis nothing. Silly trembler ! — see my limbs 
 Are pliant, and my sinews docile still. [^Kneels to Creon. 
 Knee] with me ; pray our father to forgive 
 The disobedience of his truant son. 
 His first — oh, may it prove the last ! 
 
 [Creusa kneels with Hyllus to Creon. 
 Creon. My son ! 
 
 Who fancied I was angry ? 
 
 Enter Ismene. 
 
 [To Ismene] Art thou come, 
 
 To gaze upon the perill'd youth, who owes 
 His wound to thee ? 
 
 Ism. He utter'd shallow scorn 
 
 Of Athens ; — which he ne'er will speak again. 
 
 Creon. Wouldst dare to curb his speech ? 
 
 Hyl. Forbear, my father ; 
 
 The queen says rightly. In that idle mood. 
 Which youth's excess of happiness makes wanton, 
 I slighted our illustrious foes, whose arms 
 Have, with this mild correction, taught my tongue 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 113 
 
 An apter phrase of modesty, and shown 
 What generous courage i^, which till this day 
 [ dimly giiess'd at. 
 
 Creon. Canst thou tell his name, 
 
 Who impious drew the blood of him who soon — 
 Too soon, alas! — shall reign in Corinth? 
 
 Hyl ^ One 
 
 I'm proud to claim my master in great war; 
 With whom contesting, I have tasted first 
 The joy which animates the glorious game 
 Where fiercest opposition of brave hearts 
 Makes them to feel their kindred ; one who spared me 
 To "gTace another fight, the sudden smart 
 His sword inflicted made me vainly rush 
 To grapple with him ; from his fearful grasp 
 I sank to earth ; as I lay prone in dust. 
 The broad steel shiv'ring in my eyes, that strove 
 To keep their steady gaze, I met his glance, 
 Where pity triumph'd ; quickly he return'd 
 His falchion to its sheath, and with a hand 
 Frank and sustaining as a brother's palm, 
 Uprais'd me ; — while he whisper'd in mine ear, 
 " Thou hast dared well, young soldier !" our hot troops 
 Environ'd him and bore him from the field, 
 Our^ army's noblest captive. 
 
 Creon. He shall die ; 
 
 The gen'rous falsehood of thy speech is vain. 
 
 Creusa. no ! my brother's words were never false ; 
 The heroic picture proves his truth ; — they bring 
 A gallant prisoner towards us. It is he. 
 Enter Thoas, in armour, guarded by Corinthian Soldiers, and 
 Lycus, Master of the Slaves. 
 
 Soldier. My lord, we bring the captive, whom we found 
 In combat with the prince. 
 
 Hyl. Say rather, found 
 
 Raising that prince whose rashness he chastised 
 And whom he taught to treat a noble foe. 
 
 Creon. [To the Soldiers.] Answer to me ! Why have 
 ye brought this man. 
 Whom the just gods have yielded to atone 
 10* 
 
114 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT I. 
 
 For princely blood he shed, in pride of arms ? 
 Remove that helmet. 
 
 Thoas. He who stirs to touch 
 My arms, shall feel a dying warrior's grasp. 
 I will not doff my helmet till I yield 
 My neck to your slave's butchery ; how soon 
 That stroke may fall, I care not. 
 
 Creusa. [To Hyllus.] Hyllus, speak! 
 
 Why thus transfix'd? Wilt thou not speak for him 
 Who spared a life, which, light perchance to thee, 
 Is the most precious thing to me on earth ? 
 
 Thoas. [To Creusa.] Ere I descend to that eternal 
 Which opens to enfold me, let me bless [gloom 
 
 The vision that hath cross'd it ! 
 
 Hyl. [^To Creon.] If thou slay him, 
 
 I will implore the mercy of the sword 
 To end me too ; and, that sad grace withheld, 
 Will kneel beside his corpse till nature give 
 Her own dismissal to me. 
 
 Ism. [Speaking sloidy to Creon.] Let him breathe 
 A slave's ignoble life out here ; 'twill prove 
 The sterner fortune. 
 
 Creon. Hearken to me, prisoner ! 
 
 My boy hath won his choice — immediate death, 
 Or life-long portion with my slaves. 
 
 Thoas. Dost dare 
 
 Insult a son of Athens by the doubt 
 Thy words imply ? Wert thou in manhood's prime, 
 Amidst thy trembling slaves would I avenge 
 The foul suggestion, with the desperate strength 
 Of fated valour ; but thou art in years. 
 And I should blush to harm thee ; — let me die. 
 
 Creusa. O do not fling away thy noble life, 
 For it is rich in treasures of its own, 
 Which Fortune cannot touch, and vision'd glories 
 Shall stream around its bondage. 
 
 Thoas. I have dream'd 
 
 Indeed of greatness, lovely one, and felt 
 The very dream worth living for, while hope, 
 To make it real, survived ; and I have loved 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 115 
 
 To image thought, the mirror of great deeds, 
 Fed by the past to might' which should impel 
 And vivify the future ! blending thus 
 The aims and triumphs of a hero's life. 
 But to cheat hopeless infamy with shows 
 Of nobleness, and filch a feeble joy 
 In the vain spasms of the slavish soul, 
 Were foulest treachery to the god within me. 
 No, lady : from the fissure of a rock, 
 Scath'd and alone, my brief existence gush'd, 
 A passion'd torrent ; — let it not be lost 
 In rpiry sands, but having caught one gleam 
 Of loveliness to grace it, dash from light 
 To darkness and to silence. Lead me forth — 
 [To Creusa]. The Gods requite thee! 
 
 Creon. Hath the captive chosen ? 
 
 I will not grant another moment ; — speak ! 
 Wilt serve or perish ? 
 
 Hyl. [Throwing himself before TuoAs]. Do not an- 
 Grant him a few short minutes to decide, [swer yet ! 
 And let me spend them with him. 
 
 Creon. [Rising]. Be it so, then ; 
 
 Kneel, prisoner, to the prince who won thee grace 
 No other mortal could have gain'd : — remember 
 The master of my slaves attends the word 
 Thou presently shalt utter; tame thy pride 
 To own his government, or he must bind, 
 And slay thee. Daughter, come ! The queen attends us. 
 
 [Exeunt Creon and Soldiers. 
 
 Creusa. [To Hyllus, as she passes him]. Thou wilt 
 not leave him till he softens. 
 [IsMENE follows; as she passes Thoas, she speaks in a low 
 and solemn tone. 
 
 Ism. Live ! 
 
 Thoas. Who gave that shameful counsel ? 
 
 Ism. [Passing on]. One of Athens. [Exit. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Lycus the Master of the Slaves. — Thoas, 
 and Hyllus. 
 
 Thoas. [Abstractedly]. What words are these, which 
 bid my wayward blood, 
 That centred at my heart with icy firmness, 
 
116 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT I. 
 
 Come tingling back through all my veins ? I seem 
 Once more to drink Athenian ether in, 
 And the fair city's column 'd. glories flash 
 Upon my soul! 
 
 Lycus. My lord, I dare not wait. 
 
 Hyl. [Eagerly to Lyciis]. He yields ; — I read it in 
 his softening gaze ; 
 It speaks of life. 
 
 Thoas. Yes, I will owe life to thee, 
 
 Hyl. Thou hear'st him, Lycus. Let me know the name 
 Of him whom I could deem my friend. 
 
 Thoas. My name? 
 
 I have none worthy of thy ear ; I thought 
 To arm a common sound with deathless power ; 
 'Tis past ; thou only mark'st me from the crowd 
 Of crawling earth-worms ; — thou may'st call me Thoas. 
 
 Lycus. [Coming forward^. My prince, forgive me ; 
 I must take his armour. 
 And lead him hence. 
 
 Thoas. Great Jupiter look down ! 
 
 iJz/Z. Thoas, thy faith is pledged. [To Lvcrs]. Stand 
 back awhile. 
 If thou hast nature. Thoas will to me 
 Resio;/! his arms. 
 
 Thoas. [ Taking off his helmet]. To a most noble hand 
 I yield the glories of existence up, 
 And bid them long adieu ! This plume, which now 
 Hangs motionless, as if it felt the shame 
 Its owner bears, wav'd in my boyish thoughts 
 Ere I was free to wear it, as the sign. 
 The dancing image of my bounding hopes. 
 That imaged it above a thrbng of battles. 
 Waving where blows were fiercest. Take it hence — 
 Companion of brave fancies, vanish'd now 
 For ever, follow them ! 
 
 [Hyllus takes the helmet from Thoas, and passes it to 
 
 Hyl. 'Tis nobly done ; [Lycus. 
 
 No doubt that it again shall clasp thy brow, 
 And the plume wave in victory. Thy sword ? 
 Forgive me ; I must filch it for a while : 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 117 
 
 Hide it — O deem it so — in idle sport, 
 And keep thy chidings till I give it back 
 Again to smite and spare. 
 
 Thoas. Too generous youth, 
 
 Permit my depth of sorrow to be calm, 
 Unruffled by vain hope. {^Takes off his sword. 
 
 Farewell, old sword, 
 Thou wert the sole inheritance which grac'd 
 My finish'd years of boyhood — all that time 
 And fortune spared of those from whom I drew 
 The thirst of greatness. In how proud an hour 
 Did J first clasp thee with untrembling hand. 
 Fit thee, with fond exactness, to my side. 
 And in the quaint adornments of thy sheath 
 Guess deeds of valour, acted in old time 
 By some forgotten chief, whose generous blooa 
 I felt within my swelling veins ! Farewell ! 
 
 [Thoas gives his sword to Hyllus, who delivers it to Lycus. 
 
 Hyl [Diffidently']. Thy buckler? 
 
 Thoas. [Takes off his buckler eagerly, and delivers it 
 to Hyllus]. I rejoice to part with that; 
 My bosom needs no bulwark save its own, 
 For I am only man now. If my heart 
 Should in its throbbing burst, 'twill beat against 
 An unapparell'd casing, and be still. Going. 
 
 Hyl. [hesitatingly']. Hold ! — one thing more — thy 
 I grieve that I must ask it. [girdle holds a knife. 
 
 Thoas. By the sense 
 
 Which 'mid delights I feel thou hast not lost, 
 Of what, in dread extremity, the brave, 
 Stripp'd of all other refuge, would embrace, — - 
 I do adjure thee, — rob me not of this ! 
 
 Hyl. Conceal it in thy vest. 
 [Thoas hastily places his dagger in his bosom, and takes 
 the hand of Hyllus. 
 
 Thoas. We understand 
 
 Each other's spirit ; — thou hast call'd me friend, 
 And though in bonds I answer to the name, 
 And give it thee again. 
 
 Lycus. [advancing]. The time is spent 
 
lis THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT I. 
 
 Beyond the king's allowance : I must lead 
 The captive to the court, where he may meet 
 His fellows, find his station, and put on 
 The habit he must wear. 
 
 Thoas. Do I hear rightly? 
 
 Must an Athenian warrior's free-born limbs 
 Be clad in withering symbols of the power 
 By which man marks his property in flesh, 
 Bones, sinews, feelings, lying Nature framed 
 For human ? They shall rend me piecemeal first ! 
 
 Hyl. Thoas — friend — comrade, — recollect thy word, 
 Which now to break were worse disgrace than power 
 Can fix upon thee, bids thee bear awhile 
 This idle shame. I shall be proud to walk 
 A listener at thy side, while generous thoughts 
 And arts of valour, which may make them deeds, 
 Enrich my youth. Soon shall we 'scape the court; 
 Ply the small bark upon the summer sea, 
 Gay careless voyagers, who leave the shore 
 With all its vain distinctions, for a world 
 Of dancing foam and light ; till eve invites 
 To some tall cavern, where the sea-nymphs raise 
 Sweet melodies ; there shalt thou play the prince, 
 And I will put thy slavish vestments on. 
 And yield thee duteous service ; — in our sport 
 Almost as potent as light Fortune is. 
 Who in her wildest freaks but shifts the robe 
 Of circumstance, and leaves the hearts it cloth'd 
 Unchang'd and free as ours. 
 
 Thoas. I cannot speak. 
 
 Come — or mine eyes will witness me a slave 
 To my o'wn frailty's masterdom. — Come on ! [To Lycus. 
 Thou hast done thy office gently. Lead the way. 
 
 \ Exeunt. 
 
SCENE 1.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 119 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 Scene I. — A Court in the Palace of Creon. * 
 
 Enter Creon and Lycus. 
 
 Creon. How does the proud Athenian bear his part 
 In servile duty ? 
 
 Lycus. I have never seen 
 
 So brave a patience. The severest toils 
 Look graceful in him, from the facile skill 
 With which his strenqfth subdues them. Few his words 
 By question drawn, yet gentle as a child's ; 
 And if, in pauses of his work, his eye 
 Will glisten, and his bosom heave ; anon 
 He starts as from a dream, submissive bows, 
 And plies his work again. 
 
 Creon. Thou dost espouse 
 
 His cause. Beware ! he hurl'd defiance on me, 
 Disdain'd my age, as if his pride of strength 
 Made him in bondage greater than a king 
 Sick and infirm as 1 am ; he shall feel 
 What yet an old man can inflict. He comes ; 
 Wh^r does he leave his duty ? 
 
 Lycus. 'Tis the hour 
 
 Of rest — of food, if he would take it ; here 
 He's privileged to walk. 
 
 Creon. Let's stand aside. 
 
 [Creon and Lycus retire from sight. 
 
 Enter Thoas, in the dress of a slave. 
 
 Thoas. Had I been born to greatness, or achieved 
 My fame, m 'thinks that I could smile at this ; 
 Taste a remember'd sweetness in the thought 
 Of pleasure snatch'd from fate ; or feed my soul 
 With the high prospect of serene renown 
 Beetling above this transitory shame 
 In distant years. But to be wither'd thus — 
 In the first budding of my fortune, doom'd 
 To bear the death of hope, and to outlive it ! 
 Gods, keep me patient! I will to my task. [Going. 
 
120 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT II. 
 
 Re-enter Creon and Lycus. 
 
 Lycus. Wilt thou not join thy fellows at the feast, 
 And taste a cup of wine the king vouchsafes 
 For merriment to-day ! 
 
 Thoas. What ! are they merry ? 
 
 Jjycus. Dost thou not hear them ? 
 
 Thoas. They are slaves, indeed ! 
 
 Forgive me, I would rather seek the quarry. [^Gomg. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Messenger {addressing Creon.] My lord, the games 
 in honour of our triumph 
 Await thee, — first the chariot race, in which 
 Thy son prepares to strive. The wrestlers next — 
 
 Creon. Let them begin. \Exit Messenger. 
 
 Methinks yon captive's strength, 
 No longer rebel, might afford us sport. 
 Thoas ! 
 
 Thoas. I wait thy pleasure. 
 
 Creon. Thou wert train'd, 
 
 Doubtless, at home, to manly exercise. 
 And I would have thee show the youth of Corinth 
 How the Athenians throw the quoit and wrestle. 
 
 Thoas. My lord, I cannot do it ! 
 
 Creon. One so fram'd 
 
 As thou, had he been native here, would revel 
 In sports like these. 
 
 Thoas. O, have I not enjoy 'd them ! 
 
 My lord, I am content to toil and mourn — 
 'Tis the slave's part ; these limbs are thine to use 
 In vilest service till their sinews fail ; 
 But not a nerve shall bend in sports I loved 
 When freeman to indulge in, for the gaze 
 Of those who were my foes and are my masters. 
 
 Enter Messenger, in haste. 
 
 Mess. My lord — the prince — 
 
 Thoas. Is he in peril ? 
 
 Mess. As his chariot, far 
 
 Before all rivals, glittered nigh the goal, 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 121 
 
 The coursers plung'd as if some fearful thing 
 Unseen by human eyes had glared on theirs ; 
 Then, with a speed like lightning, flash'd along 
 The verge of the dark precipice which girds 
 The rock-supported plain, and round it still 
 In frightful circles whirl the youth ; no power 
 Of man can stay them. 
 
 Thoas. Friend, I come ! I come ! 
 
 Lycus. [Attempting to stop him. 2 Thou must not go. 
 
 Thoas. Away ! I'm master now. [Rushes out. 
 
 Creon. My son ! my son ! I shall embrace thy corse, 
 And lie beside it. Yet I cannot bear 
 This anguish; dead or living, I will seek thee! [Exit. 
 
 Lycus. {looking out.) How the slave spurns the dust; 
 with what a power 
 He cleaves the wondering throng, — they hide him now, — 
 Speed him, ye gods of Corinth ! 
 
 Enter Creusa. 
 
 Creusa. Whence that cry 
 
 Of horror mingled with my brother's name ? 
 Is he in danger? Wherefore dost thou stand 
 Thus silently, and gaze on empty air ? 
 Speak ! 
 
 Enter Iphitus. [Creusa addressing him. 
 
 From thy sacred lips the truth 
 Must flow. 
 
 Iph. Be calm ; thy brother is preserv'd , 
 
 Urged by his furious steeds, his chariot kung 
 Scarce pois'd on the rock's margin, where the vale 
 Lies deepest under it ; an instant more, 
 And Hyllus, who serenely stood with eyes 
 Fix'd on the heavens, had perish'd ; when a form 
 With god-like swiftness clove the astonish 'd crowd; 
 Appear'd before the coursers, scarce upheld 
 By tottering marl ; — strain 'd forward o'er the gulf 
 Of vacant ether ; caught the floating reins, 
 And drew them into safety with a touch 
 So fine, that sight scarce witness'd it. The prince 
 Is in his father's arms. 
 11 
 
122 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT II. 
 
 Creusa. Thou dost not speak 
 
 The hero's name ; — yet can I guess it well. 
 Iph. Thoas. — He comes. 
 
 Creusa, Let me have leave to thank him. 
 
 [Exeunt Iphitus and Lycus. 
 
 Enter Thoas. 
 
 Hero ! accept a maiden's fervent thanks 
 All that she has to offer for a life 
 Most precious to her. 
 
 Thoas. Speak not of it, fair one ! 
 
 Life, in my estimate, 's too poor a boon 
 To merit thanks so rich. 
 
 Creusa. Not such a life 
 
 As his to me. We both together drew 
 Our earliest breath, and one unconscious crime 
 Shar'd ; for the hour that yielded us to day 
 Snatch'd her who bore us. Thence attach'd we grew, 
 As if some portion of that mother's Jove 
 Each for the other cherish'd ; twin-born joys, 
 Hopes, fancies, and affections, each hath watch'd 
 In the clear mirror of the other's soul. 
 By that sweet union doubled. Thou hast saved 
 Two lives in saving Hyllus. 
 
 Thoas. 'Tis not meet 
 
 That such a wretch as I, in garb like this, 
 
 {.Looking at his dress, and shuddering. 
 Should listen to the speech of one so fair ; 
 It will unfit me for my tasks. 
 
 Creusa. Thy tasks ? 
 
 O hard injustice ! 
 
 Enter Hyllus, Creusa meeting him. 
 
 Brother, join thy thanks 
 To mine. [Hyllus and Creusa embrace. 
 
 Thoas. No more. [Retiring, 
 
 Grant, ye immortal gods. 
 So beautiful a bond be never broken ! {Exit Thoas. 
 Creusa. He speaks of tasks. My brother, can'st endure 
 To see a hero who hath twice preserv'd 
 
SCENE II.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 123 
 
 Thy life — ^upon whose forehead virtue sits 
 
 Enthroned in regal majesty — -thus held 
 
 In vilest thraldom ? • 
 
 Hyl. Ah ! my sweet Creusa, 
 
 Thy words breathe more than gratitude. 
 
 Creusa. My brother, 
 
 I pray thee, do not look into my face. 
 
 Hyl. Nay, raise thy head, and let thine eye meet 
 It reads no anger there. Thy love is pure [mine ; 
 And noble as thyself, and nobly placed j 
 And one day shall be honour'd. 
 
 Q^eusa. Spare me ! 
 
 Hyl. Come, 
 
 The banquet hath begun : the king expects us. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Banqueting- Hall m Creon's Palace. 
 
 Creon, Ismene, Iphitus, Calchas, and Corinthians seated at 
 
 the Banquet. 
 
 Creon. [rising.] I thank ye for my son ; — he is un- 
 And soon will join our revelry. [harm'd, 
 
 Ism. We lack 
 
 Attendance. Where is Thoas ? It were fit 
 In Corinth's day of triumph he should wait 
 On his victorious enemies. Go seek him. 
 
 [Exit an Attendant. 
 
 Creon. I would have spared his services to-day ; 
 He is but young in service, and hath done 
 A glorious deed. Drink round, my friends, and pledge 
 My son once more. 
 
 Ism. My sovereign, I should deem 
 
 So great a master in the skill to tame 
 The nature struggling in a free-born soul, 
 Would think it wisdom to begin betimes, 
 ¥/hen an Athenian spirit should be stifled. 
 If thou would'st bend him to the yoke, 'twere best 
 Commence to-day ; to-morrow 't may be vain. 
 
 Enter Thoas. 
 
 Athenian ! — slave ! — 'tis well that thou hast come ; 
 Else might we fear thou didst not feel so proud 
 
124 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT II. 
 
 As such a man as thou should feel, lo wait 
 Upon his victor. Carry round the cup, 
 And bear it to the king with duteous looks. 
 
 Thoas. I will endeavour, lady. 
 
 [^Takes the cup, and speaking aside. 
 They will join 
 In very openness of heart, to cast 
 This shame upon me ; take the mantling cup 
 With thoughtless pleasure from a warrior's hand, 
 And smile to see it quiver ; bless the wine 
 With household names, sweet thoughts of friends afar, . 
 Or love which death hath hallowed ; and while springs 
 Of cordial joy are quicken'd by the draught, 
 Will bid affections, generous as their own. 
 Shrink, agonize, and wither ! 
 
 Ism. Slave ! attend ! 
 
 Enter Hyllus and Creusa. 
 
 Creon. Hyllus, our friends have pledged thee ; take 
 And thank them. [thy place, 
 
 Hyl. [Advancing.] I am grateful. — Thoas, thus ? 
 
 Creon. We blamed thy absence, daughter. Sit beside 
 The queen. 
 
 Creusa. A humbler place befits me, father. 
 
 \^its at the end of the circle. 
 [Thoas attempts to hand the cup. 
 
 Creusa. [to Hyllus.] Brother, dost see ? 
 
 Hyl. [aside to Thoas, taking the cup from him.] Thoas, 
 I blush at this ; 
 Give me the cup — Corinthian citizens, 
 This is a moment when I cannot trust 
 The grace of serving you lo any hand 
 Except mine own. The wine will send a glow 
 Of rare delight when ministered by one 
 Who hath this day touch'd life's extremest verge. 
 And been most bravely rescued. [Hyllus hands the cup. 
 
 Ism. Will the king 
 
 Permit this mockery? 
 
 Creon. Foolish stripling, cease! 
 
 Let the slave hand the cup : and having pass'd 
 Another round, fill high, for I will pour 
 
SCENE II.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 125 
 
 A great libation out, with such a prayer 
 As every heart shall echo while the dust 
 Of Corinth drinks it in. 
 
 [Thoas takes the cup, and approaches Creusa. 
 
 Creusa. Nay, tremble not. 
 
 Think thou dost pay free courtesy to one 
 Who in the fulness of a grateful heart, 
 Implores the gods to cherish thee with hope 
 For liberty and honour. 
 
 Thoas. Words so sweet 
 
 Reward and o'erpay all. 
 
 Creon. Corinthians, rise ! 
 
 Before the gods, who have this day espoused 
 The cause of Corinth, I this votive cup 
 Pour with one glorious prayer — Ruin to Athens ! 
 
 [Thoas dashes down the cup he is about to hand to the King. 
 
 Thoas. Ruin to Athens! who dares echo that^ 
 Who first repeats it dies. These limbs are arm'd 
 With vigour from the gods that watch above 
 Their own immortal offspring. Do ye dream. 
 Because chance lends ye one insulting hour, 
 That ye can quench the purest flame the gods 
 Have lit from heaven's own fire ? 
 
 Hyl. [trying to appease the guests']. 'Tis ecstacy — 
 Some frenzy shakes him. 
 
 Thoas. No ! I call the gods, 
 
 Who bend attentive from their azure thrones, 
 To. witness to the truth of that which throbs 
 Within me now. 'Tis not a city crown'd 
 Wiih olive and enrich'd with peerless fanes 
 Ye would dishonour, but an opening world 
 Diviner than the soul of man hath yet 
 Been gifted to imagine — truths serene. 
 Made visible in beauty, that shall glow 
 In everlasting freshness ; unapproach'd 
 By mortal passion ; pure amidst the blood 
 And dast of conquests ; never waxing old ; 
 But on the stream of time, from age to age, 
 Casting bright images of heavenly youth 
 To make the world less mournful. I behold them ! 
 11* 
 
126 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT H. 
 
 And ye, frail insects of a day, would quaff 
 " Ruin to Athens I " 
 
 Creon. Are ye stricken all 
 
 To statues, that ye hear these scornful boasts, 
 And do not seize the traitor ? Bear him hence, 
 And let the executioner's keen steel 
 Prevent renewal of this outrage. 
 
 fyh. Hold ! 
 
 Some god hath spoken through him. 
 
 hm. Priest I we need 
 
 No council from thee. 
 
 Hyl. Father, he will bend — 
 
 'Tvvas madness — was't not, Thoas ? — answer me : 
 Retract thy words ! 
 
 Thoas. I've spoken, and I'll die. 
 
 Ism. 'Twere foolish clemency to end so soon 
 The death pangs of a slave who thus insults 
 The king of Corinth. I can point a cell 
 Deep in the rock, where he may wait thy leisure 
 To frame his tortures. 
 
 Hyl. \to Creon.] If thou wilt not spare, 
 Deal with him in the light of day, and gaze 
 Thyself on what thou dost, but yield him not 
 A victim to that cold and cruel heart. 
 
 Ism. [aside.'] Cold ! I must bear that too. [AloudJ] 
 Thou hear'st him, king ; 
 Thou hear'st the insolence, which waxes bolder 
 Each day, as he expects thy lingering age ^ 
 
 Will yield him Corinth's throne. 
 
 Creon. Ungrateful boy! 
 
 Go, wander alien from my love ; avoid 
 The city's bounds ; and if thou dare return 
 Till I proclaim thy pardon, fear to share 
 The fate of the rash slave for whom thou plead'st. 
 
 Thoas. King, I will grovel in the dust before thee ; 
 Will give these limbs to torture ; nay, will strain 
 Their free-born sinews for thy courtiers' sport, 
 So thou recall the sentence on thy son. 
 
 Creon. Thou wilt prolong his exile. To thy cell ! 
 
 [To Thoas. 
 
SCENE TI.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIAE. 127 
 
 There wait tliy time of death ; — my heart is sick — 
 But I have spoken. 
 
 Hyl. Come with me, sweet sister, 
 
 And take a dearer parting than this scene 
 Admits. Look cheerily ; — I leave thy soul 
 A duty which shall lift it from the sphere 
 Of sighs and tremblings. Father, may the gods 
 So cherish thee that thou may'st never mourn, 
 With more than fond regret, the loss of one 
 Whose love stays with thee ever ! 
 
 [^Exeunt Hyllus and Creusa. 
 
 Iph. [offering to support Creon]. Hold ! he faints I 
 - Creon. No ; — I can walk unaided — rest will soothe me. 
 
 [Exit Creon. 
 
 Is7n. Good night, my friends ! 
 
 [Exeunt all but Ismene, Thoas, and Cxj.cuas. 
 Thou, Calchas, wait and guard 
 The prisoner to his cell. Thou know'st the place. 
 
 Thoas. Lead on. 
 
 Ism. [coming to the front to Thoas]. Thou wilt not 
 
 Thoas. I wish no sleep (sleep ? 
 
 To reach these eyes, till the last sleep of all. 
 
 Ism. Others may watch as well as thou. 
 
 Thoas. Strange words 
 
 Thou speakest, fearful woman ! are they mockeries ? 
 Methinks they sound too solemn. 
 
 Ism. Said I not, 
 
 I am of Athens ? Hush ! These walls have echoes I 
 Thy goaler is of Athens, too ; at midnight 
 He shall conduct thee where we may discourse 
 In safety. Wilt thou follow him? 
 
 Thoas. I will. 
 
 Is ■?. 'Tis well. Conduct the prisoner to his dungeon. 
 Rem mber, thou hast promised me. 
 
 Thoas. My blood ' 
 
 Ts cold as ice ; yet will I keep the faith 
 I plight to thee. {Exeunt Thoas and Calchas. 
 
 Is7n. (alone.) It is the heroic form 
 Wliich I have seen in watching, and in sleep 
 Frightfully broken, through the long, long years, 
 
128 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT III. 
 
 Which I have wasted here in chains, more sad 
 
 Than those which bind the death-devoted slave 
 
 To his last stony pillow. Fiery shapes, 
 
 That have glared in upon my bed to mock 
 
 My soul with hopes of vengeance, keep your gaze 
 
 Fix'd steadfast on me now ! My hour is nigh ! [Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — The Dungeon in the Rock. 
 Thoas discovered, alone. 
 
 Thoas. Ye walls of living rock, whose time-shed stains 
 Attest that ages have revolved since hands 
 Of man were arm'd to pierce your solid frame, 
 And, from your heart of adamant, hew out 
 Space for his fellow's wretchedness, I hail 
 A refuge in your stillness ; tyranny 
 Will not stretch forth its palsied arm to fret 
 Its captive here. Ye cannot clasp me round 
 With darkness so substantial, as can shut 
 The airy visions from me which foreshow 
 The glories Athens will achieve, when I 
 Am passionless as ye. I hear a step ! 
 It is that mournful lady's minister, 
 Who comes to waken feelings I would bid 
 For ever sleep. A hght, as of a star, 
 Gleams in the narrow cavern's steep descent ; 
 And now a form, as of a goddess, glides 
 To illuminate its blackness. 'Tis Creusa ! 
 My heart is not yet stone. 
 
 Enter Creusa. 
 
 I venture hither 
 Thus boldly to perform a holy office, 
 Wliich should have been my brother's. — When he fled 
 The city of his nurture, his last thoughts 
 Were bent on his preserver ; he bequeathed 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 129 
 
 His strong injunction never to forsake 
 
 Tne aim of thy deliverance. I exult 
 
 That Heaven thus far has prosper'd it ; be quick, 
 
 And follow me to freedom. 
 
 Thoas. Didst thou say 
 
 To freedom, lovely one ? 
 
 Creusa. If thou wilt haste ; 
 
 The path is clear ; the city wrapt in sleep ; 
 I know the pass-word at the gates — how learn'd 
 By quaint device, I'll tell thee when we meet 
 In safety, — if we ever meet again ! 
 
 Thoas. And dost thou wish it ? 
 ^reusa. Do I wish it ? Yes ! 
 
 And on the swift fulfilment of that wish 
 My life is wager'd. 
 
 Thoas. There is more than life 
 
 To me in these sweet words — speak them again — 
 Bat no ; once heard they linger on the ear 
 Which drank them in, for ever. Shapeless rocks 
 That witness to the sound, rejoice ! No fane 
 Of alabaster while the breeze has slept 
 In circling myrtles, and the moon disclos'd 
 Young love's first blush to the wrapt eyes of him 
 Whose happy boldness raised it, rivals you 
 In sanctity which rich affection lends 
 To things of earthly mould. Methinks ye spring 
 Rounded to columns ; your dank mists are curl'd 
 Upwards in heavenly shapes, and breathe perfume, 
 While every niche which caught the music speeds 
 Delicious echoes to the soul. 'Twere bliss 
 To dwell for ever here. 
 
 Creusa. O linger not ; 
 
 The watch will change at midnight. 
 
 Thoas. Midnight — Jove ! — - 
 
 I cannot go. 
 
 Creusa. Not go ! I ask no thanks — 
 No recompense — no boon, — save the delight 
 Of saving thee ; for this I've perill'd all — 
 Life, freedom, fame, and now thou tell'st me, proud one, 
 That I have perill'd all in vain. 
 
130 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT IIL 
 
 Thoas. Forbear, 
 
 In mercy ; I have pledg'd my word to wait 
 A messenger the Queen will send at midnight, 
 To bring me to her presence. 
 
 Creusa. To the Queen ? 
 
 What would she with thee \ She is steel'd 'gainst 
 I never knew her shed a tear, nor heard [nature 
 A sigh break from her, — oft she seeks a glen 
 Hard by the temple of avenging Jove, 
 Which sinks 'mid blasted rocks, whose narrow gorge 
 Scarce gives the bold explorer space ; its sides, 
 Glistening in marble blackness, rise aloft 
 From the scant margin of a pool, whose face 
 No breeze e'er dimpled ; in its furthest shade 
 A cavern yawns where vapours rise so deadly 
 That none may enter it and live ; they spread 
 Their rolling films of ashy white like shrouds 
 Around the fearful orifice, and kill 
 The very lichens which the earthless stone 
 Would nurture ; — whether evil men, or things 
 More terrible, meet this sad lady there, 
 I know not — she will lead thee thither ! 
 
 Thoas. No — 
 
 Not if guilt point the way, if it be sorrow 
 I must endure it rather than the curse 
 Which lies upon the faithless heart of him 
 Who breaks a promise plighted to the wretched ; 
 For she is wretched. 
 
 Creusa. So am I. Methinks 
 
 I am grown selfish ; for it is not suffering 
 I dread should fall upon thee, but T tremble 
 Lest witchery of that awful woman's grief 
 Lead thee to some rash deed. Thou art a soldier, 
 A rash proficient in the game of death, 
 And may'st be Avrought on. 
 
 Thoas. Do not fear for me ; 
 
 Where shows of glory beckon I'll not wait 
 To pluck away the radiant masks and find 
 Death under them; but at the thought of blood 
 Shed save in hottest fight, my spirit shrinks 
 
SCENE II.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 131 
 
 As from some guilt not aim'd at human things 
 But at the toajesty of gods. 
 
 Creusa. Forgive me ; 
 
 It wa*:! a foolish terror swept across 
 My soul — I should not have forgot 'twas mercy 
 That made thee captive. 
 
 Voice without. Thoas ! 
 
 Thoas. I am call'd. 
 
 The voice came that way — still thy upward path 
 Is open— haste — he must not find thee here. 
 
 Creusa. My prayers — all that the weak can give — 
 are thine. 
 Efl-rewell ! \Exit. 
 
 Thoas. The gods for ever guard thee ! 
 She glides away — she gains the topmost ridge — 
 She's safe. Now can I welcome fate with bosom 
 Steel'd to endure the worst. 
 
 Yoice without. Thoas 
 
 Thoas. I come ! [Exit. 
 
 Scene W.— The Hall of Statues m Creon's Palace. 
 
 Enter Ismene. 
 Ism. Why tarries Calchas ? It is past the hour 
 Of deepest night, when he should hither guide 
 The aveno;er of my sorrows. Gods of Athens ! 
 Whom strong expostulation hath compell'd 
 To look upon my shame, one little hour 
 I ask your aid ; that granted, never more 
 Shall the constraining force of passion break 
 Your dread repose ! I hear a warrior's step — 
 Ye answer, and ye bless me. 
 
 Enter Calchas and Thoas. 
 
 It is well. [To Calchas. 
 Withdraw, and wait without. I must confer 
 With this unyielding man alone. [Exit Calchas. 
 
 Thoas. I wait 
 
 To learn thy will ; — why hast thou bid me leave 
 The stubborn rock, where I had grown as dull, 
 As painless as the cell to which thy breath 
 
132 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT HI. 
 
 Consign'd me ? — thou who urged the king to wreak 
 His most inglorious spleen on one too low 
 To be mark'd out for anger, too resolved 
 To heed it ! 
 
 Ism. I beheld in thee a soldier, 
 
 Born of that glorious soil whose meanest son 
 Is nobler than barbarian kings, with arm 
 Worthy to serve a daughter who has claim 
 On its best blood. But there is softness in thee, 
 Weakening thy gallant nature, which may need 
 The discipline of agony and shame 
 To master it. Hast thou already learn'd 
 Enough to steel thee for a generous deed ; 
 Or shall I wait till thou hast lingered long 
 In sorrow's mighty school ? I'm mistress in it, 
 And know its lessons well. 
 
 Thoas. If thou hast aught 
 
 Of honour to suggest, I need no more 
 To fit me for thy purpose ; if thy aim 
 Hath taint of treachery or meanness in it, 
 I think no pain will bend me to thy will ; 
 At least, I pray the gods so ! 
 
 Ism. Hadst thou borne 
 
 Long years of lingering wretchedness like mine, 
 Thou wouldst not play the casuist thus. 'Tis well 
 For lusty youth, that casts no glance beyond 
 To-morrow's fight or game, which values life 
 A gewgaw, to be perill'd at a plunge 
 From some tall rock into an eddying gulf, 
 For the next revel's glory, to collect 
 The blood into the cheek, and bravely march 
 Amidst admiring people to swift death. 
 And call its heedlessness of what it yields — 
 A sacrifice heroic. But w^ho knows, 
 Who guesses, save the woman that endures. 
 What 'tis to pine each weary day in forms 
 All counterfeit; — each night to seek a couch 
 Throng'd by the phantoms of revenge, till age 
 Find her in all things Aveaken'd -""=> the wish, 
 The longing of the spirit which laughs out 
 
SCENE 11. ] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 133 
 
 In mockery of the withering frame ! O Thoas, 
 I have endured all this — I, who am sprung 
 From the great race of Theseus ! 
 
 Thoas. From the race 
 
 Of Theseus !^ — of the godlike man whose name 
 Hath shone upon my childhood as a star 
 With magic power ? 
 
 Ism. Reduced to basest needs 
 
 By slow decay in Attica, arra3'"ed 
 In hateful splendour here, I bear small trace 
 Of whence I sprang. No matter — spurn'd — disown'd 
 By living kindred, I have converse held 
 With those of my great family whom Death 
 HSth stripp'd of all but glory ; and they wait 
 The triumph of this hour to hail me theirs. 
 
 Thoas. Shame to our city, who allow'd a matron 
 Of that great race to languish ! 
 
 Ism. Let it pass ; 
 
 A single grief — a short and casual wrong — 
 Which — in that sense of ages past and hopes 
 Resplendent for the future, which are centred 
 In the great thought of country, and make rich 
 The poorest citizen who feels a share 
 In her' — is nothing. Had she sought my blood, 
 To mingle with the dust before the rush 
 Of some triumphant entry, I had shed it ; 
 And while my life gush'd forth had tasted joy 
 Akin to her rapt hero's. 'Tis thy lot — 
 Thy glorious lot — to give me all I live for, — 
 Freedom and vengeance. 
 
 Thoas. What wouldst have me do? 
 
 Ism. I have not wasted all the shows of power 
 Which mock'd my grief, but used them to conceal 
 The sparks which tyrant fickleness had lit, 
 And sloth had left to smoulder. In the depths 
 Of neighbouring caverns, foes of Creon meet 
 Who will obey thee ; lead them thence to-night — 
 Surprise the palace — slay this hated king, — 
 Or bear him as a slave to Athens 
 
 Thoas. Never ! 
 
 12 
 
134 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT III. 
 
 I am a foe to Corinth — not a traitor, 
 
 Nor will I league with treason. In the love 
 
 Of my own land, I honour his who cleaves 
 
 To the scant graces of the wildest soil, 
 
 As I do to the loveliness, the might. 
 
 The hope of Athens. Aught else man can do, 
 
 Tn honour, shall be thine. 
 
 Ism. I thought I knew 
 
 Athenians well ; and yet, thy speech is strange. 
 Whence drew thou these affections, — whence these 
 Which reach beyond a soldier's sphere ? [thoughts 
 
 Thoas. From Athens ; 
 
 Her groves; her halls; her temples; nay, her streets 
 Have been my teachers. I had else been rude, 
 For I was left an orphan, in the charge 
 Of an old citizen, who gave my youth 
 Rough though kind nurture. Fatherless, I made 
 The city and her skies my home; have watch'd 
 He-r various aspects with a child's fond love ; 
 Hung in chill morning o'er the mountain's brow, 
 And, as the dawn broke slowly, seen her grow 
 Majestic from the darkness, till she fill'd 
 The sight and soul alike ; enjoy'd the storm 
 Which wrap.t her in the mantle of its cloud, 
 While every flash that shivered it revealed 
 Some exquisite proportion, pictured once 
 And ever to the gazer ; stood entranc'd 
 In rainy moonshine, as, one side, uprose 
 A column'd shadow, ponderous as the rock 
 Which held the Titan groaning with the sense 
 Of Jove's injustice ; on the other, shapes 
 Of dreamlike softness drew the fancy far 
 Into the glistening air ; but most I felt 
 Her loveliness, when summer-evening tints 
 Gave to my lonely childhood sense of home. 
 
 Ism. And was no spot amidst that radiant waste 
 A home to thee indeed ? 
 
 Thoas. The hut which held 
 
 My foster-father had for me no charms, 
 Save those his virtues shed upon its rudeness. 
 
SCENE II.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 135 
 
 I lived abroad : — and yet there is a spot 
 
 Where I have felt that faintness of the heart 
 
 Which traces of oblivious childhood bring 
 
 Upon ripe manhood ; where small heaps of stones, 
 
 Blacken'd by fire, bear witness to a tale 
 
 Of rapine which destroyed my mother's cot, 
 
 And bore her ihence to exile. 
 
 Isvi. Mighty gods ! 
 
 Where stand these ruins ? 
 
 Thoas. On a gentle slope, 
 
 Broken by workings of an ancient quarry, 
 A.bout a furlong from the western gate, 
 Stjind these remains of penury; one olive. 
 Projecting o'er the cottage site which fire 
 Had blighted, with two melancholy stems, 
 Stream'd o'er its meagre vestiges. 
 
 Ism. 'Tis plain ! 
 
 Hold I Hold ! my courage. Let the work be done, 
 And then I shall aspire. I must not wait 
 Another hour for vengeance. Dreadful powers ! 
 Who on the precipice's side at eve 
 Have bid gigantic shadows grayly pass 
 Before my mortal vision, — dismal forms 
 Of a fate-stricken race — I se.e him now, 
 Whom ye led follower of your ghastly train — 
 nerve him for his office ! 
 
 Thoas. Fearful woman ! 
 
 Speak thy command, if thou wilt have it reach 
 A conscious ear ; for while thou gazest thus. 
 My flesh seems hardening into stone ; my soul 
 Is tainted ; thought of horror courses thought, 
 Like thunder-clouds swept wildly ; — yet I feel 
 That I must do thy bidding. 
 
 Ism. It is well ; — 
 
 Hast thou a weapon ? 
 
 Thoas. Yes ; the generous prince, 
 
 When I resign 'd my arms, left me a dagger. 
 
 Ism. The prince ! The furies sent it by his hand, 
 For justice on his father. 
 
 Thoas. On thy husband ? 
 
136 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT III. 
 
 Ism. Husband ! Beware ! — my husband moulders yet 
 Within his rusting armour ; such a word 
 From thee may pierce the rock beneath whose shade 
 He fell, and curse him with a moment's life 
 To blast thee where we stand. If this slight king, 
 In the caprice of tyranny was pleased 
 To deck me out in regal robes, dost think 
 That in his wayward smiles, or household taunts, 
 I can forget the wretchedness and shame 
 He hurl'd upon me once ? 
 
 Thoas. What shame? 
 
 Ism. What shame ! 
 
 Thou hast not heard it. Listen ! I was pluck'd 
 From the small pressure of an only babe, 
 And in my frenzy sought the hall where Creon 
 Drain'd the frank goblet ; fell upon my knees ; 
 Embraced his foot-stool with my hungry arms. 
 And shriek'd aload for liberty to seek ' 
 My infant's ashes, or to hear some news 
 Of how it perish'd ; — Creon did not deign 
 To look upon me, but with reckless haste 
 Dash'd me to earth ; — yes ! this disgrace he cast 
 On the proud daughter of a line which traced 
 Its skiey lineage to the gods, and bore 
 The impress of its origin, — on me, 
 A woman, and a mother ! 
 
 Thoas. Let me fly 
 
 And wet Athenian anger with thy wrongs — 
 My thoughts are strange and slaughterous. 
 
 Ism. [After a pause^ Fly, then ! Yes ! — 
 
 [Aside.] 'Twill be as certain. — I will point a way. 
 Will lead thee through a chamber to the terrace, 
 Whence thou may'st reach the wall. Thy only peril 
 Lies in that chamber. Mark me well ; — if there 
 An arm be raised to stay thee — if a voice 
 Be heard^ — or if aught mortal meet thy sight, 
 Whate'er the form, thy knife is pledged to quench 
 The life that breathes there. 
 
 Thoas. I obey. Farewell ! 
 
 [He takes her hand ; she shivers ; and drops it. 
 
SCENE II.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 137 
 
 Ism. Hold off thy hand — it thrills me. — Swear ! 
 
 Thoas. By those 
 
 Who hover o'er us now, I swear ! 
 
 Ism. Be firm. 
 
 That is the door ; thou canst not miss the path. 
 Is thy steel ready ? 
 
 Thoas. Yes ; — my breast is cold 
 
 As is that steel. 
 
 Ism. Haste — the thick darkness wanes. 
 
 [Exit Thoas. 
 Infernal powers ! I thank ye — all is paid — 
 By thousand ecstacies in which my soul 
 Gifiews wanton. Calchas ! 
 
 Entpr Calchas. 
 
 Wish me joy, old servant ! 
 What dost thou think of him who left me now ? 
 
 Col. A gallant soldier. 
 
 Ism. 'Tis my son — my own ! 
 
 The very child for whom I knelt to Creon, 
 Is sent to give me justice. He is gone, 
 Arm'd with a dagger, through the royal chamber, 
 Sworn to strike any that may meet him there 
 A corpse before him. Dost thou think the king 
 Will see to-morrow ? 
 
 Cal. He may slumber. 
 
 Ism. No — 
 
 He hath sent his son to exile — he will wake — 
 I'm sure he will. There ! listen ! — 'twas a groan ! 
 'Twill be but low — again ! 'Tis finish'd ! Shades 
 Of my immortal ancestry, look down, 
 And own me of your kindred ! — Calchas, haste ; 
 Secure possession of the towers that guard 
 The city gates : — entrust them to our friends, 
 Who, when I give the word, will set them wide. 
 Haste ! 'tis thy final labour. I shall soon 
 Be potent to reward the friends who clove 
 To me in my sad bondage. 
 
 Cal. Whither go'st thou ? 
 
 Ism. To the pale shrine of her whose withering shield 
 12* 
 
138 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT III. 
 
 Is dedicate to Athens. I have pray'd 
 
 At coldest midnight there, without a hope 
 
 Which might shoot life along my freezing veins. 
 
 I ask her to allay my raptures now, 
 
 By touch of marble — I require its chillness. 
 
 There I'll await the issue. It is sure ! 
 
 [Exeunt Ismene and Calchas. 
 
 Scene III. — The outskirts of a Wood on one side ; the Athenian 
 Camp on the other. A Watch-fire at a little distance, lighting 
 the Scene. 
 
 Pentheus walking backwards and forwards as a guard. 
 
 Pen. The cold grey dawn begins to glimmer ; speed it 
 Ye powers that favour Athens ! From the sea, 
 Her everlasting guardian, Phcsbus, rise, 
 To pour auspicious radiance o'er the field, 
 In which she may efface the foul dishonour 
 Her arms own'd yesterday I Not shame alone, 
 But loss no morrow can repair, is hers ! 
 Archas, our army's noble leader, sleeps 
 Beneath the pressure of a thousand shields ; 
 And Thoas, bravest of our youth, a slave — 
 Perchance, ere this a corpse. Friend whom I loved, 
 In whose advancing glories I grew proud 
 As though they had been mine — if yet thou breathest, 
 I will deliver, and if dead avenge thee ! 
 O, Thoas ! 
 
 Enter Thoas wildly, from the wood. 
 
 Thoas. Who pronounced that wretched name, — 
 That name no honest tongue may utter more ? 
 Pentheus ! 
 
 Fen. Thoas ! most welcome. Thou art come in time 
 To share a glorious conflict. Ha ! thine eyes 
 Glare with a frightful light ; — ^be calm, — thou art safe ;— 
 This is the camp of those who will reward 
 Thy great emprise of yesterday, with place 
 Among the foremost in the battle. Come 
 To my exulting heart. [Offering to embrace Ttio as. 
 
 Thoas. No ! — hold me from thee ! — 
 
SCENE III.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 139 
 
 My heart can ne'er know fellowship again 
 
 With such as thine ; for I have paid a price 
 
 For this vile liberty to roam abroad, 
 
 And cry to woods and rocks that answer me 
 
 With fearful echoes : — such a price, my Pentheus — 
 
 My own unspotted conscience. Dost not see 
 
 Foul spots of blood upon this slave's apparel. 
 
 Polluting e'en that dress ? 
 
 Pen. If thou hast struck 
 
 Some soldier down to vindicate thy freedom, 
 Who shall accuse thee ? 
 
 Thoas. 'Twas no soldier, Pentheus ; 
 
 INip stout opponent that my fatal knife 
 Dismiss'd to Erebus. A wither'd hand, 
 As from an old man, in the gloom stretch'd forth, 
 Scarce met my touch, — which could not have delay'd 
 My course an instant : — 'twas no thought of fear, 
 No haste for freedom, urged me, — but an oath 
 Glared on my soul in characters of flame, 
 And madden 'd me to strike. I raised my arm, 
 And wildly hurl'd my dagger; — nought but air 
 It seem'd to meet ; — but a sharp feeble sigh 
 Such as death urges when it stops the gasp 
 Of wasting age, assured me it had done 
 A murderer's office. 
 
 Pen. Think not of it thus: — 
 
 Thy lips are parch'd, — let me fetch water. 
 
 Thoas. No ! 
 
 I have drank fiercely at a mountain spring, 
 And left the stain of blood in its pure waters ; 
 It quench'd my mortal thirst, and I rejoiced, 
 For I seem'd grown to demon, till the stream 
 Cool'd my hot throat, and then I laugh'd aloud. 
 To find that I had som.ething human still. 
 
 Pen. Fret not thy noble heart with what is past. 
 
 Thoas. No !— 'tis not past I- — the murderer has no 
 But one eternal present. [past ; 
 
 Hyl. [within the woods. ^ Help me ! — answer ! — 
 
 Thoas. The voice of Hyllus ! — -of that noble youth, 
 Who, for my sake, is outcast from his home, 
 
140 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT III. 
 
 So near the camp of Athens ! Should our guards 
 Arrest him, he will perish. Friend ! That voice 
 Comes on my ear like that of one who served me, 
 In yonder city ; leave thy watch to me 
 A moment. 
 
 Pen. No — thy passion's dangerous; 
 
 I dare not trust it. 
 
 Thoas. See — I have sabdued 
 
 The pang which wrung me. By our ancient loves 
 Grant me this boon — perhaps the last. 
 
 Pen. Be quick, 
 
 For the watch presently will be removed, 
 And the trump call to battle. [^Exit Pentheus. 
 
 Thoas. [calling to Hyllus.] Here ! The hope 
 Of saving Hyllus wafts into my soul 
 A breath of comfort. 
 
 Enter Hyllus. 
 
 Hyl. I have lost my path, 
 
 Wandering the dismal night in this old wood ; 
 I'd seek the coast ; canst thou point out the way ? 
 
 Thoas^ Avoid it — on each side the Isthmus, ships 
 Of iVthens ride at anchor. 
 
 Hyl. [recognizing him.] Thoas ! free — 
 Then I am bless'd, and I can bear my lot, 
 However hard ; — I guess the hand that drew 
 The dungeon bolts ; — how didst thou quit the palace ? 
 
 Thoas. Why dost thou ask me that ? Through a 
 large chamber 
 That open'd on the terrace — 'twas all dark; — 
 Tell me who lay there ? 
 
 Hyl. 'Tis my father's chamber, 
 
 Did he awake ? 
 
 Thoas. Thy father !— gods ! The king.' 
 
 The feeble old man with the reverend hair ? 
 Art sure he rested there ? 
 
 Hyl. Sure. No one else 
 
 May enter after sunset, save the queen. 
 
 Thoas. The queen ! all's clear ! — Jove strike me into 
 marble ! 
 
SCENE III.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 141 
 
 Hyl. Why dost thou tremble so ? as if a fit 
 Of ague shook thee ? 
 
 Thoas. Nothing — only thought 
 Of my past danger carae upon my soul 
 And shook it strangely. Was the old man there ? 
 
 \Stands abstractedly as stupified. 
 
 Pen, Thoas ! [ Without. 
 
 Thoas. Haste ! — Do not lose a moment ! — fly ! 
 
 The watch-fire that is waning now is fed 
 By hands which, madden'd by the foul defeat 
 Of yesterday, will slay thee. 
 
 Hyl. Whither fly? 
 
 Tlie camp of Athens is before me ; — ships 
 Of Athens line the coasts, — and Corinth's king 
 Hath driven me forth an exile. I'll return 
 And crave my father's pardon. 
 
 Thoas, No — not there — 
 
 Yet, where should the poor stripling go ? O Jove ! 
 When he shall learn — 
 
 Hyl. Farewell — yet hold an instant ! — 
 
 Wilt thou not send some message to Creusa, 
 That she may greet her brother with a smile ? 
 
 Thoas. Creusa smile ! — Methinks I see her now — 
 Her form expands — her delicate features grow 
 To giant stone ; her hairs escape their band. 
 And stream aloft in air ; — and now they take 
 The form of fiery serpents — how they hiss — 
 And point their tongues at Thoas! 
 
 Hyl. This is frenzy ; 
 
 I cannot leave thee thus : — whate'er my fate, 
 I will attend and soothe thee. 
 
 Thoas. Soothe me ! — Boy, 
 
 Wouldst haunt me with that face which now I see 
 Is like thy father's. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Thou soothe me — 
 Look not upon me ; by this lurid light 
 Thou glarest a spectre. Hence, or I will rend thee ! 
 
 Hyl. I rather would die here. 
 
 Thoas. Fool ! fool ! away ! 
 
 [Exit H.YLLUS. 
 
142 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT IV. 
 
 He's gone — yet she is with me still, — with looks 
 More terrible than, anger; — take away 
 That patient face, — I cannot bear its sweetness ; — 
 Earth, cover me ! \Falls on the ground. 
 
 Enter Pentheus. 
 
 Pen. The troops are arming fast ; 
 
 They call on thee to lead them. — Hark, the trump — 
 
 [ The trumpet sounds 
 
 Thoas. [Leaps up.) Yes ; I will answer to its call. 
 Again 
 Thou shalt behold me strike. In yonder field 
 I'll win that which I hunger for. 
 
 Fen. A crown 
 
 Of laurel which hath floated in thy dreams 
 From thy brave infancy — 
 
 Thoas. A grave ! a grave ! [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — The interior of the Funereal Grove at Corinth. The 
 Urn of Oreon. 
 
 Creusa discovered, bending over it. 
 
 Creusa. 'Tis strange ! — I cannot weep for him ; I've 
 tried 
 To reckon every artifice of love 
 Which 'mid my father's waywardness proclaim'd 
 His tenderness unalter'd ; — felt again 
 The sweet caresses infancy received, 
 And read the prideful look that made them sweeter ; 
 Have run the old familiar round of things 
 Indifferent, on which affection hangs 
 In delicate remembrances which make 
 Each household custom sacred ; — I've recall'd 
 From Memory's never-failing book of pain, 
 My own neglects of dutiful regard 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 143 
 
 Too frequent — all that should provoke a tear — 
 And all in vain. My feelings are as dull, 
 Mine eyes are rigid, as when first they met 
 The horrid vision of his thin white hairs 
 Matted with blood ! Gods, let me know again 
 A touch of natural grief, or I shall go 
 Distract, and think the bloody form is here. 
 
 Enter Hyllus. 
 Hyllus ! my brother ! thou wilt make me weep. 
 For we shall mourn as we were loved together. 
 Dost thou know all ? 
 
 Hyl. Yes, all. — Alas ! Creusa, 
 
 He 4ied in anger with me. 
 
 Creusa. Do not dwell 
 
 On that sad thought ; — but recollect the cause 
 Was noble — the defence of one whose soul 
 Claims kindred with thine own. 
 
 Hyl. Unhappy sister, 
 
 What sorrow stranger than thy present grief 
 Awaits thee yet ! I cannot utter it. 
 
 Creusa. Speak ; — any words of thine will comfort me. 
 
 Hyl. I fear thou must no longer link the thoughts 
 Of nobleness and Thoas. 
 
 Creusa. Then my soul 
 
 Must cease all thinkings ; for I've blended them 
 Till they have grown inseparate. What is this ? 
 
 Hyl. That he hath made us orphans. 
 
 Creusa. He is free 
 
 From such ignoble guiltiness as thou. 
 What fury shed this thought into a soul 
 Once proud to be his debtor ? 
 
 Hyl. Poor believer 
 
 In virtue's dazzling counterfeit, 'tis sad 
 To undeceive thee. At the break of day 
 I met the murderer, frantic from his crime, 
 In anguish which explain'd by after proofs 
 Attests his guilt. 
 
 Creusa. And is this all ? Hast said 
 
 All thou canst urge against the nobleness 
 Which breathes in every word ? Against thy life 
 
144 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT IV. 
 
 Preserv'd at liberal hazard of his own ? 
 
 Against the love which I was proud to bear 
 
 For him, and that with which he more than paid me ? 
 
 He in some frenzy utter 'd aimless words, 
 
 And thou at once belie ved'st him guilty. Go ! 
 
 Haste and accuse him. Henceforth we are twain. 
 
 Hyl. Sister, I never will accuse him. 
 
 Creusa. Take 
 
 My thanks for that small promise, though our souls 
 While thine is tainted with this foul belief. 
 Can ne'er be mingled as they have been. Now 
 I see why I was passionless. Ismene 
 Bends her steps hither ; thou hadst best retire ; 
 She rules the city, for her secret friends 
 Cast off their masks, and own themselves the foes 
 Of Corinth's prince. 
 
 Hyl. Beside my father's urn 
 
 I shall await her. 
 
 Creusa. I will not expose 
 
 My anguish to her cold and scornful gaze ; — 
 Brother, farewell awhile ; we are divided, 
 But I will bless thee. \Exii. 
 
 EntPT Ismene and Guards. 
 
 Ism. Wherefore art thou here, 
 
 Despite the sentence which the king pronounced 
 Of exile ? 
 
 Hyl. I have come to mourn a father. 
 Whose words of passion had been long unsaid. 
 Had his kind heart still throbb'd ; and next, to claim 
 My heritage. 
 
 Ism. Thine ! — win it, if thou canst 
 
 Enter Calchas. 
 How stands the battle ? 
 
 Col. Corinth's soldiers fly, 
 
 Routed in wild disorder. Thoas leads 
 The troops of Athens, and will soon appear 
 In triumph at our gates. 
 
 Ism. Leads, say'st thou ? — leads ? 
 
 Let Corinth's gates stand open to admit 
 
SCENE II.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 145 
 
 The hero, — give him conduct to the hall, 
 Where sculptured glories of Corinthian kings 
 Shall circle him who sham'd them, — there, alone, 
 I would crave speech with him. [Exit Calchas. 
 
 Hyl. [To the Soldiers]. My countrymen, 
 
 Will ye endure this shame ? I am a youth 
 Unskill'd in war ; but I have learn'd to die 
 When life is infamy. If ye will join me. 
 We'll close the gates with ramparts of the slain. 
 Does no heart answer mine ? 
 
 Ism. Their swords shall curb 
 
 Thy idle ravings. Athens triumphs now ! — 
 Attend him to his chamber, and beware 
 He leaves it not. 
 
 Hyl. For this I ought to thank thee : 
 
 I would not see my country's foul disgrace ; 
 But thou shalt tremble yet. [Exit, guarded. 
 
 Ism. Now shall I clasp him — 
 
 Clasp him a victor o'er my country's foes ; — 
 The slayer of him most hated. Double transport ! 
 The dream of great revenge I lived upon 
 Was never bright with image of such joy, 
 And now comes link'd with vengeance ! Thoas, haste ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene TI. — Before the gates of Corinth. 
 
 Shouts without. Thoas in armour, with his sword dravjn, 
 and Athenian Soldiers, as in pursuit. 
 
 Thoas. Here we may breathe awhile from conquest ; 
 A noble chase, we scarce may call it battle ; ['twas 
 Success so quick hath followed on success. 
 That we shall want more time to count our glories 
 Than we have spent in winning them. The foe 
 Is niggard, and will not allow our arms 
 One day of conflict. We have won too soon. 
 Grant me, great gods ! instead of years of life, 
 Another such an hour. 
 
 Soldier. My lord, here's wine ; 
 
 'Tis from the tents of Corinth, 
 13 
 
146 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT IV. 
 
 Thoas. Not a drop. 
 
 My heart's too light — too jocund to allow 
 Another touch of ecstacy, derived 
 From mortal fruitage ; nay, were it Jove's nectar, 
 I'd set the untasted cup of crystal down, 
 And wait till all our glorious work were finish'd! 
 Soldiers ! we sup in Corinth ! You'll not wait 
 Past time of hunger, if ye are not faint 
 With rapid conquest. 
 
 Enter Pentheus and Soldiers. 
 
 Pen. Noble leader, hail ! 
 
 Thy country's heroes bless thee with the sense 
 Of their delighted wonder ! With one voice 
 They greet thee as the winner of this fight, 
 To which thou led'st them. Never was a scheme 
 Of battle plann'd in council of the sage, 
 Form'd with a skill more exquisite than that 
 Which in the instant thou were call'd to lead uSj 
 Flash'd on thy spirit, and in lines of fire 
 From thine was manifest to ours ? Art wounded ? 
 
 Thoas. A very scratch; I blush to think no more; 
 Some frolic blood let in the strife had served 
 To moderate my fervours. 
 
 Pen. See ! our comrades 
 
 Have snatched a branch from the Corinthian laurels 
 To wreath thy brow ! Soldiers, 't is much I ask ; 
 But when I tell ye I have watch'd your chief 
 From the first flash that dazzled in his eye 
 A tale of glory, ye may yield to me 
 The pride and joy of offering him this honour. 
 
 [Soldier gives the wreath to Pentheus, who gives it to 
 Thoas. 
 
 I thank ye, comrades. 
 
 Thoas, The immortal gods 
 
 Grant me a double blessing in the friend 
 From whom I take this happiness. O Pentheus ! 
 I have mused fondly — proudly — on the fate 
 Which waits upon my country ; when the brow 
 Which thou wouldst deck, was bared to mist and storm ; 
 
SCENE II.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 147 
 
 When every moonlit fountain which displaced 
 The blackness of the moss-grown hillock told 
 Of the pure beauty which her name should keep, 
 Empearling starless ages ; when each wave 
 That rippled in her harbour, to my ear 
 Spoke glad submission to the Queen of Cities; 
 But never, 'mid my burning hopes for Athens, 
 Did I believe that I should stand thus crown'd. 
 Her laurell'd soldier ! Friends, the sun-light wanes, 
 And we must sup in Corinth ! 
 
 Pp.n. See, the gates 
 
 Open to welcome us ! [The gates open. 
 
 J^hoas. Without a blow? 
 
 We shall not earn our banquet. So expands 
 Before the vision of my soul, the east 
 To the small cluster of our godlike sons. 
 Let Asia break the mirror of our seas 
 With thousand sterns of ivory, and cast 
 The glare of gold upon them to disturb 
 The azure hue of heaven, they shall be swept 
 As glittering clouds before the sun-like face 
 Of unapplianced virtue ! Friends, forgive me ; 
 I have been used to idle thought, nor yet 
 Have learn 'd to marry it to action. Blest 
 To-day in both. 
 
 Fen. A herald from the city. 
 
 Enter Calchas. 
 
 Cal. I am commissioned by the queen to speak 
 With Thoas. 
 
 Tkoas. I am here. 
 
 [Trembles, and supports himself, as paralyzed, on Pen. 
 Thou art commission'd 
 From the infernal powers to cross my path 
 Of glorious triumph, with a shape that brings 
 Before me terrible remembrance, which 
 Had stransfely vanish'd from me. 
 
 Pen. [To the Soldiers. J He is ill, — 
 
 Retire. 
 
 Thoas. No — should the herald fade in air, 
 
148 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT IV. 
 
 He would not leave his office unfulfill'd, 
 One look hath smit my soul. 
 
 Pen. Is this a dream ? 
 
 Thoas. No — 'tis a dreadful waking — I have dreamt 
 Of honour, and have struggled in that dream 
 For Athens, as if I deserved to fight 
 Unsullied in her cause. The joy of battle 
 In eddies as a whirlpool had en gulf 'd 
 The thought of one sad moment, when my soul 
 Was blasted ; but it rises in the calm, 
 Like form of slaughter'd seaman, that pursues 
 The murderous vessel which swept proudly on. 
 When his death-gurgle ended. Hence, vain wreath ! — 
 Thou wouldst entwine my brow with serpent coldness, 
 And wither instant there. [Tears the wreath. 
 
 So vanish all 
 My hopes ; they are gone — I'm fit to answer thee. 
 Who sent thee here? [To Calchas. 
 
 Cal. The queen. 
 
 Thoas. A worthy mistress 
 
 Of such a slave — thy errand ? 
 
 Cal. She who rules 
 
 In Corinth now, admits the victor's power. 
 And bids the gates thus open : she requires 
 A conference with Thoas in the hall 
 Next to the royal chamber — thou hast been 
 There, as I think, my lord. 
 
 Thoas. I know full well; 
 
 Lead, dreadful herald, on ! 
 
 Pen. The troops attend 
 
 The order of their general. 
 
 Thoas. [To Calchas.] Why dost wait? 
 Thou see'st that I obey thy call. 
 
 Pen. My friend. 
 
 Thy blood is fever'd — thou may'st choose thy time — - 
 Postpone this meeting. 
 
 Thoas. [ To Calchas.] Why dost tarry ? turn 
 Thy face away — it maddens me — go on ! 
 
 [Exit after Calchas. 
 
SCENE III.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 149 
 
 Soldier. [To Pentheus.] My lord, we wait for orders : 
 this strange man, 
 Half warrior and half rhapsodist, may bring 
 Oar army into peril. 
 
 Pen. Fear it not; 
 
 He has all elements of greatness in him, 
 Although as yet not perfectly commingled, 
 Which is sole privilege of gods. They cast 
 Such piteous weakness on the noblest men 
 That we may feel all mortal. 'Tis a cloud 
 Which speedily will pass, and thou shalt see 
 The hero shine as clearly forth in council 
 A« he has done in victory. Meanwhile 
 He leaves us pleasant duty — form your line^^ — 
 Sound trumpets — march triumphant into Corinth ! 
 
 [TAe Athenians enter Corinth, 
 
 Scene III. — The Hall of Statues tn the Palace^ same as in 
 Third Act. 
 
 Thoas. [Alone.'] Again I stand within this awful hall ; 
 I found the entrance here, without the sense 
 Of vision ; for a foul and clinging mist. 
 Like the damp vapour of a long-closed vault, 
 Is round me. Now its objects start to sight 
 With terrible distinctness ? Crimson stains 
 Break sudden on the walls ! The fretted roof 
 Grows living -' Let me hear a human voice, 
 Or I shall play the madman ! 
 
 Enter Ismene, richly dressed. 
 
 Ism. Noble soldier, 
 
 T bid thee welcome, with the rapturous heart 
 Of one, for whom thy patriot arm hath wrought 
 Deliverance and revenge — but more for Athens 
 Than for myself, I hail thee : why dost droop ? 
 Art thou oppressed with honours, as a weight 
 Thou wert not born to carry ? I will tell 
 That which shall show thee native to the load, 
 And shall requite thee with a joy as great 
 As that thou hast conferr'd. Thy life was hid 
 Beneath inglorious accident, till force 
 13* 
 
150 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT IV. 
 
 Of its strong current urged it forth to-day, 
 To glisten and expand in sun-light. Know 
 That it has issued from a fountain bright 
 As is its destiny*. — Thou sharest with me 
 The blood of Theseus. 
 
 Thoas. If thy speech is true, 
 
 And I have something in me which responds 
 To its high tidings, I am doom'd to bear 
 A heavier woe than I believed the gods 
 Would ever lay on mortal; I have stood 
 Unwittingly upon a skiey height, 
 Bv ponderous gloom encircled, — thou hast shown 
 The mountain-summit mournfully reversed 
 In the black mirror of a lurid lake, 
 Whose waters soon shall cover me, — I've stain'd 
 A freeman's nature ; thou hast shown it sprung 
 From gods and heroes, and wouldst have me proud 
 Of the foul sacrilege ? 
 
 Ism. If that just deed, , 
 
 Which thus disturbs thy fancy, were a crime, 
 What is it in the range of glorious acts. 
 Past and to come, to which thou art allied, 
 But a faint speck, an atom, which no eye 
 But thine would dwell on ? 
 
 Thoas. It infects them all; 
 
 Spreads out funereal blackness as they pass 
 In sad review before me. Hadst thou pour'd 
 This greatness on my unpolluted heart. 
 How had it bounded ! now it tortures me, 
 From thee, fell sorceress, who snared my soul 
 Here — in this very hall ! — May the strong curse 
 Which breathes from out the ruins of a nature 
 Blasted by guilt — 
 
 Ism. Hold ! Parricide — forbear ! 
 
 She whom thou hast avenged, she whom the death 
 Of Creon hath set free, whom thou wouldst curse, 
 Is she who bore thee ! 
 
 Thoas. Thou ! 
 
 Ism. Dost doubt my word ! 
 
 Is there no witness in thy mantling blood 
 
SCENE III.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 151 
 
 Which tells thee whence 'twas drawn ? Is nature silent ? 
 
 If, from the mists of infancy, no form 
 
 Of her who, sunk in poverty, forgat 
 
 Its ills in tending thee, and made the hopes 
 
 Which glimmer'd in thy smiles her comfort — gleams 
 
 Upon thee yet ; — hast thou forgot the night 
 
 When foragers from Corinth toss'd a brand 
 
 Upon the roof that shelter'd thee ; dragg'd out 
 
 The mother from the hearth where she had sat 
 
 Resign'd to perish, shrieking for the babe 
 
 Whom from her bosom they had rent ? That child 
 
 Now listens. As in rapid flight I gazed 
 
 Backward upon the blazing ruin, shapes 
 
 Of furies, from amid the fire, look'd out 
 
 And grinn'd upon me. Every weary night 
 
 While I have lain upon my wretched bed, 
 
 They have been with me, pointing to the hour 
 
 Of vengeance. Thou hast wrought it for me, son ! 
 
 Embrace thy mother ! 
 
 Thoas. Would the solid earth 
 
 Would open, and enfold me in its strong 
 And stifling grasp, that I might be as though 
 I ne'er was born. 
 
 Ism. Dost mock me? I have clasp'd 
 
 Sorrow and shame as if they were my sons, 
 To keep my heart from hardening into stone ; 
 The promised hour arrived; and when it came", 
 The furies, in repayment, sent an arm, 
 Moulded from mine, to strike the oppressor dead. 
 1 triumph'd, — and I sent thee ! 
 
 Thoas. Dost confess 
 
 That, conscious who I was, thou urged my knife 
 Against the king? 
 
 Ism. Confess ! — I glory in it ! — 
 
 Thy arm hath done the purpose of my will ; 
 For which I bless it. Now I am thy suitor. 
 Victorious hero ! Pay me for those cares 
 Long past, which man ne'er guesses at; — for years 
 Of daily, silent suflfering, which yoQiig soldiers 
 Have not a word to body forth ; for all, — 
 
152 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT IV. 
 
 By filling for a moment these fond arms, 
 Which held thee first. 
 
 Thoas. \^Shrihking from her.'] I cannot. I will kneel 
 To thank thee for thy love, ere thou didst kill 
 Honour and hope ; — then grovel at thy feet, 
 And pray thee trample out the wretched life 
 Thou gav'st me. 
 
 Ism. Ha ! Beware, unfeeling man : — 
 
 I had opposed, had crush'd all human loves, 
 And they v/ere wither'd ; thou hast call'd them forth, 
 Rushing in crowds from memory's thousand cells. 
 To scoff at them. Beware ! They will not slumber, 
 But sting like scorpions. 
 
 Enter Iphitus. 
 
 Wherefore dost intrude 
 On this high conference ? 
 
 Iph. The people cry 
 
 That solemn inquisition should be held 
 For Creon's blood ! — else do they fear the gods 
 Will visit it on them. 
 
 Ism. They need not fear. 
 
 It will be well avenged. 
 
 Iph. To thee, Ismene, 
 
 That which I next must speak, is of dear import ! — 
 Wilt hear it in this noble stranger's presence? 
 
 Is7n. Say on, old man. 
 
 Iph. From the old crumbling altar, 
 
 Just as the gates were opened, breathed a voice 
 In whisper low, yet heard through each recess 
 Of Jove's vast temple, bidding us to seek 
 Of thee, Ismene, who the murderer is, 
 And summon thee to the same fearful spot. 
 To speak it there. 
 
 Ism. [To Thoas.] Athenian! dost thou hear ? 
 
 Thoas. I hear. 
 
 Iph. The hostile nations lay aside 
 
 Their quarrel, till this justice to the dead 
 Be render'd. Chiefs of each will guard the fane, 
 And wait the solemn issue. — In their name 
 And in the mightier name of him whose shrine 
 
SCENE III.] THE ATHENIAN CArXIVE. 153 
 
 Hath burst long silence, I comnnand thee, queen, 
 Thou presently be there. 
 
 Ism. I shall obey — 
 
 Beside the altar place the regal seat ; 
 And there, in state befitting Corinth's queen, 
 I'll take my place. {To Thoas. 
 
 Farewell ! Thou wilt be there ! 
 
 Thcas. Be sure I will not fail. 
 
 Ism. 'Tis well ! 'Tis well ! 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Iph. Thou saidst thou shouldst attend ? 
 
 Thoas. I shall. What more 
 
 Would'st thou have with me? 
 
 Iph. I would ask a band 
 
 Of the most noble of Athenian youth, 
 To witness this procedure; and to lend 
 Their conduct, should the murderer stand reveal'd, 
 To keep the course of justice unassail'dj 
 And line the path of death. 
 
 Thoas. All that can make 
 
 The wretch accurs'd, shall wait him. Let me breathe 
 Alone a moment. [Exit Iphitus. 
 
 How they'll start to see 
 The guilty one descend the solemn steps. 
 And hang their heads for shame, and turn their eyes 
 In mercy from him. [Going. 
 
 Enter Creusa. 
 
 Ci^eusa. For a moment hear me — 
 
 I would not break on thy triumphant hours, 
 But for my brother's sake. Do not refuse, 
 For if he wrong'd thee by a frantic thought, 
 There was one ready to defend thy honour 
 From slightest taint ! 
 
 Thoas. What taint ? the breath of infamy 
 
 Spreads o'er my name already ! 
 
 Creusa. Do not ask — [make 
 
 'Twas a wild thought ; — but there are tongues which 
 As false a charge; tongues which have power to crush 
 The guiltless ! — They have murmur'd that this crime 
 Is that of Hyllus ! 
 
154 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT IV. 
 
 TJioas. Hyllus, the unsullied ! 
 
 Creusa. I knew that thou would'st say so — that no 
 Of circumstance would weigh in thy pure thought [force 
 Against the beauty of his life. They found him 
 Just after day-break, suddenly return'd 
 From exile, in the chamber of the king. 
 Gazing with bloodless aspect on a sight 
 Of bloodshed ; — yet thou dost not think 'twas he 
 That with a craven hand — 
 
 Thoas. O no ! 
 
 Creusa. And thou 
 
 Wilt plead his cause — wilt save him from the fate 
 That threatens his young life ? 
 
 Thoas. My own shall first 
 
 Be quench'd ! 
 
 Creusa. The gods repay thee for the word ! 
 
 O brother, brother ! could'st thou wrong this heart 
 With fool suspicion ? Why dost turn away. 
 And shrink and shudder in the warrior's dress^ 
 As when I thank'd thee for that brother's life, 
 At the slave's vest which then, in thy proud thought, 
 Debased the wearer ? 
 
 Thoas. O, I thought so then ! 
 
 Now I would give the treasures of the deep, 
 Nay more — the hope of glory — to resume 
 Those servile garments with the spotless thoughts 
 Of yesterday. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Mess. My general, Pentheus, asks 
 
 If, by thy sanction, Iphitus requires 
 His presence in the temple ? 
 
 Thoas. Pentheus . — yes. 
 
 Creusa. (Thoas turns away.) Why in the temple ? 
 Wilt not speak ? 
 
 Mess. The priest 
 
 There summons all to some high trial. 
 
 Creusa. I see it ! — 
 
 Thev meet to judge my brother. I will fly — 
 
 Thoas. Thou must not, lady — in that fearful place 
 Horrors ungu.^ss'd at by thy gentle nature 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 155 
 
 Will freeze thy youthful blood, that thou shalt pass 
 No happy moment more. 
 
 Creusa. And what have I 
 
 To do with happiness ? I am not young, 
 For I grew old in moments fraught with love 
 And anguish. Now I feel that I could point 
 The murderer oat with dreadful skill — could mark 
 The livid paleness, read the shrinking eye, 
 Detect the empty grasping of the hand 
 Renewing fancied slaughter ; — why dost turn 
 Thus coldly from me ! Ah ! thou hast forgot 
 The vows which, when in slavery, thou offered, 
 An'3. I was proud to answer — if not, Tiioas, 
 Once press my hand ; gods ! he lets it fall ! — 
 So withers my last hope — so my poor heart 
 is broken. [Faints. 
 
 Thoas. \_To Messenger.] Take her gently in. 
 
 [Messenger supports her out 
 One glance. [Looks at her and shudders. 
 O that the beauty I have loved and worshipped 
 Should be a thing to shiver me ! — 'Tis just. [Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — The interior of the Temple of Jupiter the Avenger — 
 IsMENE seated in th" midst, in a Chair of State — Corinthians 
 on the right, and Athenians on the left side of the Temple — 
 At the extremity on the right side, Hyllus standing. — At the 
 extremity of the left^ Thoas seated. 
 
 Iph. Corinthians and Athenians ! late opposed 
 In mortal conflict, dedicated now 
 To solemn work of Justice, hear the will 
 Of the Avenging Power, beneath whose roof 
 Ye stand thus marshalPd. Royal blood hath stain'd 
 A palace floor : — not shed in blazing war, 
 But in night's peace; not some hot soldier's blood, 
 But the thin current of a frame made sacred 
 To Orcus' gentlest arrow. Heaven requires 
 
156 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [aCT V. 
 
 Both nations to unite in dealing death 
 
 Upon the slayer, who, Linslain, will draw 
 
 Its withering curse on both. In yonder shrine 
 
 Which dim. tradition's fearful whispers made 
 
 A terror to my infancy, a voice, 
 
 Which breathed fell murmurs to ancestral ears, 
 
 Breaks centuries of silence to pronounce 
 
 The Queen as gifted to direct tlie shaft 
 
 To the cursed head ; — and every sign around us 
 
 By which the world invisible, when charged 
 
 With bloody secret struggles to subdue 
 
 Things visible to organs which may send 
 
 Its meaning to the startled soul, attest 
 
 The duty I assume. — Ismene ! 
 
 Ism. Priest 
 
 Of Jove, I am attendant to thy summons ; — 
 What is thy wish ? 
 
 Tph. Sad widow of a king 
 
 Whose feeble life some cruel hand hath stopp'd, 
 I do adjure thee by those hoary hairs, 
 That changed their hue from raven whilst thou shared 
 His mansion ; — by celestial powers, who watch 
 Our firmness now ;— and by those fearful gods, 
 Whom 'tis unblest to mention, lay aside 
 All terror, all affection, all remorse, — 
 If cause of penitence thou hast, — to rend 
 The veil of darkness which the murderer wears, 
 And give him to his destiny. Begin 
 The solemn strain which shall attune our souls 
 To hearken and to execute ! [Solemn music. 
 
 Ismene, 
 Speak : Dost thou know the slayer ? 
 
 Ism. Yes ! 
 
 Iph. Dost thou 
 
 Behold him now ? 
 
 Ism. [Looking wildly round.'] I do not see the faces 
 Or know the names of all. Who is the man 
 That at the right side of the circle stands ? 
 
 Ivh. The youth with head erect and cloudless brow ? 
 That is the orphan'd Hj^-llus. 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 157 
 
 Ism, Who is he 
 
 That sits upon the other side, apart 
 With face averted? 
 
 [Thoas turns his head suddenly^ and looks upon her. 
 I behold him now. 
 It is a dreadful duty you exact 
 From me — a woman. If I speak the name 
 What sentence follows ? 
 
 Iph. Death ! 
 
 Ism. And soon performed? 
 
 Iph. The Fates require that he thou shalt denounce 
 As guilty, must he led in silence hence, 
 A»d none behold him after, save his slayers. 
 Attend once more ! Thou hast declared thou know'st 
 The guilty one ! I ask thee — is he here ? 
 
 Ism. O Gods ! He is. 
 
 Iph. Name him ! 
 
 Cal. She shudders ! See, — 
 
 I think she cannot speak ! 
 
 Iph. If quivering tongue 
 
 Refuse its office, point the victim out. 
 
 [IsMENE rises; turns towards Thoas, who rises, and con- 
 fronts her ; she trembles, pauses, and sinks into her seat. 
 
 Iph. Thou hast confess'd the guilty one is here ; 
 Where stands he ? 
 
 [IsMENE rises ; points to Hyllus, shrieks " There !" and 
 falls back senseless in her chair. 
 
 Thoas, 'Tis false ! 
 
 [Creusa rushes forward and embraces Hyllus. 
 
 Cre^sa. Most false ! O murderess. 
 
 Protect him, noble Thoas ! 
 
 Hyl. Peace, my sister :— - 
 
 Implore no mortal aid ; let us be patient, 
 And suffer calmly what the gods decree. 
 My hfe may satisfy. 
 
 Iph. It cannot be ! 
 
 Hold — stir not — breathe not — from that shrine the voice 
 Of heaven will answer hers. Do ye not hear ? [A pause. 
 Hark ! — 'It is voiceless, and the youth is doom'd. 
 
 Thoas. Forbear, ye murderous judges ; look upon him ! 
 See on his forehead Nature's glorious seal 
 14 
 
1/^8 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT V, 
 
 Of innocence, outspeaking thousand voices, 
 Which shining in the presence of the gods, 
 Still shows him guikless. 
 
 Iph. Prove it. 
 
 Thoas. With my hfe-blood ! 
 
 O could ye place me in some dizzy cleft 
 Of inmost Thracian hills, when ribb'd with ice., 
 To hear from every rocky shelf a howl 
 Of wolves aroused to famine, — I would stand — 
 Calm. — far calmer than I stand, — to wait " 
 Their fangs, and let my tortured sinews' strength 
 Attest his cause ; — 'twere nothing — 'twere no pain — 
 To what the spirit feels. Thou talk'st of curses : 
 Beware ! There is no curse with such a power 
 As that of guiltless blood pour'd out by mortals 
 In the mock'd name of justice. 
 
 Hyl. [To Thoas, aside.'] Thou wilt tell 
 
 Thy secret ; — keep it. Leave me to my doom. 
 
 Thoas. Never ! Corinthians, hear me 
 
 Ism. [recovering.'] What is this ? 
 
 Why waits the parricide still there ? Who dares 
 Dispute my sentence? 
 
 Thoas. I ! 
 
 Is7n. Be silent. She 
 
 Who most in all the world should have command 
 O'er thee, requires thy silence. 
 
 Pe?i. [stepping forward from the Athenian rank.] By 
 what right 
 Dost thou — Queen of the vanquish'd — dare command 
 The leader of the conquerors ? 
 
 Ism. By a mother's ! 
 
 [Thoa.s sinks into his seat — Ismene descends and stands 
 beside him. 
 
 Ism. Athenians — victors ! — 'tis your fitting name, 
 By which I gladly hair you. Ye behold 
 One whom ye left to suffer, but who boasts 
 Your noblest blood. See ! I command my son 
 To quit this roof, and leave me to the work 
 The gods have destined for me. 
 
 Thoas. Stand aside I 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 159 
 
 I have a suit I would prefer alone, 
 Which may save guilt and sorrow. 
 
 Iph. [to Hylltjs.] Lean on me. 
 
 [To Thoas.] Be brief. 
 
 HyL I have no need ; yet will I take 
 
 This thy last kindness ; for I can accept it 
 Without a blush or shudder. 
 
 [All retire, leaving Thoas and Ismene in front. 
 
 Thoas. Why hast heap'd 
 
 Foul crime on crime ? 
 
 Ism. Son ! there has been no crime 
 
 Except for thee. The love that thou hast scorn'd 
 From the heart's long-closed shrine, outwhisper'd fate 
 And saved thee. 
 
 Thoas. Saved me I Thou may'st save me yet ; 
 
 Recall thy sentence. Give me truth and death ! 
 
 Ism. And own my falsehood ? No ! Let us go hence 
 Together. 
 
 Thoas. And permit this youth to die ! 
 O that some god would mirror to thy soul 
 Our mortal passage, while the arid sand 
 We pace ; the yellow, sunless sky above us ; 
 And forms distort with anguish, which shall meet 
 Each vain attempt to be alone, enclose 
 The conscious blasters of the earth, till forced 
 To gaze upon each other, we behold, 
 As in eternal registry, the curse 
 Writ in the face of each ! No ; let us pray 
 For torture and for peace ! 
 
 Ism. If thou remain, 
 
 And risk dishonour to our house and me, 
 The poisonous cave below shall be my home, 
 And shelter me for ever ! 
 
 Thoas. Bravely thought — 
 
 As fits a matron of heroic line ; 
 Be great in penitence, and we shall meet 
 Absolved, where I may join my hand to thine, 
 A.nd walk in duteous silence by thy side. 
 
 Ism. And couldst thou love me then ? 
 
 Thoas. Love thee ! My mother, 
 
160 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE-. [ACT V. 
 
 When thou didst speak that word, the gloom of years 
 
 Was parted; — and I knew again the face 
 
 Which linger'd o'er my infancy, — ^^so pale, 
 
 So proud, so beautiful ! I kneel again, 
 
 A child, and plead to that unharden'd heart, 
 
 By all the long past hours of priceless love, 
 
 To let my gushing soul pass forth in grace, 
 
 And bless thee in its parting ! 
 
 Ism. Never ! 
 
 Thoas. [risijig.] Yes ! 
 
 Haste ere the roof shall fall, and crush the germ 
 Of sweet repentance in us : take thy seat. 
 And speak as thy heart dictates — 
 
 [Drawing- Ismene towards her seat. 
 Hear again ! 
 Ism. Unhand me — rebel son ! Assembled Chiefs, 
 Ye called me — I have spoken once — I speak 
 No more ; make way there ! — I must pass alone ! 
 
 [Exit Ismene. 
 Thoas. [Calling to Ismene.] ! mother, stay ! She's 
 gone. [Sinks into his chair, 
 
 Iph. Her word decides. 
 
 Unless the gods disown it. Peace ! the altar 
 Is silent ; the last moment presses on us — 
 Hyllus, the doom'd, stand forth ! 
 
 Creusa. O pause ; to thee 
 
 Thoas, I call ; thou know'st him guiltless. 
 
 Iph. Hold! 
 
 No mortal passion can have utterance here, 
 When fate is audible. To yield is ours ; 
 Be calm as Hyllus, or forego his hand. 
 
 [Creusa sinks on her knees beside Hyllus ; Tphitus lai/s 
 one hand on the head of Hyllus, and raises the other 
 towards heaven. 
 
 Iph. Dread Power, that bade us to this fane, accept 
 The expiation that we offer now. 
 And let this blood pour'd forth avert thy vengeance ! 
 [Thoas suddenly falls from his seat to the ground. 
 Creusa rushes to him, and all surround him. 
 
 Creusa. Gods ! what is this new horror ? 
 
SCENE I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTITE. 161 
 
 [Opening the vest o/Thoas, the dagger, with which he has 
 secretly stabbed himself, falls from it. 
 
 Thoas. There! 'Tis done 
 
 'Tis well accomplisli'd. 
 
 Creusa. Hyllus, go ! 
 
 Brother, no more — for thee he perishes. 
 
 Thoas. I will not purchase a last thrill of joy, 
 By such estrangement. That steel bears the blood 
 Of Creon and his slayer ! 
 
 — Raise me ! So — 
 That I may press your generous monarch's hand. 
 Nay, turn not from me, Hyllus ! Speak one word 
 Of^weet forgiveness. 
 
 Uyl. Had it pleased the Gods, 
 
 Instead of thine, to take a stripling's life, 
 How had that giddy sharpness been repaid 
 By mighty deeds thou wouldst have acted ! 
 
 Thoas. No— 
 
 If I were framed by nature for dishonour, 
 I might have liv'd and conquer'd, and enjoy'd. 
 And won a glorious name ; — my soul was noble — , 
 And shiver 'd at the shadow of its crime, 
 And clos'd on this world ; — in another sphere 
 It may expand unsoil'd — it opens now — 
 And guilt is passing from me with my life-blood. 
 
 Enter Calchas. 
 
 Cal. The Queen! 
 
 Thoas. ' Hold life a moment — Speak ! — The Queen ? 
 
 Cal. She rush'd, 
 
 With looks none dared to question, to the cave ; 
 Paused at its horrid portal ; toss'd her arms 
 Wildly abroad ; then drew them to her breast. 
 As if she clasp'd a vision'd infant there ; 
 And as her eye, uplifted to the crag> 
 Met those who might prevent her course, withdrew 
 Her backward step amidst the deadly clouds 
 Which veil'd her — till the spectral shape was lost, 
 Where none dare ever tread to seek for that 
 Which was Ismene. 
 14* 
 
162 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [ACT V. 
 
 Thoas. Peace be with her ! Pentheus, 
 
 Thy hand ; — let Hylkis reign in honour here ; — 
 Convey me to the city of my love ; 
 Her future years of glory stream more clear 
 Than ever on my soul. Athens ! Athens ! \_Dies, 
 
 Hyl. Sister ! 
 
 Creusa, Forgive me, brother. 
 
 [Falls on the neck of Hyllus. 
 
 Hyl. Weep there ; 'tis thy home. 
 
 Fate that has smitten us so young, leaves this — 
 That we shall cleave together to the grave. 
 
 The curtain falls. 
 
G L E N C Ei 
 
 O R, 
 
 THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
TO 
 
 LORD JEFFREY, 
 
 WITH 
 GRATEFUL SENSE OF HIS KINDIVESS, AND PRIDE IN HIS ESTEEM, 
 
 EMBODYING THE FEELINGS OF HAPPY DAYS, 
 
 SPENT IN THAT ROMANTIC LAND WHICH HIS DELIGHFUL 
 SOCIETY HAS ENDEAREDj 
 
 IS (with his permission) respectfully inscribed 
 
 BY 
 
 T. N. TALFOURD. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION, 
 
 Since this Play was prepared for the press, it has undergone 
 the Ordeal of representation ; and, having avowed myself its au- 
 thor, I feel it right to state the circumstances under which it was 
 written and " commended to the stage." It was composed in the 
 vacation of 1839, at Glandwr, in the most beautiful part of North 
 Wales, chiefly for the purpose of embodying the feelings which 
 the grandest scenery in the Highlands of Scotland had awakened, 
 when I visited them in the preceding autumn. I had no distinct 
 intention at that time of seeking for it a trial on the stage ; but, 
 having almost unconsciously blended with the image of its hero 
 the figure, the attitudes, and the tones of the great actor, whom I 
 had associated for many years with every form of tragedy, I could 
 not altogether repress the hope that I might one day enjoy the 
 delight of seeing him give life and reality to my imperfect con- 
 ceptions. After my return to London the Play was printed, mere- 
 ly for the purpose of being presented to my friends ; but when 
 only two or three copies had been presented, I was encouraged to 
 believe that it would one day be acted, and I suppressed the edi- 
 tion. I found that my friend, Mr. Charles Dickens, — whose gen- 
 erous devotion to my interests amidst his own triumphant labours, 
 I am most happy thus to boast, — had shown it to Mr. Macready 
 as the work of a stranger ; that it had been read by him with deep 
 interest ; and that he had determined to recommend its produc- 
 tion as the first novelty of the present Haymarket season. Hav- 
 ing been charged,- on the representation of " Ion," with obtaining 
 an unfair advantage over other Dramatic authors, by the previous 
 distribution of the Play, (although, at the time of that distribu- 
 tion, I had not the slightest idea that it would ever be acted,) I 
 resolved wholly to abstain from a course which might justly in- 
 volve me in such a censure ; and the only use made of any of the 
 
166 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE 
 
 printed copies, was to facilitate the rehearsals. I also determined 
 if possible, to avoid another charge — that I was indebted for such 
 success as I had obtained to the partial applause of friends ; and, 
 as the Play had been accepted without any name to aid it, so f 
 wished that it should take its fair chance for success or failure, at 
 the hands of an audience wholly without bias. This wish was 
 accomplished ; for, with the exception of two or three friends 
 who happened to have received copies before the occasion for se- 
 crecy arose, my most intimate friends and relations were wholly 
 unacquainted vfith my connection of the announcement of the 
 evening. When the name of the author was communicated to 
 Mr. Macready, he was enjoined to keep it secret ; and it was only 
 a day or two before the performance that an accident caused it 
 even to be suspected at the theatre. Whatever, therefore, may 
 have been the degree of success which attended its first represen- 
 tation, it was attained — not only without the issue of orders, but 
 without the aid of those genial influences which friendship de- 
 lights to exert on such an occasion. 
 
 As Mr. Macready has regarded this play in two aspects — at the 
 time when he first approved it as the work of a stranger, and du- 
 ring its preparation for the Stage as the production of one of his 
 oldest friends — so I have to thank him in each character. The 
 suggestions which he made to render it better fitted for represen- 
 tation were so important, that it was found necessary to reprint 
 the whole ; and the few who have seen the original will perceive 
 that they have essentially improved the work as a dramatic poem, 
 as well as advanced its interest on the Stage. Of his representation 
 of the principal character, I cannot speak in adequate terms of 
 gratitude ; — but those who know the pleasure which an author 
 feels in finding the images of his solitary walks among rocks and 
 streams rendered palpable to the senses and affections of others 
 by the power of a great artist, may guess the feelings with which 
 I witnessed his performance. To all the Ladies and Gentlemen 
 engaged in the representation, I also beg to offer my cordial thanks 
 for the zeal with which they did more than justice to parts which, 
 in several instances, were unworthy of their powers ; and to Mr. 
 Webster, as Manager as well as Actor. 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances, I should have felt it impertinent 
 to intrude on the public the statement I have made of personal 
 details and motives ; but as I am conscious that this Play has been 
 produced at a time when dramatic productions superior to it in 
 
SECOND EDITION OF GLENCOE. 167 
 
 many of the essentials of that species of composition have recent- 
 ly issued from the press, I think it due to the management of the 
 Haymarket Theatre, and to Mr. Macready, to state the exact truth 
 respecting it. The authors of some of these dramas cannot rea- 
 sonably complain, as they have not chosen to adapt their works 
 to the purposes of acting, that they have not been acted ; but there 
 are others who naturally and earnestly desire to participate in the 
 fascinations of the acted Drama, whose wishes I should rejoice to 
 see fulfilled. Two obstacles, however, subsist, which, while they 
 continue, must confine the opportunities of doing justice to dra- 
 matic authors within narrow limits — the dearth of competent ac- 
 tors to represent their works, and the monopoly which restricts 
 the number of theatres entitled to give them scope. Whether 
 the rfiteoval of the last difficulty would tend speedily to obviate 
 the first, is matter of conjecture : but the experiment ought to be 
 and must be tried. The claims of our dramatic literature to a 
 Free Stage are becoming every day more urgent with the develop- 
 ment of its rich resources ; and they cannot long be so advanced 
 and so supported in vain. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 It seems strange that the terrible incident, which deepens the 
 impression made on all tourists by the most awful Pass of the 
 Highlands, should not have been long ago made the subject of 
 poetry or romance. Although the massacre which casts so deep 
 a stain on the government of King William the Third, may well 
 have been regarded as too shocking for dramatic effect, unless pre- 
 sented merely in the remote back-ground of scenic action, it is 
 surely matter of surprise that it should not have been selected as 
 a subject for Scottish romance, by the great Novelist who has held 
 up its authors to just execration in his " History of Scotland." 
 A deed so atrocious, perpetrated towards the close of the seven- 
 teenth century, under the sanction of a warrant, both superscribed 
 and subscribed by the king, is an instance of that projection of the 
 savage state into a period of growing civilization which enables 
 the novelist to blend the familiar with the fearful — " new man- 
 ners" with "the pomp of elder days" — the fading superstition 
 of dim antiquity with the realities which history verifies. To 
 him, the treachery by which it was preceded — the mixture of 
 ferocity and craft by which it was planned and executed — the 
 fearful contrast between the gay reciprocation of social kindness, 
 and the deadly purpose of the guests marking out their hosts for 
 slaughter — present opportunities for the most picturesque con- 
 trasts, the most vivid details, the most thrilling suggestions, which 
 are not within the province of the dramatist. The catastrophe 
 has also a far-reaching interest, as showing the extermination of 
 one of the most sturdy and austere, although one of the smallest 
 of the Highland clans ; for, being the most fearful of the series 
 of measures by which the little sovereignties of the Highland 
 Chiefs w-ere abolished, it may well represent their general ex- 
 tinction, and the transfer of the virtues and the violence they 
 sheltered from action to memory. It occurred in a scene, too, 
 
 15 
 
170 PREFACE TO GLENCOE. 
 
 which, for gloomy grandeur, is not only unequalled, but unap- 
 proached — perhaps, unresembled — by any other Pass in Britain ; 
 and its solemn features, especially when contemplated beneath 
 heavy clouds and amidst rolling mists, harmonise with the story 
 of the horrors which were wrought among them. Considering, 
 therefore, the delight which Sir Walter Scott felt in animating 
 the noblest scenery of his country with its most romantic tradi- 
 tions, it is difficult to account for his abstinence from a theme 
 which, if adopted by him, would have been forever sacred from 
 the touch of others.* 
 
 * Two passages only, as far as the author is aware, in the poetry and fiction of 
 Sir Walter Scott, contain allusions to the massacre at Glencoe ; but they show 
 how inteusely he felt the atrocities committed under the apparent sanction at 
 least of the government of King William. The following stanzas are quoted by 
 himself from liis own poems, in a note to his History : 
 
 " The hand that mingled in the meal. 
 At midnight drew the felon steel, 
 And gave the host's kind breast to feel 
 
 Meed for his hospitality ! 
 The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand, 
 At midnight arm'd it with the brand 
 That bade destruction's flames expand 
 Their red and fearful blazonry. 
 
 " Then woman's shriek was heard in vain ; 
 Nor infancy's uupitied paiD, 
 More than the warrior's groan, could gain 
 Respite from ruthless butchery ! 
 The winter wind that whistled shrill, 
 ■~- The snows that night that cloak'd the hill, 
 
 Though wild and pitiless, had still 
 
 Far more than Southron clemency." 
 
 The following passage occurs in the tale of the " Highland Widow," in Elspat's 
 remonstrance to her son on his enlistment : — " Go, put your head under the belt 
 of one of the race of Dermid, whose children murdered — yes," she added with 
 a wild shriek, " murdered your mother's fathers in their peaceful dwellings in 
 Glencoe 1 Yes," she again exclaimed with a wilder and shriller scream, •' I was 
 then unborn, but ray mother has told me ; and I attended to the voice of my 
 mother ; — well I remember her words I^They came in peace and were received 
 in friendship, and blood and fire arose, and screams and murder !" 
 
 " Mother," answered Hamish, mournfully, but with a decided tone, " all that I 
 have thought over — there is not a .hip of the blood of Glencoe on the noble 
 handof Barcaldine ; - wit'i ihe unhapov house of Gleniyon the curse remains 
 £uid on them God hath avenged it." 
 
PREFACE TO GLENCOE. 171 
 
 In endeavouring to present, in a dramatic form, the feelings 
 which the scene and its history have engendered, it has been 
 found necessary to place in the foreground domestic incidents and 
 jfictitious characters ; only to exhibit the chief agents of the 
 treachery, so far as essential to the progress of the action ; and to 
 allow the catastrophe itself rather to be felt as affecting the for- 
 tunes of an individual family, than exhibited in its extended hor- 
 rors. The subject presents strong temptations to mere melo-dra- 
 matic effect : it has been the wish of the Author to resist these 
 as much as possible ; but he can scarcely hope with entire suc- 
 cess. 
 
 In the outline of those incidents which are historical, the Au- 
 thor has not ventured on any material deviation from the story, as 
 related in the Fifty-eighth Chapter of Sir Walter Scotf s " History 
 of Scotland," where it will be found developed with all the vivid- 
 ness of that master-spirit of narrative.* The rash irresolution of 
 Mac Ian, in deferring his submission till the last moment ; his 
 journey to Fort-William in the snow-storm ; his disappointment 
 in finding he had sought the wrong officer ; his turning thence, 
 and passing near his own house, to Inverary, where he arrived after 
 the appointed day ; the acceptance of his oath by the sheriff of 
 Argyle, and his return to enforce the allegiance of his clan to 
 King William ; the arrival of Glenlyon and his soldiers in the 
 glen ; their entertainment for fifteen days by the Macdonalds ; 
 the cold hypocrisy by which they veiled their purpose when urged 
 to its execution by Major Duncan^on ; and the partial execution 
 of the murderous orders ; are all real features of " an ower true 
 tale." The only deviations of which the Author is conscious 
 are, the representing Alaster Macdonald, the younger son of 
 Mac Ian, as a lad, instead of the husband of Glenlyon' s niece; 
 and that niece as fostered by the widow and son of a chief of the 
 clan, once the rival of Mac Ian ; and in substituting, for the foul 
 traits of treachery which Sir Walter Scott imputes to Glenlyon, 
 the incident of his procuring a young officer in his own regiment, 
 but of the clan of the Macdotialds, to place the soldiers in the 
 tracks leading from the valley they were commanded to surround. 
 The character of Halbert Macdonald, and the incidents of his 
 story and conduct, are entirely fictitious. 
 
 * By the obliging permission of Mr. Cadell, expressing the feelings of Sir Wal- 
 ter Scott's family, I have enriched the Appendix to this volume with the chief 
 part of this stirring tale. 
 
172 PREFACE TO GLENCOE. 
 
 As the chief interest which the Author can hope that any will 
 find in perusing this drama, will consist in its bringing to their 
 minds the features of the stupendous glen to which it refers, he 
 may be permitted to stats, that the spot where the tower and cha- 
 pel of Halbert are supposed to be placed, is beneath the summit 
 of the great mountain Bedin ; towards which a huge gully leads, 
 or seems to lead, from the bed of the river, and where, enclosed 
 amidst the black rocks, in the darkness of which that gully is lost, 
 far above the glen may be the site of such a rude dwelling. The 
 house of Mac Ian is supposed to be — where, no doubt, it was — 
 in the lower and wider part of the glen, where, by the side of the 
 Cona, the wild myrtle grows in great profusion, about two miles 
 to the south-east of Loch Leven. In other respects, as far as vi- 
 vid impressions, not verified for some time, enabled the Author, 
 he has endeavoured to recall to the recollection of those who have 
 visited Glencoe the subsisting features of its scenery ; although he 
 cannot place implicit confidence in those impressions, when he 
 finds a writer like Pennant asserting of the glen, that " its moun- 
 tains rise on each side perpendicularly to a great height from a 
 flat narrow bottom ; so that, in many places, they seem to hang 
 over, and make approaches as they aspire towards each other." 
 To his memory, Glencoe seems not a narrow defile, as this descrip- 
 tion would import, but a huge valley between mountains of rock, 
 receding from each other till a field of air of several miles' breadth 
 lies between their summits : of which, the last time he saw it, 
 three youag eagles, rising from the coarse heather at the head of 
 the pass, near King's house, took and kept delighted possession. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 Mac Ian, Chief of the Clan of the Macdonalds of Glencoe. 
 
 John MACDOicAiiD, eldest Son of Mac Ian. 
 
 Alaster Macdonald, youngest son of Mac Ian — a youth. 
 
 Halbert Macdonald, nephew of Mac Ian — Son of a deceased 
 chief. 
 
 Henry Macdonald, younger bjsother of Halbert. 
 
 Angus, ) Old Men of the Clan of the Macdonalds of 
 
 Donald, ) Glencoe. 
 
 Capt. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, commonly called Glen- 
 LYON, Captain of a detachment of the Earl of Argyle's Regi- 
 ment. 
 
 Lindsay, an officer under Glenlyon's command. 
 
 Drummond, a Sergeant in the Regiment. 
 
 Kenneth, an Old Servant of Mac Ian. 
 
 A Catholic Priest. 
 
 Lady Macdonald, Mother of Halbert and Henry. 
 
 Helen Campbell, an Orphan protected by Lady Macdonald, 
 Niece to Glenlyon. 
 
 Clansmen, Officers, Soldiers, &c. 
 
 Scene — Glencoe, and the neighbouring banks of Loch Leveri' 
 
 Time — January^ 1689. 
 
 The first Two Acts occupy one night and the following morn- 
 ing. There is an interval of a fortnight between the action of the 
 Second and Third Acts ;— the Third, Fourth and Fifth Acts com- 
 prise the action of the three succeeding days. 
 
G L E N- C E ! 
 
 O R 
 
 THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The Hall m the House of Mac Ian, in Glencoe. 
 
 Midnight. — A turf fire burning. — Storm heard without. — John 
 Macdonald discovered sitting pensively at a table ; Alaster 
 pacing the room. 
 
 John. Let me entreat you, Alaster, to sleep ; 
 Three nights of feverish waking, at your age, 
 May spoil you for a watchman ; for your nerves, 
 Undisciplined by care, throb many hours, 
 While those of elder and sedater spirits. 
 Ruled by the time, count one. Rest those slight limbs 
 On yonder couch of heather; — I would pledge 
 My word to rouse you at the first faint tread 
 Which may announce your father, but 'twere needless ; 
 In deepest slumber it will stir your heart, 
 And rouse you to his arms. 
 
 Alas. How can I sleep ? 
 
 How can you wish that I should sleep, when night 
 Succeeds to night, and still the unconquer'd wind, 
 Laden with snow and hailstones, dashes round us. 
 As if in scorn of Highlanders, content 
 To yield the fastnesses in which it held 
 Joint empire w""^' our sires ; and still the fear 
 
176 GLENCOE : OR, [act I. 
 
 That it hath dealt its vengeance on the head 
 We love increases, — with the time o*erpast 
 For sad and shameful travel ? 
 
 John. Alaster, 
 
 I must not hear you blend those words with aught 
 Our sire resolved. You did not guess the war 
 Of fierce emotions that, within his frame 
 Unshaken, raged, as time, brought nigh the hour 
 When he must plight his faith to England's King, 
 Or to the power of unrelenting foes 
 Yield up his clansmen. While the sky was clear, 
 With wavering purpose he inclined to wait 
 His doom at home ; but when the snow-storm hurl'd 
 Its icy arrows through the hills, the woes 
 Of roofless desolation all would share 
 Shriek'd at his heart, and peril lent a show 
 Of -honour to the journey, which had else 
 Seem'd shameful ; — so he girt him to the task 
 As to a doom'd man's office. If we lose 
 All else, we will preserve our household laws; 
 Nor let the licence of these fickle times 
 Subvert the holy shelter which command 
 Of fathers, and undoubting faith of sons, 
 Rear'd for our shivering virtues. You o'erstep 
 The province of a Highland chieftain's son ; 
 You must not judge your father. 
 
 Alas. It is true, 
 
 And I submit me to your chiding : still 
 'Tis hard to own new tyranny ; to shrink 
 Before its threats ; to feel the Highland heart 
 Shrivel and die within its case, nor strike 
 One blow for ancient sovereignty and honour. 
 
 John. I grant that it is hard ; but if the blow 
 Be without hope, 'tis nobler to forbear, 
 Nor buy a glorious moment with the blood 
 Of trusting clansmen. Would you know what virtue 
 Endurance may possess, when action fails, 
 Look at our cousin Halbert ! — To your eye. 
 Whose memory reaches not his fiery boyhood, 
 He seems distino-uish'd only by that charm 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 177 
 
 Of courtesy which hearted kindness sheds 
 
 Through simplest manners, and an aspect grave 
 
 Which these huge rocks impress upon the port 
 
 Of him who loves them. You have often seen 
 
 Our father to his greeting make return 
 
 Of scoff or withering silence, which he hears 
 
 In gentlest mood ; — yet once his soul was passion'd 
 
 With wilder rage than eveii your ardent youth 
 
 Can guess ; but I err now ; for I o'erstep 
 
 An old injunction not to tell his story, 
 
 Till manhood fitted you to hear it. 
 
 Alas. Manhood ! 
 
 ^hn. I did not mean to ruffle you. Your years, 
 Though few, have been instructed by distress, 
 And I admit your title to the cares 
 And knowledge happier fortunes had deferr'd. 
 Sit then, and listen. Halbert's father once 
 With ours contested who might claim descent 
 From eldest line of ancestry, and right 
 To chieftainship and lands. Fierce conflicts held 
 T^^8 claim in doubt, tifl old Macdonald fell 
 Stricken for death; — then, conscious that his sons, 
 Halbert, the eldest-born, about your age, 
 And Henry, a slight stripling, scarcely twelve, 
 Could ill sustain the quarrel, or protect 
 Their mother in her sorrow, sent the priest 
 Who shrived him, to entreat his rival's hand 
 In peace, — with offer to resign his claims : 
 So that the blacken 'd tower in which he lay, 
 Its ruin'd chapel, the small niche of rock 
 In which they are embraced as in a chasm 
 Rent 'neath our loftiest peak by ancient storm, 
 And some scant pastures on Lock Leven's side, 
 Were ratified as Halbert's. To this pact 
 I was a witness, and the scene lives now 
 Before me. — In a room where flickering light 
 Strove through the narrow openings of huge walls, 
 On a low couch, Macdonald 's massive form 
 Lay stretch 'd ; — with folded arms our father stood 
 Awed bv the weakness of the foe so late 
 
178 GLENCOE : OR, [ACT I. 
 
 His equal; the expiring warrior raised 
 
 His head, and catcliing from the' eager looks 
 
 Of the wan lady wiio had wiped the dew 
 
 Of anguish from his forehead, argument 
 
 To quell all scruple, solemnly rehearsed 
 
 The terms, and, as his dying prayer, implored 
 
 Halbert to keep them. 
 
 Alas. So he yielded ? 
 
 John. No ; 
 
 One flush of crimson from the hair which curl'd 
 Crisply around his brows, sufFus'd his face 
 And throat outspread with rage ; — he slowly raised 
 His dirk; and, though the agony which swell'd 
 His heaving breast prevented speech, we read 
 In his dilated nostril, eyes that flash'd 
 With fire that ansvver'd to the uplifted steel. 
 And lips wide-parted for the sounds which strove 
 In vain to reach their avenue, a vow 
 Of never-resting warfare ; — so he stood 
 Rigid as marble, of his mother's face 
 Turn'd on him from her knees — of the wild fear 
 Which struck his gamesome brother sad, — of all 
 Unconscious. While we waited for his words, 
 Another voic^ from the deep shade that gloom'd 
 Beyond the death-bed, came ; — and midst it, stood 
 The squalid figure of a woman, wrought 
 Beyond the natural stature as she stretched 
 Her wither'd finger towards the youth, and spoke— 
 " Halbert, obey ! The hour which sees thee rule 
 O'er the Macdonalds of Glencoe shall bring 
 Terror and death.'''' — Then glided from the room. 
 He did not start, but as his ears drank in 
 The sounds, his colour vanish 'd from his face ; 
 The light forsook his eyes ; his nerveless hand 
 Released the dirk ; he sank on trembling knees 
 Beside the couch, and with a child's soft voice 
 Said, " I obey" — and bow'd his head to take 
 His father's blessing, who fell back and died 
 When he had murmur'd it. The youth arose 
 Sedate, and, turning to his mother, said, 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 179 
 
 " I live for you." Since then he has remain'd 
 What you have known liim. 
 
 Alas. What was she who wrought 
 
 This awful change? 
 
 John. Have you not heard of Moina ? 
 
 Although she has not since that day been seen 
 Within our vale, her awful figure glared 
 On the remotest infancy of men 
 Who now are reckoned old. Her age alone 
 Would make the obscurest thread of human life 
 Drawn out, through many births and deaths of Hope, 
 A thing to tremble at ; — 'tis said she gazed 
 On that best piece of heavenly workmanship — 
 Our Mary's beauty, when the shrivell'd Queen 
 Of England foully shatter'd it; some crime 
 Or mighty sorrow now forgotten drew 
 Her steps into deep solitude. Preserved 
 By her majestic bearing from the grasp 
 Of law, she owns the power to pierce the veil 
 Of mortal vision ; — the sole tie she knows 
 To this world is a kindred with our race, 
 From which she sprung ; — yet only giant griefs 
 Borne or foreshadowed have the power to stir 
 Her dull affections, or to invite her steps 
 From the rude hovel where she dwells alone 
 Far on the mountain plain, within the round 
 Of stones which point Death's ancient victories 
 O'er nameless heroes. Whether earnest thought 
 And long communion with the hills whose moan 
 Foretells the tempest, taught her first to break 
 The bondage of the Present, or worse aid 
 Hath given her might, I cannot tell ; pray Heaven 
 That you may never cross her ! 
 
 AJas. Her strange words 
 
 Fell lightly on the youngest son, whose acts 
 Of boyish prowess wrought in frolic mood 
 I once admired ;~has anything been heard 
 Of that gay scapegrace ? 
 
 John. No ; — he could not broolf 
 
 The dullness of his home, though not uncheer'd 
 
ISO GLENCOE : OR, [aCT I, 
 
 By female grace ; for there the lovely child 
 
 Of brave Hugh Campoell, Avhom Macdonald loved, 
 
 Spite of the hatred that he bore his clan, 
 
 Has, from the upeuing of her youth's first blossom 
 
 Found shelter ; — and no fairer Scotland boasts 
 
 Than Helen Campbell. If young Henry lives, 
 
 Be sure you'll find him on the sunny side 
 
 Of Fortune's favour. — -Hark ! The Cona's roar ! 
 
 It bursts the icy chains which long have held it, 
 
 And riots in its freedom. 
 
 Alas. 'Twill destroy 
 
 The slender bridge below us. Should our Father 
 Approach that way ! — I will not linger thus. 
 
 John. He bade me wait him here. Ho ! Kenneth ! 
 {calling.) Run 
 
 Enter Kenneth. 
 Swift to the bridge, it may be yours to save 
 Your chief. [^2Y Kenneth. 
 
 His journey will not lie that way. 
 Yet horrors thicken round us. 'Mid the roar 
 Methinks I hear a step — it comes — alas ! 
 'Tis not Mac lan's. 
 
 Enter Halbert Macdonald. 
 
 Halbert, I have scarce 
 The power to bid you welcome as I ought; 
 We are sad watchers for our sire's return. 
 And almost blame the footsteps of a friend 
 Which might be his. 
 
 Hal. I came to ask of him ; — 
 
 For having cross'd him on Loch Leven's shore 
 Three nights ago, scarce two miles hence, I heard 
 With wonder the report which found its way 
 To our lone dwelling but to-night, that still 
 He was abroad. 
 
 Alas. Are you assured 'twas he ? 
 
 Did he address you ? 
 
 Hal. Alaster, you know 
 
 How rarely he will grace me with a word; 
 But this is not a season for a thought, 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. Igl 
 
 Save of his peril. I had made my way, 
 
 Breasting the hurricane, in hope to lead 
 
 Our herd to shelter ere the night should add 
 
 Dark terrors to the storm ; in blackening mist 
 
 I saw a mantle flicker : then the hairs 
 
 Of a white head, which stream'd along the wave 
 
 Of flying vapour ; swift I ran to aid 
 
 Some aged wanderer's steps, and cried aloud. 
 
 He fled before me, till my fleeter limbs 
 
 O'ertook him ; then he faced me ; — 'twas your father ! 
 
 A look, in which strong anguish baffled scorn, 
 
 He fix'd upon me ; waved his arm aloft, 
 
 In action that forbade pursuit, and took 
 
 The* pathway to Loch Etive. I believed 
 
 He only wish'd to shun me, and that done, 
 
 He would turn homeward. 
 
 Alas. If indeed 'twas he, 
 
 And not a dreadful shadow of his mould : 
 He fears to meet the faces of his friends 
 After his oath to William. 
 
 Hal. If he lives. 
 
 That oath is past ; and being past, dear cousin. 
 Let it not prompt a word which may add pangs 
 To a brave spirit's shame. At earliest dawn 
 I'll search each cavern'd nook within our glen, 
 Nor leave a crevice which the smallest rill 
 Has hollo w'd, unexplored. I know them well : 
 So haply I may find the reverend chief 
 Crouch 'd in some narrow cave, — his stately head 
 In resignation bow'd upon his staff'. 
 And waiting, without struggle, the last chill 
 Of slowly freezing death ; — may lead him home, 
 And win one cordial pressure of his hand, 
 To speak he owns me true. 
 
 John. A footstep I — hush ! 
 
 Enter Angus. 
 
 John, Angus at such an hour ! 
 
 Angus. A fearful summons 
 
 From a shrill voice, betvveen the tempest's gusts, 
 Call'd me to meet my chief. 
 16 
 
182 glencoe: oh, [act i. 
 
 John. Would he were here! 
 
 He comes even now \listening\. No. 
 
 Enter Donald. 
 
 John. This is terrible ! 
 
 Donald. Is not Mac Ian here ? I came to meet him ; 
 Housed from my bed by such a piercing cry 
 As rarely syllables a human name ! 
 
 John. You hear ! 
 
 Other old Clansmen enter. 
 
 John. I ask not why you come : I know 
 
 Some mortal tidings linger on the storm, 
 And ye are here to share them. Let them come : 
 We can but die ! 
 
 Hal. Heaven fit us to endure ! 
 
 John. Another step ; I know it well ; — 't is his I 
 Pray you withdraw awhile ; but go not hence. 
 
 [Halbert and the Clansmen retire to the end of the room. 
 
 Enter Mac Ian. 
 
 Mac I. Still watching ? — you too, Alaster ? What 
 care 
 My absence must have brought you ! My dear sons, 
 Do not despise your father, who returns 
 The subject of King William. 
 
 John. All you do 
 
 Must have our reverence. Let me bring you wine. 
 
 Mac I. No ; it would choke me. I must drain no 
 The goblet to assuage the patriot glow [more 
 
 Of love and pride ; I may not drink to Him 
 Whose ancestry my own revered ; and wine 
 Were poison to me now. 
 
 Alas. Is all then past? 
 
 Mac 1. It is ; and sad as was the task, the way 
 Was worthy of its end. When through deep snow 
 I reach'd Fort- William, nerved to take the oath 
 Before the General, — I was told his office 
 Did not allow him lo record it: thence 
 I was compell'd to struggle through the storm 
 To Inverary, where the Sheriff deign'd, 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 183 
 
 Although beyond the appointed time, to seal 
 The degradation of our race. I pass'd 
 Within two miles of this beloved home, 
 And dared not turn to it. 
 
 Hal. [speaking to Angus behind']. 'Twas there I met him. 
 
 Mac L Who spoke ? Is he who track'd me in the 
 Come as a spy, upon my sad return, [storm 
 
 To gaze upon my sorrow ? Let him face me ! 
 
 Hal. [coming forward.] I came not to offend you. 
 
 John. No ; — he came 
 
 In terror for your safety. 
 
 Mac I. Said he so ? 
 
 Nay^ Halbert, look yourself; scant powers are left 
 To grace the seat you wait for, yet my son 
 Shall fill it after me. Declare your wish 
 To rend it from us ; — 'twere a nobler course 
 Than that you follow. 
 
 Hal. Sir, you do me wrong; 
 
 I boast no virtue when I claim content 
 With that which you have left me ; — would not change 
 My naked turret, in its mountain hold, 
 Reach'd by the path along whose rugged steeps 
 Discord and envy climb not, for the fields 
 Rich Inverary in its scornful groves 
 Embosoms ; and to me the mouldering walls 
 Of its small chapel we^ar the glory yet 
 Of consecration which they took from prayers 
 Of the first teachers, though a thousand storms 
 Have drench 'd and shaken them. Forgive me, sir : 
 I have a patrimony which forbids 
 Envy of yours. 
 
 Mac I. You hear — he taunts me now; — 
 
 Do you believe that show of meekness cheats 
 A soldier's eye ? — that we esteem your thoughts 
 Subdued to habits of a herdsman's life, 
 And all the passion and the pride of youth 
 In these o'ercome ? 
 
 Hal. I strive to conquer them, 
 
 And not in vain. You think that' strange. If day 
 Illumed the glen, I'd show you, from your door, . 
 
184 GLENcoE : OR, [act I. 
 
 A shapeless rocij:, which, thence observed, presents 
 
 No mark to give it preference o'er the mass 
 
 Of mountain ruin ; yet from upward gaze 
 
 Of the slow traveller, as he drags his steps 
 
 Through yon dark pass, it shuts the mighty gorge 
 
 Above with all its buttresses ; its lake, 
 
 Black with huge shadows ; and its jagged heights, 
 
 Which tempt the arrowy lightning from its track 
 
 To sport with kindred terrors. So, by grace 
 
 Of Heaven, each common object we regard 
 
 With steadiness, can veil the dark abodes 
 
 Of terrible Remembrance at whose side 
 
 Fierce Passions slumber, and supply to Hope 
 
 The place of airiest pinnacles it shades. 
 
 Thus, sir, it is with me. 
 
 John. * Beheve it, father; 
 
 Indeed 't is true. 
 
 Mac I. Perhaps I do you wrong; 
 
 We'll speak of this to-morrow, when I meet 
 The eldest clansmen, and with shame, enforce 
 Their new allegiance. 
 
 John. They await you now. 
 
 Mac I. Here ? — I must face them ; — tell them to 
 approach. 
 [Mac Ian takes his seat ; — John beckons the old Clansmen, 
 who surround it. 
 
 Max I. I have cold welcome for you, friends ; you 
 To share the wreck of the Macdonalds. I, [come 
 
 The most unhappy of the race, have been 
 To make the final sacrifice. I felt 
 Resistance, with our deaths, would glut the hate 
 Of Scottish minions bribed by England's gold ; 
 
 And I have sworn relate it for me, John, 
 
 I cannot tell it ! 
 
 John. To secure your lives 
 
 My father perill'd his ; — and yesternight, 
 At Inverary, pledged our faith to William. 
 
 Enter Kenneth wildly. 
 Ken. Too late ! too late ! 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 185 
 
 Hal. What mean those awful words ? 
 
 Is all this anguish vain ? 
 
 Ken. [seeing Mac Ian.] No, he is safe ! 
 Why start ye — though the bridge is swept away, 
 Our chief's unharm'd. 
 
 Hal. And thus you welcome him, 
 
 With words which freeze the soul ! You meant no ill ; 
 Yet death is in your words. 
 
 Ken. \knjeeling to Mac Ian.] Forgive me. 
 
 Mac I. Rise ; 
 
 I'm arm'd for any ill, unless it fall 
 On these, my life's last comforts. 
 
 • [Looking on John and Alaster, 
 
 Hal. Sir, farewell ! 
 
 When peril comes — as come it wijl — regard 
 The meanest clansman's life less cheap than his 
 Whose loyalty you wrong. [Exit H albert. 
 
 Mac I. [to the Clansmen.] Good night, my friends. 
 
 [Exeunt Kenneth and Clansmen. 
 Come near me, children ; — I can scarcely bear 
 To look into your faces. You forgive me ? 
 
 John. Forgive ! We honour and revere you. Bless us ! 
 
 [John and Alaster kneel, one on each side of Mac Ian's 
 chair. He lays his hands on their heads. 
 
 Mac I. There ; — we are knotted now to live or die. 
 
 [The Drop Scene falls. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene L — The Hall of Halberfs Tower. Time — Daybreak, 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald with a Letter, followed hy Drummond, 
 in the uniform of the Earl of Ar gyle's Regiment. 
 
 Lady M. Thanks for your pains. Let me devoui again 
 The precious characters. [Reads.^ " I come, dear mother 
 Raised to high favour and command, to take 
 My quarters in your vale." The morn's faint light 
 Had scarce enabled eyes less glad than mine 
 16^^ 
 
186 GLENcoE : OR, [act II. 
 
 To read ; — they are dazzled now. [To the Soldier.] Pray 
 We have poor entertainment to bestow, [you go in : 
 
 But our best cheer is ^''ours. 
 
 Drum. I must return 
 
 Upon the instant ; shall I bear your answer ? 
 
 Lady M. There is no need ; he speeds ; his eager 
 If I may judge it by my own, will add [wish, 
 
 Wings to his swiftness. Yet a moment stay ; 
 Know you the writer of these lines, my son, — 
 Is he of gallant port ? 
 
 Sol. Our regiment's pride, 
 
 And first in favour of Glenlyon. 
 
 Lady M. Take 
 
 A happy mother's thanks. [Exit Soldier. 
 
 I shall behold 
 A hero whom I parted from a child ; 
 Trace in his lineaments the hints which gave 
 Sweet promise of his manhood ; shall enjoy 
 In one rich hour the pleasures which are spread 
 Through years to her who watches the degrees 
 Of youth's expanding brightness. Where is Halbert ? 
 Where Helen ? She will laugh with wildest glee 
 To find her little playmate a plumed soldier, 
 And share his mirth. No gaiety like his 
 Has cheer'd her since he left us. She is here. 
 Enter Helen Campbell. 
 
 Helen. So early raised to meet the morning's chill ? 
 
 Lady M. I feel no chill ; the ecstacy within me 
 Clothes all without with summer; you shall share 
 In joy which seldom visits these old walls. 
 
 Helen. O say not so ; — there's not a day but bears 
 Its blessing on its light. If Nature doles 
 Her gifts with sparing hand, their rareness sheds 
 Endearments her most bounteous mood withholds 
 From greenest valleys. The pure rill which casts 
 Its thread of snow-like lustre o'er the rock, 
 Which seems to pierce the azure sky, connects 
 The thoughts of earth with heaven, while mightier floods 
 Roar of dark passions. The rare sunbeam wins 
 For a most slight existence human care, 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 187 
 
 While it invests some marble heap with gleams 
 Of palaced visions. If the tufts of broom 
 Where Fancy weaves a chain of gold, appear, 
 On nearer visitation, thinly strewn, 
 Each looks a separate bower, and offers shade 
 To its own group of fairies. The prized harebell 
 Wastes not its dawning azure on a bank 
 Rough and confused with loveliness, but wears 
 The modest story of its gentle life 
 On leaves that love has tended ; nay, the heath, 
 Which, slowly from a stinted root, unfolds 
 Pale lilac blossoms, — image of a maid 
 Rear*ll in a solitude like this, — is bless'd 
 Instead of sharing with a million flowers 
 One radiant flush, — in offering its faint bloom 
 To loving eyes. Say not again, dear lady, 
 That Joy but seldom visits these old walls. 
 
 Lady M. Not while they shelter you, my lovely child ; 
 But new Joy waits us ; you have not forgotten 
 Our careless Henry ; 
 
 Helen. No ! — forgotten Henry ! 
 
 But he has long forgotten us ; no message 
 Has told us of his welfare, since he found us 
 Too sad for his companions. 
 
 Lady M. Pardon in him. 
 
 As I do, young ambition's upward gaze, 
 Which, fixed upon the future, cannot turn 
 To glance upon the distant and the past. 
 
 Hele?i. Is it indeed so, madam? 
 
 Lady M. You are grave now — 
 
 You who are joyous in our weariest days 
 Be glad ; for Henry will this day return 
 To charm us with his merriment. 
 
 Helen. To-day ? 
 
 Henry return to-day ! Speak once again 
 That blessed news. 
 
 Lady M. He comes to-day, upraised 
 
 In \rgyle's regiment to command, and graced 
 With favour of Glenlyon. 
 
 Helen. Of my uncle ? 
 
188 GLENCOE ; OR, [ACT I. 
 
 I think of him unseen, as a stern soldier 
 Who, living to obey and to command, 
 Allows no impulses but these which guide 
 Along the rocky, strait, untinted channel, 
 That discipline has hewn. If Henry wins 
 Favour from him, he'll win the hearts of all. 
 Comes he alone ? 
 
 Lady M. His troop is quarter'd with us ; 
 
 To taste in peace our humble Highland fare. 
 And feel our Highland welcome. But I long 
 For Halbert's presence ; though he does not love 
 The clansmen of Argyle, he must rejoice 
 In Henry's fortune. 
 
 Helen. He has not return'd 
 
 Since yestere^en, he left us to inquire 
 The issue of Mac lan's journey. 
 
 Lady M. You 
 
 Alarm me : — not return'd ? 
 
 Helen. Fear not for Halbert; 
 
 You know he loves to wander at all hours, 
 And, ever present to himself, will rule 
 His course in safety. Is that he ? The step 
 Is hurried , yet it should be his. 
 Enter Halbert, greatly agitated; — Throws himself into a seat. 
 
 Lady M. My son, 
 
 What ails you ? Speak ! 
 
 Hal. I will — soon — presently ; 
 
 Ha ! Mother ! Helen ! safe ; — thank Heaven ! Has 
 To-night appall'd you ? [nothing 
 
 Lady M. Nothing. 
 
 Hal. That is strange. 
 
 Lady M What has befellen us ? Is Mac Ian dead ? 
 
 Hal. No ; he survives ; he has only lost the thing 
 Which makes life precious ! — Ruin yawns for all — 
 Poor fated clansmen ! I have heard again 
 Old Moina's voice. 
 
 Lady M. Her voice who spake when death — • 
 
 Hal. (laying his hand on her arm). Mother ! 
 
 Lady M. He shivers as with ague. Speak, my son' 
 
 Hal. Yes — it is over now. — I'll tell you all, 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 189 
 
 As far as words can tell it. As I left 
 
 Mac lan's door, and walk'd in mist, which clung 
 
 Around me like a shroud, that voice shriek'd forth 
 
 Close at mine ear, " The Hour is nigh !" — Each cliff, 
 
 Pillar, and cavern, echo'd back the words, 
 
 Till they appear'd to fill the glen with sound. 
 
 As floods from thousand streams might deluge it. 
 
 'Twas no delusion ; surely as you hear 
 
 My voice, I heard them. 
 
 hady M. You have mused my son, 
 
 In dismal solitude on our old tales 
 Till each wild pass is haunted, and the wind, 
 Struggling within a mountain gully, moans 
 Or shrieks with prophecy. 
 
 Hal. No ! — It transfix'd me 
 
 As with an arrow, — when it sunk, still night 
 Held its breath, waiting terrors ! 'Neath the moon 
 Our three huge mountain bulwarks stood in light, 
 Strange, solemn, spectral ; — not as if they tower'd 
 Majestic into heaven, but hoar and bow'd 
 Beneath the weight of centuries ; and each 
 Sent forth a sound as of a Sfiant's sig-h : 
 Then, from their feet the mists arising, grew 
 To shapes resembling human, till I trac'd, 
 Dimly reveal'd among the ghastly train, 
 Familiar forms of living clansmen, dress'd 
 In vestments of the tomb ; — they glided on, 
 While strains of martial music from afar 
 Mock'd their sad flight — 
 \A distant band heard playing " The Campbells are coming.''* 
 
 I hear that music now, — 
 The same — the* same — Do you not hear it, Helen ? 
 Mother ? 
 
 Helen. I hear a lively strain which speaks 
 Approaching soldiers, who'll make winter bright 
 And fill our vale with gladness. 
 
 Hal. There is death 
 
 In those blithe sounds ; — I know them now ; — the tune 
 Which wakes the shallow heart of false Argyle, 
 Hollow and cruel ever. 
 
190 GLENCOE : OR, [ACT II. 
 
 Helen. Surely there's one 
 
 Who owns that clan, you would not spurn ! 
 
 Hal. " Sweet girl! 
 
 Your beauty, early sever'd from its stem. 
 And planted in an honest soil, retains 
 No vestige of its origin. \^The music is heard approaching . 
 
 Yet nearer ! 
 Look not on me with those beseeching eyes ; [To Helen. 
 I will enjoy it ; His a gallant strain : 
 See, Helen, how you mould me; — I can smile now. 
 
 Helen. And you shall smile ; while you have been 
 enthrall'd 
 By dismal fancies, we have heard sweet news 
 Of our long-sigh'd-for Henry. 
 
 Hal. Of my brother ? 
 
 Shall we embrace him soon ? 
 
 Helen. We hope to-day. 
 
 Hal. Then I will cast all sadness from my thoughts, 
 And own these portents idle ; — my fair brother, 
 Who in staid manhood made me feel a child, 
 While I instructed him with tiny arm 
 To brave the torrent to its whirling pool 
 O'er rocky ledge descending ! I am a boy 
 Again in thinking of it. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald in the dress of an officer of the Earl 
 of Ar gyle's regiment ; Halbert starts and stands apart ; 
 Lady Macdonald eagerly embraces Henry. 
 
 Lady M. O, most welcome ! 
 
 Hal. [apart.] A soldier of Argyle ! a purchased slave 
 To his poor country's foes ! Would he had lain, 
 In all the glory of his youth, a corpse,. 
 Or I had died first ! 
 
 Helen {laying her hand im.ploringly on Halbert's). 
 Halbert, speak to him. 
 
 Hal. Yes ; — I'll no-t dash that bonnet from his brow ; 
 Kight, right — I'll speak to him. My brother ! 
 
 [Henry embraces Halbert, who receives him coldly. 
 
 Hen. Stiff 
 
 And melancholy grown ! These rugged walls 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 191 
 
 Have shed their sullen gloom into your nature, 
 And made my welcome cold. 
 
 Hal. These walls are sacred — 
 
 Fit home for honest poverty ; 'twere wel) 
 If you had never left them. 
 
 Hen. [approaching Helen.] They contain 
 One form of radiant loveliness ; — is this 
 My some-time playmate Helen ? You are silent ; 
 YoQ do not bid me welcome. 
 
 Helen. Welcome, Henry? 
 
 It is because my heart's too full of welcome 
 To breathe its joy in words. 
 
 Hai'. [apart.'] So fond ! so free ! 
 
 This stripling will engage the care of all 
 Within my little world ; — for shame, the thought 
 Is selfish anH most base ; I must suppress it. — [Aloud. 
 You'll spend some time, I hope, in these poor walls, 
 And teach us to be gay? 
 
 Henry. Our regiment mean 
 
 To teach your clan the finest of all lessons — 
 The art of spending life. We hope to raise 
 Strange echoes of delight among your mountains. 
 Let your old men prepare their choicest tales 
 Of ancient chiefs ; your lads their sinews brace 
 For noontide games and midnight dances ; bid 
 Your maidens' hearts be stout, for we shall lay 
 Fair siege to some of them. Your mansion, brother, 
 Will not be colder, if you'll deign to share 
 A soldier's purse 
 
 [Henry offers a purse to Halbert, who is about to dash 
 it on the ground., hut restrains his passion; pauses and 
 returns it. They speak apart from Lady Macdonald 
 and Helen. 
 
 Hal. Remove it from my sight, 
 
 Lest it provoke my curse upon the gold. 
 Which, having tempted Scotland's peers to sell 
 Their country, pass'd through treacherous hands to yours. 
 
 Henry. Through treacherous hands ! I will not hear 
 that said : 
 Expend your spleen on me ; but speak a word 
 
192 GLENCOE : OR, [ACT II. 
 
 Disgraceful to the officers I serve, 
 
 And though my brother, you shall answer it. 
 
 Hah You make me smile now. I will answer it. 
 I must have speedy speech with you, where none 
 Shall break upon us. 
 
 Henry. At my earliest leisure. 
 
 [To Lady Macdonald. 
 Mother, my duty calls me hence awhile, 
 To hear my captain's orders. Helen, soon 
 I shall reclaim old friendship. 
 
 [^Apart to Haleert.] In an hour, 
 Upon Loch Leven's margin, 'neath the shade 
 Of the first rock, expect me. 
 
 Hal. Do not fail. [Exit Henry. 
 
 Lady M. Come, Helen, let us see the tower prepared 
 To feast our noble soldier and his friends. 
 Is he not all a mother's hope could image ? 
 
 Helen. He is indeed ; — at first he scarcely knew me ; 
 Changed as he is, I had not mistaken him 
 Among a host of heroes ! 
 
 [Exeunt Helen and Lady Macdonald. 
 
 Hal. [alone.'] Down, wild rage ! 
 
 These rebel passions ought to fright me more 
 Than night's grim phantoms. I had deem'd my temper 
 Proof 'gainst all griefs, all injuries, all scorns ; 
 But this— my brother self-sold to our foes ! — 
 I must be conqueror still. 
 
 [Looks out."] 
 
 O, blessed star 
 Of morning, do you wait upon that cone 
 Whose whiteness mocks our marble, to renew 
 The calm thy fields of azure can impart 
 To thoughts of earth's brief struggles ? Linger yet ! 
 It sinks ; 'tis gone ; its peace is in my soul. 
 
 [Eocit Halbert. 
 
SCENE II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 193 
 
 Scene II. — A Room in a Highland House. 
 
 Sentinels seen pacing before the Windoios — Glenlyon Lind- 
 say, and other Officers of Ar gyle's Regiment. 
 
 Glen. These are rough quarters for the winter, friends ; 
 But let us make them jocund — find the huts 
 Which yield the warmest shelter from the snow, 
 And let our stores of wine and brandy pay 
 The courtesies we win. 'Tis easy service. 
 
 Lind. Is nothing more intended here than feasting ? 
 
 Glen. Lindsay, I fairi would hope not ; we shall wait 
 For final orders, Now, our duty's plain. — 
 To win the favour of our hosts ; — if more 
 Should be commanded, 'twill be ours to do it. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Glen. You know this glen, MacdonaJd : to your 
 I leave disposal of the soldiers ; place them [charge 
 
 Where frankest entertainment will be given. 
 
 Henry. The entertainment may be coarse, but given 
 With heartiest welcome. 1 shall grant a boon 
 To every clansman in whose hut I place 
 One of my gallant comrades. 
 
 Glen. See all lodged, 
 
 And then report to me. This hut be mine. 
 
 Henry. May I retire ? I must redeem a pledge 
 Within this hour. 
 
 Glen. An old acquaintance found? 
 
 You have my leave, sir. {Exit Henry. 
 
 Some one knocks ; attend ; 
 Who waits ? 
 
 Enter Drummond. 
 
 Drum. Mac lan's sons are at the door, 
 And ask to see you. 
 
 Glen. Ha ! — of course admit them. 
 
 [Exit Drummond. 
 The children of the stubborn chief who dared 
 Accuse our loftiest nobles that they filch'd 
 The money sent to buy the peace of Scotland ! 
 I'd thank him for a brawl. Your pleasure with me ? 
 17 
 
194 GLENCOE : OR [act II 
 
 Enter John and Alaster 
 
 John. We bear Mac lan's greeting to Glenlyon ; 
 He trusts you come in friendship, now his oath 
 To William is recorded. 
 
 Glen. How ! recorded ? 
 
 Alas. Yes ; by the Sheriff of Argyle. We tell 
 The fact, not boast it. 
 
 Glen. You speak boldly, sir ; 
 
 A spirited young Highlander, i' faith : 
 Let me enlist you in our troop ; we teach 
 Some manners that you lack. 
 
 Alas. And let me lack them; 
 
 Ere I endure your teaching. 
 
 John. Alaster ! 
 
 Forbear. 
 
 Glen. 0, let him speak. The oath is taken ? 
 
 John. It is : though the appointed day had pass'd, 
 Yet, as mere error and the storm produced 
 The slight delay, it was forgiven. 
 
 Glen. Well ! 
 
 Your father acted prudently at last : 
 Within you'll taste some wine, and tell me how 
 His journey prosper 'd 
 
 John. Sir, you have n.ot made 
 
 Reply to my sole question ; — do you come 
 To visit us in friendship ? 
 
 Glen. Friendship ? Surely — 
 
 Fort-William's garrison, too small to hold 
 Our regiment, sends us beggars to request 
 Your hospitable greetings. 
 
 John. They are yours, 
 
 And all our glen can offer shall attend them. 
 
 Glen. Your hand. [To Alaster.] And yours ; — 
 you'll be a soldier yet. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III.— The Banks of Loch Leven. 
 
 Enter Henry. 
 
 Henry. First at the place ! — the morning's chill ; — 
 The quarrel were with other than the man [I wish 
 
SCENE II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 195 
 
 I wait for ; but of all the useless things 
 Which form the business of the world, regret 
 Is the most idle. Yet, I wish 'twere past. — 
 He's here. 
 
 Enter Halbert. 
 
 Henry. I have but little time to spend, 
 
 And the air freezes. Let's to work at once. 
 Select your ground, sir. 
 
 • Hal. Do you mock me, Henry, 
 
 With this vain show of courage ? 
 
 Henry. I came hither 
 
 Upoij your summons, as I thought, to end 
 A soldier's quarrel with a soldier's sword ; 
 But if you can restrain the bitter speech 
 To which I must not listen, I prefer 
 To take your hand in kindness — As you will. 
 
 Hal. Did I not feel that I have power to pierce 
 Through that cold bravery to the heart within it, 
 I might relieve you of some frolic blood 
 Which makes the front of your rebellion proud. 
 
 Henry. Rebellion ! 
 
 Hal. Have you not rebell'd at once 
 
 Against your clan, your country, and the tomb 
 Of a brave father who embraced in you 
 The darling of his age ? Behold his sword 
 You now defy, — your plaything while he talk'd 
 Of noble daring, till you paused in sport 
 To hear and weep. Its sight should wound you now 
 More than its edge could. What would be his grief 
 Could he behold you in that hated dress, 
 Link'd to the foes of Scotland ! 0, my brother, 
 Why did you this ? 
 
 Henry. If you intend to ask 
 
 What urged me to take service with Argyle, 
 I answer you at once. — My eagle spirit, 
 Which wanted air to soar in ; frank disdain {}) 
 Of dull existence, which had faintly gleam'd, 
 Like yonder Serpent-river, through dark rocks 
 Which bury it ; ambition for a lot 
 Which places life and death upon a cast, 
 
1 96 GLENCOE : OR, [act II. 
 
 And makes the loser glorious. Not for me 
 The sullen pride of mouldering battlements, 
 Or rites of tottering chapels. 
 
 Hal. Is it so? 
 
 Is ancient sanctity, which sheds its grace 
 Upon the infant's sportiveness, and cleaves 
 To the old warrior when he falls, a thing 
 To mock at ? But I wrong you there : I know 
 Your heart then spoke not. I could cherish pride 
 "In your gay valour, if a generous cause 
 Had won its aid ; — nay, deeming Scotland lost, 
 If you had sought your fortune at the court 
 Of England, I had borne it ; — but to join 
 With these domestic traitors — men who know 
 The rights they sell; who understand the ties 
 Which, through the wastes of centuries, cement 
 Our clans, and give the sacred cord one life 
 Of reverential love ; for whom these hills 
 On the clear mirror of their childhood cast 
 Great shadows : who have caught their martial rage 
 From deeds of Wallace and of Bruce, and learn'd 
 To temper and enrage it with the sense 
 Of suffering beauty, which from Mary's fate 
 Gleams through dim years ; and who conspire to crush 
 These memories in men's souls, and call the void 
 They make there, freedom — is a deed to weep for ! 
 
 Henry. I may not hear the comrades whom I love 
 Thu-s slander'd. 
 
 Hal. You shall hear me while I speak 
 
 Of that which nearly touches you, as one 
 Of a small — branded — poor — illustrious race ; 
 Who boast no fertile pastures ; no broad lake (^) 
 Studded with island woods, which makes the soul 
 Effeminate with richness, like the scenes 
 In which the bafHed Campbells hid their shame. 
 And scorned their distant foes. Our boasts are few. 
 Yet great ; — a stream which thunders from its throne, 
 As when its roar was mingled with the voice 
 Of eldest song, from age to age retain'd 
 In human hearts ; — wild myrtles which preserve 
 
SCENE III.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 197 
 
 Their board of perfume for the dying hour 
 
 When rudeness crushes them ; — rocks which no flowers 
 
 Of earth adorn, but, in themselves austere, 
 
 Receive The Beautiful direct from Heaven, 
 
 Which forces them to wear it, — shows their tops 
 
 Refined with air ; compels their darkest steeps 
 
 Reluctant to reflect the noontide sun 
 
 In sheeted splendour — wreathes around them clouds 
 
 In glorious retinue, which, while they float 
 
 Slowly, or rest beneath the sable heights, 
 
 In their brief fleecy loveliness grow proud 
 
 To wait upon The Lasting. — And the right 
 
 Tcr walk this glen with head erect, you sold 
 
 For bounties which Argyle could ofTer I 
 
 Henry. No — 
 
 Not for base lucre ! — for a soldier's life, 
 Whose virtue 's careless valour, unperplex'd 
 With aught beyond the watchword. If your cause 
 Were vital, I would freely draw my sword 
 To serve it ; but where lives it ? 
 
 Hal. In the soul 
 
 Which, ruffled by no hope to see it tower 
 Again in this world, cherishes it still 
 In its own deathless and unsullied home ; — 
 That soul which, swelling from the mould of one 
 Obscure as I, can grasp the stubborn forms 
 Of this great vale, and bend them to its use, 
 Until their stateliest attributes invest 
 With pillar'd majesty the freeborn thoughts 
 Which shall survive them. Even these rocks confess 
 Change and decay ; show where the ancient storm 
 Rent their grey sides, and, from their iron hearts, 
 Unrivetted huge masses for its sport, 
 And left their splinters to attest a power 
 Greater than they ; — but mighty truths like those 
 On which our slighted cause was based, shall hold 
 Their seat in the clear spirit which disdains 
 To sully or resign them, undisturb'd 
 By change or death : — they are eternal, Henry ! 
 Henry. If we were now the lords of this domain 
 17* 
 
198 GLENCOE : OR, [act II- 
 
 You love so well, 1 mig-lit have own'd a tie 
 To bind me to your wishes ; you resign'd them ; 
 What can these mountains yield to one who owns 
 Mac Ian as their lord ? 
 
 Hal. The power to bear 
 
 That bitter taunt — which yet 1 feel ! — O Henry ! 
 Was that well said ? 
 
 Henry. You should not have provoked it 
 
 By slanders on my officers and friends. 
 
 Hal. Your friends ! Poor youth ! companionship in 
 mirth 
 Ungraced by thought, makes shallow friends ; and yours 
 Are worse than shallow — they are false. 
 
 Henry, Nay, this 
 
 I will not bear ; draw, sir ! 
 
 [Henry draws his sword, and rushes on H albert, who 
 dashes it from his hand. 
 
 Hal. Take up your sword ; 
 
 See how a bad cause makes a brave arm weak 
 Blush not ; 't was but in pastime. 
 
 Henry. Kill me now, 
 
 And walk the hills in pride ! 
 
 Hal. Too plain I see 
 
 Our paths diverge ; but let us not forget 
 That we have trod life's early way together, 
 Hand clasp'd in hand. How proud was I to watch 
 Your youngest darings, when I saw you dive 
 To the deep bottom of the lake beneath us, 
 Nor draw one breath till in delight you rose 
 To laugh above it ; when I traced the crags 
 By which with lightest footstep you approach'd 
 The eaglet's bed ; and when you slipp'd, yet knew 
 No paleness, bore you in my trembling arms 
 To yon black ridge, from which in the cold thaw 
 The snow wreath melts, as infancy's pure thoughts 
 Have vanish'd from your soul. 
 
 He?iry. No — H albert — no ! 
 
 Grnceless I shook them from it, but they crowd 
 Here at your voice. 
 
 Hal. And you will not forget us ? 
 
SCENE III.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 199 
 
 Go, then, where fortune calls you, loved and praised — 
 
 Let not the ribald licence of a camp 
 
 Insult the griefs of Scotland. 'Mid the brave 
 
 Be bravest; and when honours wait your grasp, 
 
 Allow a moment's absence to your heart 
 
 While it recalls one lonely tower, whose doors 
 
 Would open to you were you beggar'd, shamed, 
 
 Forsaken ; — and beside whose once-loved hearth 
 
 Your praises shall awaken joy more fervent 
 
 Than nobler friends can guess at. Ah ! you weep — 
 
 My own true brother still ! 
 
 Henry. I am ! I am ! [ They embrace. 
 
 Enter Helen. 
 
 Helen. Forgive me that I follow'd you. I saw 
 Both ruffled at your parting ; but my fears 
 Never suggested an event so sad. 
 As that two brothers, from whose swords alone 
 We hope protection, should direct their points 
 Against each other's lives. 
 
 Henry. You must not leave 
 
 This spot with the belief that Halbert shares 
 The blame of this encounter ; mine the fault, 
 Be mine the shame. 
 
 Hal. I will not let you pour 
 
 On Helen's ear one word of self-reproach ; 
 You'll not believe him shamed ? 
 
 Helen. Indeed, I will not ; 
 
 I feel that shame and Henry are disjoin 'd 
 As yonder summits. [To Henry. 
 
 I must teach your steps 
 The pleasant pathways which we used to tread 
 In old sweet times. \_Takes his hand. 
 
 Hal. [Apart.] It cannot be she means 
 
 Other than sisterly regard in this ; 
 'Tis but the frankness of a courteous heart. 
 No more — no more. 
 
 Helen. [ To Halbert.] Will you not walk with us ? 
 I have a hand for you, too. 
 
 Hal. Nothinof else ? 
 
200 GLENCOE : OR, [ACT III. 
 
 Helen. Yes ; and a heart — a grateful one. So solemn ! 
 Nay, you must smile ; this is a day of joy, 
 And shall be cloudless. Hark ! the music calls us. 
 
 [^Martial Music at a distance. 
 Hal. Those strains again ! Forgive me. Let us home. 
 
 [Ji^xeunt. 
 
 ACT 111.=^ 
 
 Scene 1. — The Quarters of Glenlyon. 
 Eiiter Glenlyon and Lindsay. 
 
 Glen. Are you not weary of your quarters, Lindsay ? 
 
 Lind. Not I ; — I care but little where I lodge. 
 
 Glen. These fifteen days among the snows will nerve 
 Our soldiers to encounter a campaign 
 In coldest winter. Do they bear it bravely ? 
 
 Lind. Bear it 1 The rogues exult in it ! Rude plenty 
 And loosen'd discipline make rich amends 
 For rations duly meted, and warm shelter, 
 The garrison affords. Our savage hosts 
 Have open'd their rock-cellar'd stores of ale, 
 And of the luscious juice from honey press'd, 
 Which the wild bee from scanty heather wins 
 To make us jocund ! laughter and the dance 
 Have shaken many a hovel. May I ask 
 If we are destined long to dally thus ? 
 
 Glen. I know not, Lindsay ; what our mission was 
 You heard; — I scarcely dare remember it; 
 I, who have ever held my conduct true 
 To orders, as my pistol to my touch, 
 And feel these fastnesses are unsubdued 
 While a fierce clan like this retains its show 
 Of unity and ancient right, recoil 
 From that which we may execute. But thus 
 
 * A fortnight is supposed to elapse between the Second and 
 Third Acts. 
 
SCENE III.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 201 
 
 We must not loiter; every social cup — 
 
 Each pressure of the hand, will make our work 
 
 Harder and darker. I will send at once 
 
 To Duncanson ; perchance Mac lan's oath 
 
 Accepted by the Sheriff, though so late, 
 
 May save him. There's a mournful courtesy 
 
 In this old chief, crest-fall'n but self-sustain'd, 
 
 Which urges me to wish it. ♦ 
 
 Lind. He is crafty, 
 
 But yet most daring : never will the Highlands 
 Know peace while he infests them. 
 
 Glen, {writing.'] Wound not him 
 
 With the sharp tongue on whom your sword may deal ; 
 I will despatch Macdonald : can you tell 
 Where I may find him? 
 
 Lind. No : but I am sure 
 
 He's pleasantly engaged ; for I have met him 
 Often, since we have lodged here, with a lady 
 Gracing his arm, whom a slight glance approves 
 Of rarest beauty. But he comes to make 
 His own report. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Glen. 'Tis Vvell, sir, you have come: 
 
 You have but seldom sought my orders here ; 
 And but that I am told you have fair plea 
 For such remissness, I might censure it. 
 At present I require to know the name 
 And station of the damsel w^ho has drawn 
 So true an officer from duty. 
 
 Henry. Sir, 
 
 My home was in this glen, and I live here 
 Beneath my brother's roof. 
 
 Glen, Nay, no evasion ; 
 
 Tell me at once to whom I owe your absence, 
 Or hope no favour. 
 
 Henry. If I had not fear'd 
 
 The old estrangement which the father caus'd 
 Might touch the daughter, I had long ere this 
 Sought for her your protection. She is the child 
 
202 GLENCOE : OR, [act hi. 
 
 Of your slain brother, from your love so long 
 Unhappily divided. 
 
 Glen. I knew not 
 
 That he had left a daughter. 
 
 Henry. When he died, 
 
 Y^ou were abroad ; and she, an infant, found 
 A sire in mine. 
 
 Glen. Poor girl, to find her here 
 
 At such a moment ! — ^but she shall be cared for. 
 
 Henry. Cared for ! 
 
 Glen. Yes — cared for ; — said I something strange 
 Is 't strange that I should care for her ? To business : — • 
 You are swift of foot, and know the jagged paths 
 Among these hills. iGives a letter. 
 
 Bear this to Duncanson, 
 And bring his answer with your best despatch : 
 When you return, we '11 talk of my fair niece. 
 The partner of your rambles. I'll find means 
 To honour and reward you. Lindsay, come. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — A Room in Halbert's Tower. 
 Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen. 
 
 Lady M. Helen, how grave you are ! While winter 
 stretch'd 
 Its dull eventless length, your ready mirth 
 Streak'd the dark hours with gaiety, which else 
 Had beei'i unvaried gloom. Now that our snows • 
 Glitter with dancing feathers and bright plaids, 
 Our echoes learn to laugh, and our rough paths 
 Are cheer'd by tales of love, you droop and sigh ! 
 Does any secret grief afflict my child? 
 
 Helen. Grief, Madam ! 'Tis the pensiveness of joy, 
 Too deep for language, too serene for mirth. 
 Makes me seem sad. To meet in manhood's bloom 
 The gallant playmate of my childhood ; propp'd 
 On the same arm to tread the same wild paths ; 
 And in sweet fellowship of memories, feel 
 Hour after hour of long-forgotten pleasure 
 Start forth in sunny vividness to break 
 
SCENE II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 203 
 
 The mist of heavy years, — is joy so hearted 
 That it can find no colour in the range 
 Of gladness to express it ; — so accepts 
 A solemn hue from grief. 
 
 Lady M. Have you then felt 
 
 Those years so heavy ; you have help'd to make 
 So light to me ? Your lodging has been bleak, 
 Your entertainment scanty ; yet your youth 
 Has been so furnish'd with rich thoughts, so raised 
 To lofty contemplations, that my pride 
 In the bright valour of my younger son 
 Cannot prevent my wonder that the hours 
 In which my Halbert with delighted care 
 Has minister'd to your soul's noblest thirsts, 
 Should be thus soon forgotten. 
 
 Helen. Not forgotten. 
 
 Nor have the years been heavy : when I said so, 
 I was most thankless. Pardon me, sweet lady, 
 But when with Henry, I recall old times, 
 I look across the intervening years 
 As a low vale in which fair pastures lie 
 Unseen, to gaze upon a sunlit bank 
 On which my childhood sported, and which grows 
 Near as I watch it. If his nature seems 
 Unsoften'd by reflection, — like a rock 
 Which draws no nurture from the rains, nor drinks 
 The sunbeam in that lights it, yet sustains 
 A plume of heather, — it is crown'd with grace 
 Which wins the heart it shelters. 
 
 Lady M. My dear Halbert, 
 
 How will you bear this ? 
 
 Heleii. Can it be, you fear 
 
 My joy in Henry's presence should afflict 
 A soul so great as Halbert's ? 
 
 Lady M. I do fear it; — 
 
 I know it ; I shudder at it ; can yon doubt 
 That Halbert loves you ? 
 
 Helen. Do not thmk it, madam, 
 
 For mercy's sake, if you intend by love 
 Something beyond a brother's fondest care 
 
204 GLENCOE : OR, [act III. 
 
 For a lone sister ! You are silent ; turn 
 Your face away ; your bosom throbs as grief 
 Or terror shook it. Am I grown a curse 
 To you — to him ? O whither shall I fly ? 
 Where seek for counsel ? Dearest lady, save me I 
 
 [Helen throws herself on Lady Macdonald's neck. 
 
 Lady M. Rest there, beloved fair one ; I wilt try 
 To temper this to Halbert ; — yet I fear — 
 He's bending towards us. 
 
 Helen. Hide me from his sight, 
 
 I cannot bear it now. 
 
 Lady M. [leading Helen to the side.] That way ; I'll 
 break 
 This sorrow to him, if I can ; — be calm. [Exit Helen. 
 
 Enter Halbert from the opposite side, 
 
 Hal. Was not that Helen ? Wherefore should she 
 Upop my coming ? But her absence serves [fly 
 
 My purpose now. I came to talk of her, 
 
 Lady M. Of her ? Sit down ; you look fatigued and 
 I'll fetch a draught of wine. [ill ; 
 
 Hal. Fatigued and ill ! 
 
 My looks belie me, then; I scarce have felt 
 So fresh in spirit since I was a boy, 
 And the sweet theme I come to speak of needs 
 No wine to make it joyous. It is marriage. 
 
 Lady M. My son ! 
 
 Hal. Why, you look pale ; I thought my wish 
 
 Was also yours. I know a common mother, 
 Who, having lost her husband in her prime, 
 Seeks from a grateful son some slight return 
 For love that watch'd his infancy, may feel 
 Her fortune cruel, when a new regard. 
 With all the greediness of passion, fills 
 The bosom w^here till then affection reign'd, 
 Which answer'd, though it could not rival, hers : 
 But we have lived so long as equal friends 
 With love absorbins: duty, that I thought, 
 And I still think, increase of joy to me 
 Must bring delight to you. I could have lived 
 
SCENE II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 235 
 
 Content, as we have lived, and still prolong 
 The lingering ecstacy of fearless hope, 
 But that the licence of the time, . which brings 
 A band of loose companions to our glen, 
 Requires that I should claim a husband's right 
 To shield its lovely orphan. 
 
 Lady M. You mean — Helen ? 
 
 Hal. Whom else could I intend ? If you have been 
 Perplex'd by fear that I might mean to seek 
 Another's hand, no wonder you grew pale. 
 But still you tremble ; — what is this ? 
 
 Lady M. My son, 
 
 Ar^ you assured she loves you ? 
 
 Hal. As assured 
 
 As of my love for her. In both, one wish, 
 As she has glided into womanhood. 
 Has grown with equal progress. 
 
 Lady M. Have you sought 
 
 Of her, if she esteems it thus ? 
 
 Hal, ' By words ? 
 
 No ; for I never doubted it : as soon 
 Should I have ask'd you if a mother's love 
 Watch'd o'er my nature's frailties. If sweet hopes 
 Dawning at once on each ; if gentle strifes 
 To be the yielder of each little joy 
 Which chance provided ; if her looks upraised 
 In tearful thankfulness lor each small boon 
 Which, nothing to the giver, seem'd excess 
 To her ; if poverty endured for years 
 Together in this valley, — do not breathe 
 Of mutual love, I have no stronger proofs 
 To warrant my assurance. Mother, speak ! 
 Do you know anything which shows all this 
 A baseless dream? 
 
 Lady M. My Halbert, you have quell'd 
 
 Fierce passion by strong virtue ; — use 3'"our strength — 
 Nay, do not start thus ; I do not affirm 
 With certainty you are deceived, but tremble 
 Lest the expressions of a thankful heart 
 And gracious disposition should assume 
 18 
 
206 CrLENCOE : OR, [act III 
 
 A colour they possess not, to an eye 
 Bent fondly over them. 
 
 Hal. It cannot be ; 
 
 A thousand, and a thousand times, I've read 
 Her inmost soul : and you that rack me thus 
 With doubt have read it with me. Before Heaven, 
 I summon you to witness ! In the gloom 
 Of winter's dismal evening, while I strove 
 To melt the icy burthen of the hours 
 By knightly stories, and rehearsed the fate 
 Of some high maiden's passion, self-sustain'd 
 Through years of solitary hope, or crown'd 
 In death with triumph, have you not observed, 
 As fading embers threw a sudden gleam 
 Upon her beauty, that its gaze was fix'd 
 On the rapt speaker, with a force that told 
 How she could lavish such a love on him ? 
 
 Lady M. I have ; and then I fancied that she loved you. 
 
 Hal. Fancied ! Good mother, is that emptiest sound 
 The comfort that you offer ? Is my heart 
 Fit sport for fancy ? Fancied ! — 'twas as clear 
 As it were written in the book of Truth 
 By a celestial penman ! Answer me. 
 Once more ! when hurricanes have rock'd these walls. 
 And dash'd upon our wondering ears the roar 
 Of the far sea, exulting that its wastes 
 Were populous with death-pangs ; — as my arms 
 Enfolding each, grew tighter with the sense 
 Of feebleness to save ; — have you. not known 
 Her looks, beyond the power of language, speak 
 In resolute content, how sweet it were 
 To die so link'd together? 
 
 Lady M. I have mark'd it. 
 
 Hal. Then wherefore do you torture me with doubt ? 
 What can you know, what guess, that you can weigh 
 Against these proofs; 1 
 
 Lady M. Be firm ; she loves another. 
 
 Hal. 'Tis false ! — and yet, great Heaven ! your qui- 
 Attest it. And you knew this ? You partook [vering lips 
 Her counsels — His! — .Yes, His! — vou know the name 
 
SCENE II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 207 
 
 Which I must curse — of him I must pursue 
 Through deserts and through cities till I search 
 His bosom with my sword. Tell me the name — 
 Now — now — delay not. 
 
 Lady M. [laying her hand on his arm]. Halbert, 
 pause, and look 
 Into your mother's face, and then reply 
 To her ; — does she deserve this of her son ? 
 
 Hal. I am a wretch indeed to use command 
 "Where I should humbly sue. — Sit, sit, dear mother, 
 Assume your old authority. 
 
 [ Wildly places her in a chair and falls on his knees beside it. 
 
 I kneel 
 There — meekly as you taught me — when you raised 
 For the first time my little hands to God ; 
 A child, obedient and infirm as then, 
 I do implore you, tell your wretched son 
 What he must sufier. 
 
 Lady. M. Are you arm'd to bear it ? 
 
 Hal. For all things. 
 
 Lad.y M. Henry — 
 
 Hal. {starting up.] My own brother ! Now 
 
 I see it clear ; remember how she gazed 
 With fondness on him, when he came array 'd 
 In a slave's tinsel ; how she seized his hand 
 When I had dash'd the insulting weapon from it, 
 Aim'd at my life. Would I had slain him there ! 
 
 Lady M. What fearful vision crosses you ? Slay 
 Henry — 
 Him whom you moulded ! From too thoughtless youth 
 Strike him to all that Death reveals, and bid 
 Your twice-stabb'd mother gaze upon her sons — 
 The murder'd and the guilty ! 
 
 Hal. Guilty?— yes! 
 
 1 am — I thought it — felt as if my arm 
 Could act it ; — utter'd it. Look not upon me ! 
 Earth hide me ! — cover me ! 
 
 [Sinks into a seat and covers his face with his hands. 
 
 Lady M. I fear'd this outbreak 
 
 Of fire subdaed, not quench'd. My noble son, 
 
208 GLENcoE : OR, [act III. 
 
 As you have wrestled with the fiends, and queU'd them, 
 Be victor now ! 
 
 Hal. [rising.] Are you assured she loves him ? 
 It may be but a girlish dream, — her eye 
 Enchanted for a moment by the grace 
 Of youth — her fancy dazzled by the show 
 Of military prowess, — while her soul 
 In its serene and inmost temple waits 
 Untouch'd and true. 'Tis so. 
 
 Lady M Would that it were ! 
 
 Hal. I will awake her spirit from its trance ; 
 
 I'll meet her face to face, and soul to soul, 
 And so be satisfied. 
 
 Lady M. You shall do so, 
 
 If you will rule your passion. 
 
 Hal. I am calm, 
 
 Docile as infancy ; I'll seek her now. 
 
 Lady M. No ; — I will bring her on the instant. Think 
 That she has not a refuge in the world 
 Except in our protecting care, and feel 
 How gently she should be entreated ! Rage 
 From you would kill her. 
 
 Hal. Rage — to her ? All weak 
 
 In passion as I am, you need not fear it. 
 
 Lady M. Ill trust you. [Exit Lady M. 
 
 Hal. [alone.] She wdll come with her sweet voice 
 
 To charm away this mist. Alas ! I'm rude 
 And moody ; he is gay, and quick of spirit. 
 And light of heart. Why did I let them roam 
 So often ? Yet it cannot be ; her heart 
 Could not be caught by gauds ; — so pure ; so arm'd — 
 So true ! 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Henry. What, musing ! Let me not disturb 
 Deep meditation. Is my mother near, 
 Or Helen ? 
 
 Hal. Helen ! 
 
 Henry. I have scarce a word 
 
 To spend with either ; though I would not pass 
 STour tower unvisited, I'm bound to speed, 
 
SCENE II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 209 
 
 For I am bearer of an urgent letter 
 To Duncanson. 
 
 Hal. To Duncanson? The foe 
 
 Most bitter to our clan ; — and you dare bring it 
 Here ; — to your father's hall — where you were train'd 
 To clansman's duty ; — which you left in scorn 
 And now revisit in a lackey's guise 
 To boast a cursed mission ; yield it to me, 
 Traitor and slave ! or I will tear it from you. 
 
 Henry. Stand off ! — what frenzy rules you ? Let me 
 Hal. There's treachery in it — and in you. [pass. 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen. 
 
 Lady M. Youic word ! 
 
 [Halbert, at sight of Helen pauses and shrinks back. 
 
 Hal. [To Henry.] Forgive me ; I am ill at ease, 
 and scarce 
 Know what I utter. 
 
 Henry. I shall think of this 
 
 Bat as brain-sickness which your studies bring ; 
 Heaven keep me from them ! I must not delay 
 A moment more : — farewell ; — I shall return 
 This way to-morrow, and shall hope to find 
 Your grave philosopher in saner mood. [^j?«^ Henry 
 
 Lady M. I leave you ; recollect your word. 
 
 Hal. I will. 
 
 [Exit Lady M 
 
 Hal. Be not alarm'd sweet Helen ; if your looks, 
 Turn'd gently on me, had not power to still 
 The tempest my frail nature has endured, 
 The issue of this moment would command 
 All passion to deep silence, while I ask — 
 If my scathed life enrich'd by yours may spread 
 Its branches in the sunshine, or shrink up 
 In withering solitude, a sapless thing, 
 Till welcome death shall break it ? 
 
 Helen. Do not think 
 
 Your noble nature can require a reed 
 So weak as mine to prop it : virtue's power 
 Which shields it as a breastplate, will not yield 
 18* 
 
210 GLENCOE : OR, [ACT IU 
 
 To transient sorrow which a thankless girl 
 Can hurl against it. 
 
 Hal. Little do you guess 
 
 The heart you praise : 'tis true, among the rocks 
 I sought for constancy, and day by day 
 It grew ; but then within its hardening frame 
 One exquisite affection took its root. 
 And strengthened in its marble ; — if yoa tear 
 That living plant, with thousand fibres thence, 
 You break up all ; — my struggles are in vain. 
 And I am ruin ! 
 
 Helen. What a lot is mine I 
 
 I, who would rather perish than requite 
 Long years of kindness with one throb of pain. 
 Must make that soul a wreck ! 
 
 Hal. No, Helen, no — 
 
 It is a dream ; your heart is mine ; mine only, — 
 I'll read it here : — you have not pledg'd its faith 
 To any other ? 
 
 Hele7i. No ; not yet. 
 
 Hal. Thank God!— 
 
 Then you are mine ; we have been betrothed for years. 
 
 Helen. Would it had been so ! 
 
 Hal. You desire it? 
 
 Helen. Yes ; 
 
 I then had kept such watch upon my soul, 
 As had not let the shadow of a fancy 
 Fall on your image there ; but not a word 
 Of courtship pass'd between us. 
 
 Hal. Not a word, 
 
 Words are for lighter loves, that spread their films 
 Of glossy threads, which while the air's serene 
 Hang gracefully, and sparkle in the sun 
 Of fortune, or reflect the fainter beams 
 Which moonlight fancy sheds ; but ours — yes, ours !— 
 Was woven with the toughest yarn of life. 
 For it was blended with the noblest things 
 We lived for; with the majesties of old; 
 The sable train of mighty griefs o'erarched 
 By Time's deep shadows ; with the fate of kings,— 
 
SCENE II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 2H 
 
 A glorious dynasty — for ever crush'd 
 
 With the great sentiments which made them strong 
 
 In the affections of mankind; with grief 
 
 For rock-enthroned Scotland ; with poor fortune 
 
 Shared cheerfully ; with high resolves ; with thoughts 
 
 Of death ; and with the hopes that cannot die. 
 
 Helen. Hold ! If you rend oblivion's slender veil 
 Thus fearfully, and spectres of the past 
 Glide o'er my startled spirit, it will fail 
 In reason. 
 
 Hal. No ; — it shall cast off this cloud, 
 And retain no impression save of things 
 WSich last for ever ; — for to such our love 
 Has been allied. How often have we stood, 
 Clasp'd on yon terrace by columnar rocks, 
 Upon whose jagged orifice the sky 
 With its few stars seem'd pillar'd, and have felt 
 Our earthly fortunes, bounded like the gorge 
 That held us, had an avenue beyond. 
 Like that we gazed on ; and when summer-eve 
 Has tempted us to wander on the bank 
 Of glory-tinged Loch-Leven, till the sea 
 Open'd beyond the mountains, and the thoughts 
 Of limitless expanse were render'd sweet 
 By crowding memories of delicious hoars 
 Sooth'd by its murmur, we have own'd and bless'd 
 The Presence of Eternity and Home ! 
 
 Helen. What shall I do ? 
 
 Hal. Hear me while I invoke 
 
 The spirit of one moment to attest, 
 In the great eye of love-approving Heaven, 
 We are each other's. When a fragile bark 
 Convey'd our little household to partake 
 The blessing that yet lingers o'er the shrine 
 Of desolate lona, the faint breath 
 Of evening wafted us through cluster'd piles 
 Of gently-moulded columns, which the sea — 
 Softening from tenderest green to foam more white 
 Than snow-wreaths on a marble ridge — illumed 
 As 't would dissolve and . win them ; — till a cave, 
 
212 GLENcoE : OR, [act m. 
 
 The glorious work of angel architects 
 
 Sent on commission to the sacred isle, 
 
 From which, as from a fountain, God's own light 
 
 Stream'd o'er dark Europe — in its fretted span 
 
 Embraced us. — Pedestals of glistening black 
 
 Rose, as if waiting for the airy tread 
 
 Of some enraptured seraph who might pause 
 
 To see blue Ocean through the sculptured ribs 
 
 Of the tall arch- way's curve, delight to lend 
 
 His vastness to the lovely. We were charm'd, (^) 
 
 Not awe-struck ; — for the Beautiful was there 
 
 Triumphant in its palace. As we gazed 
 
 Rapt and enamour'd, our small vessel struck 
 
 The cavern's side, and by a shock which seem'd 
 
 The last that we should suffer, you were thrown 
 
 Upon my neck — You clasp'd me then ; — and shared 
 
 One thought of love and heaven ! 
 
 Helen. Am I indeed 
 
 Faithless, yet knew it not ? my soul's perplex'd ; — 
 Distracted. Whither shall it turn ? — To you ! — 
 Be you its arbiter. Of you I ask, 
 In your own clear simplicity of heart, 
 Did you believe me yours ? 
 
 Hal. Yes ; and you are : 
 
 With this sweet token I assure you mine, 
 
 [Places a ring on her finger. 
 In sight of angels. Bless you ! 
 
 Helen. It is done. 
 
 I dare not, cannot, tear this ring away. 
 
 Hal. It but denotes what heaven has register'd; 
 We must not pause : when will you that this pledge 
 Shall be redeem'd ? To-morrow ? 
 
 Helen. Give me time 
 
 To speak with — to call in my scatter'd thoughts. 
 
 Hal. The next day, then ? 
 
 Helen. Direct it as you please ; 
 
 Would I were worthy ! — pray you leave me now. 
 
 Hal. I go to share my blessedness with her 
 Whose love you share with me ; — our mother, Helen. 
 
 ]_Exit Halbert. 
 
SCENE L.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 213 
 
 Helen. Where am I ? — can I wake from this strange 
 dream ? [ Observes the ring. 
 
 No — 'tis all real — the good and brave alone 
 Have power upon the spirits of the guiltless 
 To raise or mar them. that I had met 
 All evil things — oppression — slander — hate — 
 How would I have defied them ? 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald. 
 
 Lady M. Is it true 
 
 You have consented to wed Halbert ? 
 
 Helen. Yes. 
 
 I^dy M. My child, come to my heart. How 's this ? 
 You are pale 
 And cold as marbl'e. 
 
 Helen. You may well regard 
 
 My purpose with distrust ; — but when I take 
 The noble Halbert's hand, I bid adieu 
 To every recollection which might touch 
 My duty to him. I shall never muse 
 On childhood's pleasures, innocent no more 
 For me ; — shall never tread the shelter'd paths 
 Which I have lately lingered in ; nor think 
 Upon a soldier's glories ; nor repeat 
 One name — ^^O never ! — I am very weak, 
 I did not know how weak. The Virgin aid me ! 
 
 Lady M. She will, my lovely one. 
 
 Helen. I'll seek the chapel, 
 
 If these poor limbs will bear me. — On your bosom 
 I must seek strength first, mother. 
 
 Lady M. Weep there, child, 
 
 And may Heaven's arms encircle you as mine. [Exeunt. 
 
214 GLENcoE : OR, [act IV. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — The Tower of Halbert. — Time — Noon of the 
 Sixteenth Day. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Henry. Will no one answer me ? — I call in vain ; — 
 And must pass on without that glimpse of Helen 
 I came to win. [Kenneth crosses the stage. 
 
 Stay, fellow ; where's my mother ? 
 
 Ken. She is preparing for our master's wedding, 
 Of which our notice has been short ; 'twas yesterday 
 Appointed for to-morrow. 
 
 Henry. Halbert's wedding ! — 
 
 That's pleasant news, though strange ; — to think my 
 My solemn brother, all this time in love ! [brother, 
 He has not trusted me : so I must ask 
 Of you, the fair one's name. 
 
 Ken. Name ! — surely, sir, 
 
 It could be none but Helen Campbell. 
 
 Henry. Cease 
 
 Your jesting with that name, or with my sword 
 I'll try to teach you manners. 
 
 Ken. Jesting, sir ! — 
 
 We have little jesting here ; — although these walls 
 Will ring for once, when our dear master gives them 
 So kind a mistress. 
 
 Henry. Dare you mock me ? No ! — 
 
 I will not vent my rage on you ; — if this 
 Is not a jest, tell your kind mistress, — here 
 Henry Macdonald waits her ! — bid her come 
 And answer to him as she cares for life. 
 
 Ken. I'll seek her, sir, 
 
 Henry. Begone. [Exit Kenneth. 
 
 Can this be true? 
 Yes ; that poor knave would never dare invent 
 A tale so monstrous ; — but it passes all 
 My lightest comrades tell of woman's falsehood. 
 How will they scoff at me — duped and despised 
 By this meek mountain damsel — cast asid-e 
 
SCENE I.J THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 215 
 
 For a dull dreamer of the rocks, who dared 
 
 To school me with his wisdom ! Wise, indeed, 
 
 The lady has become, to leave my hopes 
 
 Of wealth and glory for these crazy walls, 
 
 And solemn disputations. 'Tis a jest, 
 
 r faith a merry one ! — her uncle, too. 
 
 My captain and my friend ! — Most generous brother, 
 
 I '11 mar your triumph yet. 
 
 Enter Helen. 
 
 you are here ! 
 
 Helen. Yes ; on a summons couch'd in terms more 
 Than needful : I had come on lightest word [harsh 
 That "spoke your wish to see me. 
 
 Henry. Do you talk 
 
 To me of harshness ! Look me in the face — 
 Look steadily upon me, and reply 
 To one brief questian. 
 [Henry seizes Helen's arm; she looks at him and turns away. 
 
 Henry. No ! — I need not ask it. 
 
 Yet hold one moment ; is the bridegroom here ^ 
 I long to wish him joy. 
 
 Helen. , Accuse him not : 
 
 He's innocent of all. 
 
 Henry. O, doubtless ! Still 
 
 'T was churlish not to bid me to his bridal ; 
 What is the happy hour ? 
 
 Helen. Sunrise. 
 
 Henry. Until 
 
 That hour, farewell. 
 
 Helen. O leave me not in scorn ! 
 
 But as you are a brave man, to the weak 
 Be merciful. Although no plighted faith 
 Is broken with you, I will not allow 
 A base self-flattery, to conceal the truth 
 That I have wrong'd you — stolen delightful hours, 
 And cherish'd gentle vanities, with heart 
 Too joyous to revert to holy ties 
 Long woven, though unrecognized, which link'd 
 My destiny to Halbert's. He has shown 
 That, though I knew it not, my life is his, 
 
216 GfLENCOE : OR, [ACT IV. 
 
 And I have own'd his title to the hand 
 This ring enriches. 
 
 Henry. And for dreams like this 
 
 You have repell'd a soldier's love, which you, 
 And only you, could have secured — released him 
 From the sole anchor of a giddy youth, 
 (So you described it,) and yourself from share 
 Of his young fortunes, and the ample dowry 
 With which your uncle would have graced th^m ! 
 
 Helen. Stain not 
 
 The few sad moments we may spend with thought 
 So little worthy. Had my lot been cast 
 With yours, I should have cared for no success 
 Save as it made you happier ; sought no pleasures 
 But the perennial gaiety your mirth 
 Had shed around me ; — deem'd no travel long 
 If shared with — Hold ! — Accept my last farewell ; — 
 May that undaunted courage which breathes in you 
 Inspire you to attain the airiest heights 
 Of glory, and upon them carve a name 
 Resplendent to all soldiers ; — let your frankness 
 Dispel all envy from it ; may your feasts, 
 Crown 'd with delights, be shared by noblest friends ; 
 And from your towering fortunes, may the cloud 
 Which a slight woman's wayward folly wreathed 
 Around them, in soft sunshine melt at once, 
 And, with her, be forgotten ! So Heaven speed you ! 
 
 [Exit Helen. 
 
 Henry. Yes ; it will speed me ; for she loves me still ! 
 But I forget my duty; — this despatch 
 Is waited for by him who shall avenge me ! 
 
 [Exit Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Scene II. — The Quarters of Glenlyon. 
 Glenlyon— Lindsay. 
 Glen. Surely 'tis time Macdonald had return 'd : 
 The readiest, boldest, and most constant officer 
 I ever yet promoted ; — some mischance 
 Or treachery must delay him. Treachery — faugh ! 
 'Tis an ill word, but may import no more 
 
SCENE II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 217 
 
 Than a safe means of justice, which rash force 
 Might frustrate. Would our messenger were here ! 
 
 Lind. Indeed time presses ; we shall bear the charge 
 Of weakness for the doubt which has delay'd 
 The course prescribed. 
 
 Glen. He was not wont to loiter. 
 
 If the command be clear, my course is plain ; 
 And yet — he comes — could I suspect he knew 
 The tidings that he bears, his face would tell them. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 €rlen. How's this ? your looks are wild ; have you 
 Should shake a brave man's constancy? [met aught 
 
 Henry. I crave 
 
 Your pardon ; 't is a private grief unnerves me ; 
 The lovely lady who has shared my walks, 
 And, as I proudly thought, return'd the love 
 She had inspired in me, at sunrise weds 
 My elder brother. What of that ? My duty 
 Has been perform'd ; — and Duncanson's reply 
 Is here. [Henry delivers a letter to Glenlyon. 
 
 Glen. Thanks; — wait within; — refresh yourself; — 
 I'll deal with your fair rebel. [Eocit Henry Macdonald. 
 
 My hand trembles 
 As it has never trembled ; — I shall mar 
 The seal — open and read the letter. — 
 [Lindsay opens and reads the letter.] Well ? 
 
 Lind. Il is as I expected and you fear'd ; 
 The order is to guard the avenues (^) 
 To-night ; and ere the morning, put in force 
 The royal ordinance on the lives of all 
 Below the age of seventy. 
 
 Glen. Would that death 
 
 Had met me first ! 
 
 Lind. Yet you will not withhold 
 
 Obedience ? 
 
 Glen. Never ; — I am shaken now, 
 
 B'v: you shall find me constant to obey 
 The simple law of duty : none shall live. 
 
 Lind. Think of these clansmen as of rebels snared 
 19 
 
218 GLENCOE : OR, [ACT IV. 
 
 In treason, whom a law, disdaining forms, 
 Has sentenced : it is hard to make brave soldiers 
 Anticipate the headsman with their swords ; 
 Yet we must do our office. 
 
 Glen. Be it yours 
 
 To show the men their duty. 
 
 Lind. I will do 
 
 All you may order but I cannot range 
 The soldiers so as to prevent escape 
 Through the wild passes of these mountains ; none, 
 Unless familiar with the glen, can do this. 
 
 Glen. Call in Macdonald. lEocit Lindsay. 
 
 He shall plant the men: 
 His present passion moulds him to our will. 
 
 Re-enter Lindsay and Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Glen. [To Henry.] There is a service I would claim 
 Which, well achieved, shall humble to your feet [of you., 
 The' rival who presumes to cross your wish 
 For my alliance, and reward your love 
 With happiest fortune. 
 
 Henry. Let the service be 
 
 So full of peril that the chance of life 
 Bears but a thousandth portion of the hope 
 That death is greedy with, and I embrace it. 
 
 Glen. It lacks the peril you desire. This clan. 
 Though crouching now to William's power retains 
 Its lion fierceness. We must tame iis chiefs 
 By forcing them, in abject terras, to sue 
 For pardon — yield their hidden stores of arms — 
 And feel themselves subdued. At dawn to-morrow 
 We '11 awe them to submission, by array 
 Of soldiers, planted in each track, whose arms 
 Shall make the glen their prison. What I seek 
 Is, that at midnight, you, who know the paths. 
 Would so dispose the soldiers, that no clansman 
 Escape the vale — save by the eastern road, 
 Which Duncanson will line ; — that done, repose— 
 And dream that at the sunrise you shall see 
 Your daring rival suppliant, and my niece 
 Your wealthy bride. Will you do this ? 
 
SCENE III.] THE FATE OV THE MACDONALDS. 219 
 
 Henry. I will. 
 
 Enter Drummond. 
 
 Drum. I come to ask if I shall bid the band 
 Attend you at the feast. 
 
 Glen. What feast 
 
 Li7id. The banquet 
 
 Mac Ian gives to-day : — the hour is near. 
 
 Glen. A banquet ! that is terrible. 
 
 Lind. [Apart to Glenlyon.] Be wary ; 
 
 Eyes are upon us. 
 
 [Aloud.] You will send the band ; 
 Ali- we can do should grace our visit. 
 
 Glen. [To Drummond.] Yes: 
 
 You may retire. lExit Drummond. 
 
 [To Henry.] At dawn I will attend 
 "^our bridal ; 'twill be yours. At this night's feast 
 Beware that by no word or look you hint 
 The midnight duty or the morning's hope : 
 Be calm — as I am. [Exeunt Glenlyon and Lindsay. 
 
 Henry. [Alone.] How shall I subdue 
 The mantling sense of victory which laughs 
 And dances in my spirit ? He who dash'd 
 My good sword from my grasp shall feel he stands 
 Before his master ; chidden as I was, 
 And, for a moment, silenced, I shall rain 
 Pardon and life on him who would have stolen 
 The mistress of my soul ! She's mine ! She's mine ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene III.— Terrace before Halberfs Tower. 
 Enter Lady Macdonald and Halbert 
 
 Hal. Is she so pensive still ! 
 
 Lady M. Alas ! in vain 
 
 I watch to see some gleam of pleasure light 
 Her mournful eyes. Save that her fingers ply 
 The needle constantly, as if they wrought 
 From habit of sweet motion, you might doubt 
 If in her statue-like and silent beauty 
 The life of this world stirr'd. 
 
 Hal. If Henry broke 
 
220 GLENCOE : OR, [ACT IV. 
 
 Upon her suddenly, his harsh demeanour 
 
 Might drive the colour from her cheeks, and scare 
 
 Her thoughts from their repose. 
 
 Lady M, I cannot hope it* 
 
 She has been more serene since then. Before, 
 She would pursue her work with restless hand ; 
 Leave it and pace the room ; sit down and sigh, 
 As if her heart were breaking ; wring her hands : 
 And then — -as finding strength to chase some image 
 That madden'd her away, — toss back her head. 
 And smiling, urge her needle with more speed 
 Than at the first. But since she spoke with Henry 
 She has been calm, though sad, as one beyond 
 The reach of fear or hope ; who saw her course 
 And was resign'd to follow it. 
 
 Hal. Resign'd ! 
 
 Is that my sum of happiness? To hold 
 As in a tyrant's grasp, a lovely form 
 Subdued by its own gentleness, yet know 
 That the celestial mind defines the power 
 Of finest bonds, — and from the winning smile 
 In which fond custom wreathes the face, escapes 
 To scenes long past, or for a distant voice 
 Waits listening ! I have held the gaoler's lot 
 Far heavier than his captive's ; yet how light 
 His chains to those I must inflict and bear ! 
 
 Lady M. You wrong my lovely daughter ; — when 
 she weds. 
 Each wish, each hope, each fancy which might dim 
 The brightness of her constancy, will fly 
 For ever. Her affections have been toss'd 
 But not perverted ; as the water keeps 
 Its crystal beauty in its bed of rock. 
 Though vex'd by winds which from a cloudless sky 
 Sweep o'er high mountain tarns, her soul perplex'd 
 By contrary emotions, caught no taint. 
 Sunk or uplifted, but will settle, bright 
 As not a breath had wreath'd it. She will prove 
 With all her soul a true wife to you, Halbert, 
 Though not a blithe one. 
 
SCENE III.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 221 
 
 Hal. Do you not believe 
 
 She will be happy soon? 
 
 Lady M. ^ She will be tranquil ; 
 
 Bat if you ask me if she will enjoy 
 The happiness for which her nature 's framed, 
 I cannot veil my fears. 
 
 Hal What should I do? 
 
 I have known fearful heart-struggles ; but this 
 Makes all seem nothing. 
 
 Lady M. There is in your soul 
 
 A noble purpose. 
 
 Hal. Must I give up all, 
 
 And yet live on ? No human hope remains 
 For me if this be blasted. With the fall 
 Of the great objects which my youth revered, 
 I lost all power to mingle in the strifes 
 Of this new-modell'd world. I cannot taste 
 The sweet resources Heaven, in grace, provides 
 The love-lorn manhood ; thirst of fame in me 
 Is quench'd ; society's miscall'd delights 
 Would fret me into madness ; and bright war, 
 The glorious refuge of despair, would seem 
 A slaughterous and a mercenary trade 
 To one who has no country. If I act 
 The thought which fills your bosom, I must live 
 Loveless and hopeless. Can you ask it, mother ? 
 
 Lady M. I cannot ask it. But I saw in you 
 High resolution gathering, while I spoke 
 Of Helen's present state, and what I fear 
 'Twill be when — 
 
 Hal. [stopping her.] Speak no more. It shall not 
 I will make ready for the sacrifice. [be ; 
 
 Lady M. My noble son I Let me embrace you, proud 
 As never Roman mother in the arms 
 Of her crown'd hero. Shall I speak to Helen ? 
 
 Hal. No — not for worlds — I cannot utter yet 
 The irrevocable word. It may be still 
 That you misjudge her ; — or that she mistakes 
 Her heart's true feeling. I will wait the morn. 
 
 19*= 
 
222 GLENCOE : OR, [act IV. 
 
 E7iter Alaster Macdonald. 
 
 Alas. My father sends me with a gracious message 
 Which I rejoice to bear, though it^ confess 
 A fault in him; he offers you his hand, 
 With frank confession he has done you wrong, 
 And claims your presence at the feast he gives 
 To-day to Argyle's officers. 
 
 Hal. Dear cousin, 
 
 I am most happy in Mac lan^s love, 
 And will with earnest duty answer it ; 
 But I entreat him to excuse me now. 
 For I am busy with sick thoughts ; unfit 
 For high festivity. 
 
 Alas. I know you hate, 
 
 As I do, this submission ; but 'tis done ; 
 No courtesies can make it deeper. Hark ! 
 
 [Distant music heard. 
 The guests assemble now. 
 
 Hal. That music breathes 
 
 As when I heard it first; — in lively strain 
 It vibrates on the ear, but on my soul 
 Falls like a dirge. Some awful doom awaits 
 Our race, and thus through sounds of this world speaks 
 To the mind's ear. I will avert or share it. 
 Yes ; — I attend you. Mother, you will watch 
 Your precious charge as if on every glance 
 A life depended? I am sure you will. 
 
 [Exit Lady Macdonald. 
 Now, Alaster, I am ready for your feast. 
 
 [Exeunt Halbert and Alaster. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Hall in Mac lan^s House. — A Banquet. 
 
 Mac Ian, Angus, Donald, John Macdonald, Glenlyon, 
 Lindsay, Henry Macdonald, Officers of ArgyWs 'Regiment, 
 and Clansmen, seated. 
 
 Mac I. {rising). Once more I thank you for the grace 
 you pay 
 To a fallen chief, whose name and title live 
 As shadows of the past ; but who can taste 
 A comfort in his downfall, while brave men 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 223 
 
 Show, by their courteous action, they preserve 
 Respect for what he has been. Let us drink 
 A health to those you serve ; — the Majesties 
 Of England ; whom to death I had withstood, 
 Had hope for James's cause remain'd ; but whom, 
 That hope extinguish'd, I will frankly serve. 
 Rise, clansmen ! Drink to William and his Queen, 
 To whom we owe our duty. 
 
 Glen. We esteem 
 
 The pledge at its just value. 
 
 Mac I. I perceive 
 
 Your thoughts still wrong me. Stoutly have I fought (5) 
 Upon King James's side ; but with Dundee 
 His cause expired. I felt it when he fell, 
 Lifting his arm to wave these clansmen on, 
 To make his triumph sure. The menial slave, 
 The household traitor, who, with felon hand, 
 Stole then his noble life, destroy'd, in him, 
 A line of monarchs. While the tangled woods 
 Of Killikrankie rang with shrill delight 
 Of our victorious Highlanders, I knew 
 That we were conquer'd ; and I sheath'd my sword 
 For ever. 
 
 Angus. [Apart to Donald.] Do you mark him ! 
 
 Donald. Yes ; his life 
 
 Casts out its dying flash. He's doom'd. 
 
 Glen. You wrong 
 
 Your gallant comrades ; surely loss of one 
 Might be supplied. 
 
 Mac I. Not of a man like him. 
 
 'Tis not in multitudes of common minds 
 That by contagious impulses are sway'd, 
 Like rushes in the wind, a mighty cause 
 Can live ; but in the master mind of one 
 Who sways them. Sooner would these glorious hills 
 If crush'd to powder, with their atoms guard 
 Our glens, than million clansmen fill the place 
 Of such a chief. Would I had died with him ! 
 No more of this ; fill me some wine. [Drinks. 
 
224 GLENcoE : OF [act IV. 
 
 Enter Alaster and Halbert. • 
 
 Your leave 
 One moment. 
 
 [Mac Ian comes to Halbert, and takes his hand. 
 Mac I. Halbert, I lack words to thank 
 
 This kindness as I ought. 
 
 Hal. It is deep joy 
 
 For me to know I am at peace with all, 
 And, most of all, with you. 
 
 Mac I. 'T is very strange : 
 
 I am amazed how I could doubt your faith ; 
 A film is passing from my soul, that leaves 
 All clear within its vision. Take your place. 
 
 [Halbert and Alaster sit on the opposite side of the 
 hall to Glenlyon and Lindsay. 
 
 Mac I. [resuming his seat.] Your pardon. Let us 
 •drain another cup 
 To our chief guest, Glenlyon ; frank in war, 
 And generous in alliance. 
 
 Hal. [ To Alaster.] Watch him now ; 
 He changes ; see — his very lips are pale ; — 
 I will unmask him. 
 
 Alas. Pray, forbear. 
 
 Glen. Accept 
 
 A soldier's thanks. 
 
 Hal. [To Alaster.] His voice is choked — look now — 
 Do you not see him shiver ? 
 
 Alas. It is but fancy; 
 
 How can he hope to see us fall more low 
 Than he has sunk us ? 
 
 Mac I. [ To Glenlyon.] You must pledge me now ; — 
 Wine to Glenlyon. 
 
 [Glenlyon rises — takes the cup — puts it to his lips — and 
 hastily returns it. 
 
 Hal. He does not taste the wine, 
 
 He dares not taste it. Hold me not. 
 
 [Breaking from Alaster. 
 Glenlyon ! 
 Why did you put aside the untasted cup ? 
 Why did you change and glare ? Why is your heart — 
 
SCENE IV.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 225 
 
 Your hollow heart — shivering and shrinking now ? 
 Look on him, friends ! Mac Ian ! — Angus ! — Donald ! 
 John ! — Alaster ! Does some infernal charm 
 Delude you, that you rise not ? 
 
 [ To Glenlyon.] Answer me ! 
 What fiendish thought was yours when you withdrew 
 That goblet from your lips ? 
 
 Lind. Who 's this that dares 
 
 Insult Glenlyon ? 
 
 Hal. Parasite, I speak not 
 
 To such as you ! Behold him now ! He's silent. 
 
 Lind. In scorn. 
 [To Glenlyon.] You will not deign to make reply 
 To this coarse brawler ? Let us hence. 
 
 Glen, [addressing Mac Ian] . Farewell ! 
 
 You cannot curb the rudeness of your followers, 
 Nor I endure it. [Glenlyon and Lindsay retiring. 
 
 Hal. Let them not depart ; 
 
 Not for myself I speak, — for I shall find 
 No time so fit to die ; but for your wives — 
 Your sires — your babes — yonr all. Glenlyon ! turn, 
 If you have so much nature as to look 
 The thing you dare. 
 
 Glen, {turning.) Be brief in your demand. 
 What is your pleasure ? 
 
 Hal. That you spend three minutes 
 
 With me in the cold moonlight ; — arm'd ; — alone. 
 
 Glen. With you — a conquer'd rebel ? 
 
 Mac I. (holding Halbert). He's a guest 
 
 Beneath this roof's protection. 
 
 Hal. Let him claim 
 
 Its shelter if he dare, and I will kneel 
 And he shall trample on mo. 
 
 Lind. [To Glenlyon]. Come away ! 
 
 Alas. Dear Halbert, do not risk a life so dear 
 As yours is to my father. 
 
 Hal. Risk ray life — 
 
 Dost see him ? There is that within his breast 
 Would paralyse his arm, and make his knees 
 Tremble, and bid the stubborn soldier fall 
 
226 GLENCOE : OR, [act v.. 
 
 Half slain without the steel ;— [To Glenlyon. 
 
 I charge on you 
 Black treason — what I know not yet — but feel ; 
 Will you confess, or meet me ? 
 
 Li7id. Do not answer. 
 
 Glen. I meet you ! — Talk to me of treason ! — me 
 Who bear the lawful orders of a king ; 
 To whom you are a traitor ; — whom your race, 
 With all the hatred of their savage thoughts, 
 Abjure ; — but he shall curb them — they shall feel 
 His power is here. Your worthless life, rash fool, 
 To-night I spare ; — but if again we meet, 
 It shall be as you wish, for death. [Exeunt Glenlyon, &c. 
 
 Hal. It shall. 
 
 Mac I. [To Halbert]. I thank your generous courage, 
 With wonder on your passion. [but I look 
 
 Hal. What ! does nothing 
 
 Whisper of peril to you ? 
 
 Mac L No — my heart 
 
 Is jocund ; — stripp'd of glory, power, and name, 
 We shall be all united and at peace. 
 
 Hal. Heaven grant it ! 
 
 Alas. I would rather die to-morrow, 
 
 If I might choose, than hold the sweetest home 
 At England's mercy. 
 
 Hal. My brave cousin ! Blessings 
 
 In life and death be with you. 
 
 Mac I. Come away ; 
 
 This sadness will infect us. There's my hand 
 And my heart with it. 
 
 Alas. And mine too. 
 
 John. And mine. 
 
 Mac I. Farewell ; — no strife shall separate us more. 
 [Exeunt Mac Ian, Alaster and John 
 
 H^al. That's well ! — [Sees Henry 
 
 My brother here ? — he wakes my sou) 
 To its own sufferings. Yet we must not part thus. 
 Brother ! 
 
 Henry. What would you with me ? 
 
 Hal. I would know 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 227 
 
 We part to-night as brothers should ; you think 
 That you have cause to blame me : wait awhile, 
 And you may judge me better. 
 
 Henry. Blame you ? — No — ' 
 
 Not I — except that you forgot to bid 
 Your brother to your bridal. He'll make bold 
 To go unbidden. 
 
 Hal. Fail not ; — you may find 
 
 A blessing there you will be grateful for. 
 
 Henry. {Aside). Can he suspect my purpose ? — O, no 
 You have deserved all gratitude ; — and there [doubt 
 W*ll crown your favours. 
 
 Hal. I will take your hand ; 
 
 Tt trembles. 
 
 Henry. No ; — or if it shakes, — the night 
 Chills bitterly. It will be firm to-morrow. 
 
 [Exit Henry Macdonald, 
 
 Hal. To-morrow I — that will settle all — I'll seek 
 My mother now ; — if she is still assured 
 That Helen loves — I cannot bear the thought — 
 Silence and darkness teach me to endure it ! 
 
 [Exit Halbert Macdonald. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 S'jENE I. — A chapel adjoining Halherfs Tower, partly in ruins, 
 in which is seen the Tomb of Halberfs Father. — Morning 
 just breaking. 
 
 Enter Halbert Macdonald. 
 Hal. The hour approaches when my life's last hope 
 Will be extinguish'd ; — it is quivering now 
 Upon the verge of darkness ; — yet I feel 
 No pang — no throb. My spirit is serene, 
 As if prepared to cleave celestial air 
 To passionless delights — this calm within me 
 Has something awful. 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald. 
 Hal. Mother, wish me joy. 
 
228 GLENCOE : OR, [act v. 
 
 Lady M. Joy, Halbert ?— 
 
 Hal. Yes ; — of victory achieved 
 
 O'er the last passion which can ever rack 
 My bosom. I can bear to ask you now, 
 If any change in Helen raises doubt 
 How she will answer, when — I am not quite arm'd 
 As I have boasted. 
 
 Lady M. No ; — she scarcely raised 
 
 Her head, until her work — a bridal robe — 
 Hung dazzling on her arm ; as then she sought 
 Her chamber, I impressed one solemn kiss 
 Upon her icy brow : then as aroused 
 From stupor by poor sympathy, she threw 
 Her arms around my neck ; and whispering low, 
 But piercingly, conjured me to keep watch 
 Upon her thinkings, lest one erring wish 
 Should rise to mar her duty to her lord. 
 
 Hal. I ask no more, till in this holy place 
 Her soul shall answer mine ; too well I know 
 The issue ; yet I shrink not, nor repine. 
 
 Lady M. Your calmness frightens me ; you think of 
 
 Hal. But as a thing to sigh for, not to seek ; [death. 
 I never will forsake you for the grave. 
 Till heaven dismiss me thither. Has she slept ? 
 
 I^dy M. I know not ; but her chamber has been still 
 Until, on notice of the priest arrived, 
 She sent to pray the guidance of his arm 
 To lead her to this place. 
 
 Hal. The priest arrived! 
 
 O what a world of happiness these words 
 Should indicate. It opens now to show 
 Its glories melting into air. They come — 
 Her step is heavy ; may the heart that svi^ays it 
 Go lighter hence ! 
 
 Enter the Priest, leading Helen, in bridal attire, 
 
 Hal. {meeti7ig them). Before a solemn change 
 Shall pass on our condition, let me claim 
 One kiss, in memory of the wintry paths 
 Which we have walked with purity of heart 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 2*29 
 
 And heaven-ward aspect; — should death take. us now, 
 It had no terrors. [Kisses Helen's forehead. 
 
 Priest. Sir, your words are sad 
 
 For such an hour. Shall we begin the service ? 
 
 Hal. We wait my brother's presence 
 
 Helen. O, not his ! 
 
 I am quite ready ; let the rite proceed. 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 Hal. You are most welcome ; — we have waited for you. 
 
 Henry, [looking eagerly round.). Your pardon; alJ 
 are not assembled yet 
 *V\ihere is Glenlyon ? 
 
 Hal. Who? 
 
 Henry. The lady's uncle 
 
 He has, no doubt, approved her choice, and means 
 To grace the ceremonial. You will wait 
 His coming ? 
 
 Hal. He resign'd this lovely one 
 
 To those who knew her worth ; he shall not now 
 Infest the roof that shelters her. 
 
 Henry, [aside.'] All lost ! 
 
 What can detain him ? 
 
 Priest. Shall the rite proceed ? 
 
 Hal. I have a few momentous words to speak 
 Before the rites begin ; — to you, fair Helen, 
 1 must address them ; but \ pray my brother, 
 Whom they touch nearly, to attend. 
 
 Henry. 1 listen. 
 
 Hal. How, through sad years, the consecrated joy 
 Which seems to wait me at this hour, has dawn'd 
 And brighten'd, from its first uncertain rays 
 Along the rugged pathway of a life 
 Else unadorn'd, my passion-fever'd speech 
 Has shown ; — nor less divine the vision glows 
 Now it stands clear before me, and invites 
 To mingle heaven with earth. You cannot doubt it. 
 
 Helen. Never ; — I only wish I could deserve 
 A love like yours. 
 
 Hal. Yet ere I grasp this dream, 
 
 And make it^ nhnntom.' real ; — within these walls 
 20 
 
230 GLENCOE : OR, [act V 
 
 By both revered; — where side by side we knelt 
 
 In infantine humility, and faith 
 
 No question ruffled ; where your spirit sought 
 
 To cast from its pure mirror, each faint cloud 
 
 Which jocund thoughts might breathe, or nicest fear 
 
 Imagme to o'erspread it ; — at the tomb 
 
 Of him who watches o'er his trembling son, 
 
 At this dread crisis of his fate.; — I ask you — 
 
 Explore your heart ; and if you find a wish 
 
 That glances at another fortune, speak it ! 
 
 Helen. Have mercy on me ! 
 
 Hal. You have seen me chafed 
 
 By passion worse than aimless in a soul 
 Whose destinies are fashion'd by a Power 
 Wise, bountiful, resistless ; — and the words 
 Such frenzy dashes with its foam might seem 
 To urge that one unlike myself must prove 
 Unfit for your affection. Hear me now. 
 When calmer reason governs me ! There stands 
 One near to me in blood ; a soldier, valiant. 
 And raised above all baseness; in the bloom 
 And gladness of his youth; who loves you — not 
 Perchance as I do — but who loves you well ; — 
 You are a soldier's child ; — your noble heart 
 May from most natural impulse turn to one 
 Endow'd and graced as he is ; — if I read 
 Your wish aright ; — I'll join this hand with his,— 
 As freely as I would relinquish life 
 To succour yours. 
 
 Helen, [sinking on her knee before H albert]. Heaven 
 
 Hal. [ramn^ Helen]. 'Tis enough; [bless you ! 
 
 Now let me draw this ring away — 'tis done — 
 You'll let me wear it for a little time — 
 A very little time ? Come, Henry, — take 
 This hand, with the deep blessing of a man 
 Whose all is given with it. 
 
 [Takes Henry's hand to join it to Helen's. Henry 
 stands abstracted. 
 
 Hal. You are cold — 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 231 
 
 Your thoughts are far away ; — a blackness spreads 
 Across your face ; speak to us ! 
 
 Helen. He is stricken 
 
 With wonder at your goodness. Henry ; Love ! 
 Join me to bless your brother. 
 
 Henry. Will no bolt 
 
 From heaven fall on this head ! 
 
 Helen. His senses wander, 
 
 Scared at this sudden happiness ; — anon 
 All will be well. [ Grasps his arm. 
 
 Henry. never ! — do not gaze 
 
 ll^on me ; — Helen, touch me not ; — fly all. 
 
 Hal. Wherefore 1 From whom ? 
 
 Henry. O God! I cannot tell it. 
 
 [A confused cry heard far in the Valley below. 
 
 Hal. What cry is that ! 
 
 Lady M. The shrieks of death arise. 
 
 Henry. Not death ! 
 
 Enter Angus. 
 
 Angus. Fly for your lives ; our cherish'd guests 
 
 Have fall'n upon the clansmen wrapp'd in sleep 
 With murderous swords ; and burning hovels light 
 Their slaughterous way. 
 
 Henry. 'Tis false. 
 
 A.ngus. False ! Hark ! Behold ! 
 
 [^Another cry heard more distinctly from the Valley , and 
 the glare of distant fire seen. 
 
 Henry. O misery ! I meant not this. 
 
 Hal. You ! 
 
 Enter Al aster Macdonald, wounded. 
 
 Alas. Cousin — 
 
 Halbert — I've struggled through the ranks of death 
 Dying to cry for justice. A few moments — 
 And my poor life expended, you will bear 
 The Chieftain's sword. 
 
 Hal. Where is your Father ? 
 
 Alas. Slain. 
 
 Hal. And John ? 
 
 Alas. Both murder'd in their sleep. I cry 
 
232 &LENCOE : OS, [act ''^. 
 
 For justice on the head of him who ranged 
 
 The assassins ! Hear me ! I would kneel indeed, 
 
 But my joints stiffen. 
 
 Hal. Where's the traitor ? 
 
 Alas, [looking round, sees Henry and exclaims.] There ! 
 [Falls lifeless into the arms of the Priest, who bears him out. 
 
 Hal. My most unhappy brother ! 
 
 Priest. [7'eturning.] He has pass'd. 
 
 Hal. And I am chief! This is the fatal hour 
 That Moina saw. 
 
 [Angus and Attendants kneel to Halbert. 
 Ancestral shades, I see 
 You beckon in yon flame. Let me sit here ; 
 The grave will serve. Where does the doom'd man stand ? 
 
 Henry. Here ! Chief of the Macdonalds, let my 
 Atone my crime — it was not this — I meant [blood 
 
 But your disgrace. How little did 1 know 
 The heart I meant to grieve! Strike! vindicate 
 The ancient power, which perishes while thus 
 I pray to be its victim. Do you hear ? 
 
 [Reneived cries from the Valley* 
 Release me from those cries ; give me one look 
 Of love, and end me. 
 
 Hal. Will none plead for him? 
 
 Helen. It was for me [To Lady Macdonald. 
 
 Plead for your son. 
 
 Lady M. I plead 
 
 For him who, plotting infamy, has brought 
 Death on our race ! All things around me plead 
 Against him ; and that wail is fraught with shrieks 
 Of mothers, who, with death's convulsions, strive 
 In vain to shield their infants — such as he 
 Was once — as innocent, as blithe, as fair. 
 O Henry ! Henry ! could I die for you I 
 
 [Lady Macdonald y«Z/s on his neck. Another cry heard. 
 She starts aioay. Helen sinks on her knees beside the 
 tomb. 
 
 Henry. I'm ready, 
 
 Hal. There ! — without. 
 
 Henry. I '11 wait you there. 
 
 Hal. Will Heaven vouchsafe no refuse ? 
 
SCENE I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 233 
 
 [.As he raises his arms in supplication, a shot strikes him; 
 he falls. 
 
 That is well. 
 Mercy, Most Merciful ! — 1 am absolved. 
 
 Enter Glenlyon. 
 Glen. Am I too late ? My niece- 
 
 Helen. Away ! away ! 
 
 Henry, [rushing on Glenlyon.] Die, murderer ! 
 
 Lady M. [stops Ms arm.] Let him live. Glenlyon, 
 I pray you may have life stretch'd out beyond 
 The common span of mortals, to endure 
 The curse of Glencoe cleaving to your soul. 
 
 Helen. Amen ! 
 
 Glen, [t is upon me, yet I will preserve you. 
 
 Hal. Leave us to die. 
 
 Enter Drummond, 
 
 Drum, I seek Glenlyon here. 
 
 The eastern pass is open ; Duncanson 
 Has not arrived : that way the clansmen fly. 
 
 Glen. Heaven speed them I [Exit Glenlyon. 
 
 Henry. Then will I oppose this breast 
 
 To the pursuing demons, till I win 
 The death I thirst for. [Exit Henry. 
 
 Helen. Henry ! [Sinks on the ground. 
 
 Hal. There is comfort ; 
 
 Raise me to clasp my mother. You will pray 
 For Henry ; — and will- find a child in her 
 Whom mercy Spares this moment [To ^^e Priest 
 
 To your charge 
 I leave the gathering of my scanty fortune, 
 Which will provide a refuge for these sad ones 
 In some small convent, where they'll weep out life. 
 Will you do this ? 
 
 Priest. I will, 
 
 Hal. Bless you ! T mark 
 
 The face which gazed in pity on my rage 
 Beside my father's death-bed: — 'tis subdued — 
 Hush'd — conquer'd — pardon'd — and I die in peace. 
 
 [Dies 
 9.0^ 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 I. 
 
 EVENING SERVICE. 
 
 PERFORMED BY DR. VALPY AT READING BCHOOIj. 
 
 There is a holy magic in that tone 
 
 Can wake from Memory's selectest cell 
 
 The hour when first upon my heart it fell [flown 
 
 Like dew from Heaven : — the years that since have 
 
 Seem airy dreams ; — yet not of self alone 
 
 Those sacred strains are eloquent; — they tell 
 
 Of numbers temper'd by their simple spell 
 
 In boyhood's unreflecting prime to own 
 
 Their kindred with their fellows — best of lore ! — 
 
 Who to this spot, as Persians to the East, 
 
 Turn reverential thoughts from every shore 
 
 Which holds them ; nor forbear till life hath ceased 
 
 With child-like love a blessing to implore 
 
 On thee, mild Charity's unspotted Priest! 
 
236 SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE FORBURY, AT READING. 
 
 VISITED ON A MISTY EVENING IN AUTUMN. 
 
 Soft uplands, that in boyhood's earliest days 
 Seem'd mountain -like and distant, fain once more 
 Would I behold you ! but the autumn hoar 
 Hath veil'd your pensive groves in evening haze; 
 Yet must I wait till on my searching gaze 
 Your outline lives — more dear than if ye wore 
 An April sunset's consecrating rays — 
 For, even thus the images of yore 
 "Which ye awaken glide from misty years 
 Dream-like and solemn, and but half unfold 
 Their tale of glorious hopes, religious fears, 
 And visionary schemes of giant mould ; 
 Whose dimmest trace the world- worn heart reveres, 
 And, with love's grasping weakness, strives to hold. 
 
SONNETS. 237 
 
 III. 
 
 ON HEARING THE SHOUTS OF THE PEOPLE AT THE 
 
 READING ELECTION IN THE SUMMER ]826, 
 
 AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 Haek ! from the distant town the long" acclaim 
 
 On the charni'd silence of the evening breaks 
 
 With startling interruption ; — ^yet it wakes 
 
 Thought of that voice of never-dying fame 
 
 Which on my boyish meditation came 
 
 Here, at an hour like this ; — my soul partakes 
 
 A moment's gloom, that yon fierce contest slakes 
 
 Its thirst of high emprise and glorious aim : 
 
 Yet wherefore ? Feelings that from Heaven are shed 
 
 Into these tenements of flesh, ally 
 
 Themselves to earthly passions, lest, unfed 
 
 By warmth of human sympathies, they die ; 
 
 And shall — earth's fondest aspirations dead — 
 
 Fulfil their first and noblest prophecy. 
 
238 SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 VIEW OF THE VALLEY OF READING. 
 
 FROM TILEHURST, AT THE CLOSE OF THE SAME E1.ECTI0N". 
 
 Too long have I regarded thee, fair vale, 
 
 But as a scene of struggle which denies 
 
 All pensive joy ; and now with childhood's eyes 
 
 In old tranquillity, I bid thee hail; 
 
 And welcome to my soul thy own sweet gale, 
 
 Which wakes from loveliest woods the melodies 
 
 Of long-lost fancy — Never may there fail 
 
 Within thy circlet, spirits born to rise 
 
 In honour — whether won by Freedom rude 
 
 In her old Spartan majesty, or wrought 
 
 With partial, yet no base regard, to brood 
 
 O'er usages by time with sweetness fraught ; 
 
 Be thou their glory-tinted solitude, 
 
 The cradle and the home of generous thought ! 
 
SONNETS. 239 
 
 V. 
 
 TO THE THAMES AT WESTMINSTER, 
 
 IN" RECOLLECTIOKT OF THE BANKS OF THE SAME RIVER AT 
 CAVERSHAMj NEAR READING. 
 
 With no cold admiration do I gaze 
 
 Upon thy pomp of waters, matchless stream ! 
 
 But home-sick fancy kindles with the beam 
 
 That on thy lucid bosom faintly plays ; 
 
 And glides delighted through thy crystal ways, 
 
 Till on her eye those wave-fed poplars gleam, 
 
 Beneath whose shade her first ethereal maze 
 
 She fashion'd ; where she traced in clearest dream 
 
 Thy mirror'd course ot wood-enshrined repose 
 
 Besprent with island haunts of spirits bright; 
 
 And widening on — till, at the vision's close, 
 
 Great London, only then a name of might 
 
 For childish thought to build on, proudly rose 
 
 A rock-throned city clad in heavenly light. 
 
240 SONNETS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 TO THE SAME RIVER. 
 
 I MAY not emulate their lofty aim, 
 
 Who, in divine imagination, bold. 
 
 With mighty hills and streams communion hold, 
 
 As living friends ; and scarce I dare to claim 
 
 Acquaintance with thee in thy scenes of fame, 
 
 Wealthiest of Rivers ! though in days of old 
 
 I loved thee where thy waters sylvan roll'd, 
 
 And in some sense would deem thee yet the same. 
 
 So love perversely cleaves to some old mate 
 
 Estranged by fortune ; in his very pride 
 
 Seems lifted ; waxes in his greatness great ; 
 
 And silent hails the lot it prophesied, — 
 
 Content to think in manhood's palmy state 
 
 Some lingering traces of the child abide. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 241 
 
 VII. 
 
 TO MR. MACREADY, 
 
 OI»"HIS PKRFORMAPfCE OF WERNER, IN LORD BYRON'S TRAGEDY 
 OF THAT NAME. 
 
 LEARNED in Affection's thousand ways ! 
 
 1 thought thy art had proved its happiest power, 
 When thou didst hend above the opening flower 
 Of sweet Virginia's beauty, and with praise 
 Measured in words but fineless in the gaze 
 
 Of the proud sire, her gentle secret won : 
 Or when the Patriot Archer's hardy Son 
 Was school'd by doting sternness for the hour 
 Of glorious peril ; but the just designs 
 Were ready ; now thy soul's affections glow 
 By thy own genius train 'd, through frigid lines. 
 And make a scorner's bloodless fancy show, 
 When love disdain'd round its cold idol twines, 
 How mighty are its weakness and its woe ! 
 
 21 
 
242 • S N IS E T S o 
 
 VIII. 
 
 FAME^THE SYMBOL AND PROOF OF IMMORTALITY 
 
 The names that slow Oblivion have defied, 
 And passionate Ambition's wildest shocks 
 Stand in lone grandeur, like eternal rocks, 
 To cast broad shadows o'er the silent tide 
 Of time's unebbing flood, whose waters glide. 
 To ponderous darkness from their secret spring, 
 And, bearing on each transitory thing, 
 Leave those old monuments in loneliest pride. 
 There stand they — fortresses uprear'd by man, 
 Whose earthly frame is mortal; symbols high 
 Of power unchanging, — thought that cannot die ; 
 Proofs that our nature is not of a span, 
 But of immortal essence, and allied 
 To life and joy and love unperishing. 
 
SONNETS. 243 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO MR. MACREADY, 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD; 
 IN RECOLLECTION OF HIS PERFORMANCE OF VIRGINIUS. 
 
 There is no father, who, with swimming eyes, 
 
 Has seen thee present life and passion lend 
 
 To scenes by simple-hearted Poet penn'd, 
 
 Depicting household love in Roman guise, 
 
 Which, breathed through ancient forms, in freshness vies 
 
 With love of yesterday, who does not send 
 
 A greeting to thee as a cherish'd friend. 
 
 Now thy own heart acknowledges the ties 
 
 Which skill, forestalling Nature, made thee guess 
 
 With finest apprehension, and commend 
 
 To tearful crowds ; — yet while the sweet excess 
 
 Of joy that thou hast passion'd forth, shall fill 
 
 Thy soul with all it dream'd of happiness, 
 
 May Fear and Grief remain Art's Fictions still I 
 
244 SONNETS. 
 
 X. 
 
 TO CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ON HIS "OLIVER TWIST.' 
 
 Not only with the Author's happiest praise 
 
 Thy work should be rewarded ; 't is akin 
 
 To DEEDS of men, who, scorning ease to win 
 
 A blessing for the wretched, pierce the maze 
 
 Which heedless ages spread around the ways 
 
 Where fruitful Sorrow tracks its pareat Sin ; 
 
 Content to listen to the wildest din 
 
 Of passion, and on fellest shapes to gaze, 
 
 So they may earn the power which intercedes 
 
 With the bright world and melts it; for within 
 
 Wan Childhood's squalid haunts, where basest needs 
 
 Make tyranny more bitter, at thy call 
 
 An angel face with patient sweetness pleads 
 
 For infant suffering to the heart of all. 
 
SONNETS. 245 
 
 XL 
 
 TO MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 
 
 ON HER APPROACHING RETIREMENT FROM THE STAGE. 
 [DECEMBER, 1842.1 
 
 If Time has doom'd the triumphs of thy race 
 
 With loss of thee — the youngest and the last — 
 
 To take majestic station in the Past, 
 
 We thank thee that thy fleeting hours embrace 
 
 Some hint of all their glories ; — bid us trace 
 
 In thy proud action the unconquer'd will 
 
 Of the great Roman ; own once more a thrill 
 
 Akin to that which blanch'd the childish face 
 
 At Siddons' whisper ; bless the honest grace 
 
 Which the true heart of chivalry should still 
 
 Shed o'er thy Father's brow; — consol'd that all 
 
 Thus waning into memory, grow more sweet, 
 
 And make their last expression musical,. 
 
 To live while any heart they hush shall beat, 
 
 21* 
 
246 SONNETS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ON THE RECEPTION OF THE POET WORDSWORTH 
 AT OXFORD. 
 
 O NEVER did a mighty truth prevail 
 
 With such felicities of place and time. 
 
 As in those shouts sent forth with joy sublime 
 
 From the full heart of England's Youth, to hail 
 
 Her once neglected bard, within the pale 
 
 Of Learning's fairest Citadel ! That voice 
 
 In which the future thunders bids rejoice 
 
 Some who through wintry fortunes did not fail 
 
 To bless with love as deep as life, the name 
 
 Thus welcomed ; — who, in happy silence, share 
 
 The triumph ; while their fondest musings claim 
 
 Unhoped-for echoes in the joyous air, 
 
 That to their long-loved Poet's spirit bear 
 
 A Nation's promise of undying fame. 
 
SONNETS. 247 
 
 XIII. 
 
 THE MEMORY OF THE POETS. 
 
 The fame of those pure bards whose fancies lie 
 Like glorious clouds in summer's calmest even, 
 Fringing the western skirts of darkening Heaven, 
 And sprinkled o'er with hues of rainbow dye, 
 Awakes no voice of thunder, which may vie 
 With mighty chiefs' renown ; — from ages gone, 
 In low undying strain, it lengthens on, 
 Earth's greenest solitudes with joy to fill, — 
 Felt breathing in the silence of the sky, 
 Or trembling in the gush of new-born rill, 
 Or whispering o'er the lake's undimpled breast; 
 Yet blest to live when trumpet notes are still. 
 To wake a pulse of earth-born extasy 
 In the deep bosom of eternal rest. 
 
248 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XIV. 
 ETON COLLEGE. 
 
 SURVEYED AFTER LEAVING A SON AT SCHOOL FOR THE FIRST, 
 
 TIME. 
 
 How often have I fixed a stranger's gaze, 
 On yon fam'd turrets, clad in light as fair 
 As this sweet evening lends, and felt the air 
 Of Learning that from calm of ancient days 
 Breathes round them ever ! Now to me they wear 
 Hues drawn from dearer thought; the radiant haze 
 That mantles them grows thick with fondest care, 
 And its slant sunbeams flicker like the praise 
 Youth wins from wisdom ;■ — for in yon retreats 
 One little student's heart expectant beats 
 With blood of mine ; — O God ! vouchsafe him power, 
 When I am dust, to stand on this sweet place, 
 And, through the vista of long years, embrace 
 With cloudless soul this first Etonian hour ! 
 
ALUM BAY. 249 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEW AT THE NEEDLES HOTEL, ALTTM BAY, ISLE OF WIGHT, 
 AFTER A WEEK SPENT AT THAT PLACE. 
 
 How simple in their grandeur are the forms 
 
 That constitute this picture ! Nature grants 
 
 Scarce more than sternest cynic might desire — 
 
 Earth, Sea, and Sky, and hardly lends to each 
 
 Variety of colour ; yet the soul 
 
 Asks nothing fairer than the scene it grasps 
 
 And makes its own for ever ! From the gate 
 
 Of this home-featur'd Inn, which nestling cleaves 
 
 To its own shelf among the downs, begirt 
 
 With trees which lift no branches to defy 
 
 The fury of the storm, but crouch in love 
 
 Round the low snow-white walls whence they receive 
 
 More shelter than they lend, — the heart-sooth'd guest 
 
 Views a furze-dotted common, on each side 
 
 Wreath 'd into waving eminences, cloth'd 
 
 Above the furze with scanty green, in front 
 
 Indented sharply to admit the sea, 
 
 Spread thence in softest blue — to which a gorge 
 
 Sinking within the valley's deepening green 
 
 Invites by grassy path; the Eastern down 
 
 Swelling with pride into the waters, shows 
 
250 ALUM BAY. 
 
 Its sward-tipp'd precipice of radiant white, 
 
 And claims the dazzling peak beneath its brow 
 
 Part of its ancient bulk, which hints the strength 
 
 Of those fam'd pinnacles that still withstand 
 
 The conquering waves, as fortresses maintain'd 
 
 By death-devoted troops, hold out awhile 
 
 After the game of war is lost, to prove 
 
 The virtue of the conquer'd. — Here are scarce 
 
 Four colours for the painter ; yet the charm 
 
 Which permanence, mid worldly change, confers 
 
 Is felt, if ever, here ; for he who loves 
 
 To bid this scene refresh his inward eye 
 
 When far away, may feel it keeping still 
 
 The very aspect that it wore for him, 
 
 Scarce chang'd by Time or Season : Autumn finds 
 
 Scant boughs on which the lustre of decay 
 
 May tremble fondly ; Storms may rage in vain 
 
 Above the clumps of sturdy furze, which stand 
 
 The Forest of the Fairies ; Twilight grey 
 
 Finds in the landscape's stern and simple forms 
 
 Nought to conceal ; the Moon, although she cast 
 
 Upon the element she sways a track 
 
 Lilce that which slanted through young Jacob's sleep 
 
 From Heaven to earth, and flutter'd at the soul 
 
 Of Shadow's mighty Painter, who thence drew 
 
 Hints of a glory beyond shape, reveals 
 
 The clear-cut framework of the sea and downs 
 
 Shelving to gloom, as unperplex'd with threads 
 
 Of pallid light, as when the summer's noon 
 
 Bathes them in sunshine ; and the giant cliffs 
 
ALUM BAY. 251 
 
 Scarce veiling more their lines of flint that run 
 
 Like veins of moveless blue through their bleak sides, 
 
 In moonlight than in day, shall tower as now, 
 
 (Save when some moss's slender stain shall break 
 
 Into the samphire's yellow in mid air, 
 
 To tempt some trembling life) until the eyes 
 
 Which gaze in childhood on them shall be dim. 
 
 Yet deem not that these sober forms are all 
 That Nature here provides, although she frames 
 These in one lasting picture for the heart. 
 Within the foldings of the coast she breathes 
 Hues of %ntastic beauty. Thread the gorge, 
 And, turning on the beach, while the low sea 
 Spread out in mirror'd gentleness, allows 
 A path along the curving edge, behold 
 Such dazzling glory of prismatic tints 
 Flung o'er the lofty crescent, as assures 
 The orient gardens where Aladdin pluck'd 
 Jewels for fruit no fable, — as if earth, 
 Provtjk'd to emulate the rainbow's gauds 
 In lasting mould, had snatch'd its floating hues 
 And fix'd them here ; for never o'er the bay 
 Flew a celestial arch of brighter grace 
 Than the gay coast exhibits ; here the cliflf 
 Flaunts in a brighter yellow than the stream 
 Of Tiber wafted ; then with softer shades 
 Declines to pearly white, which blushes soon 
 With pink as delicate as Autumn's rose 
 Wears on its scattering leaves ; anon the shore 
 Recedes into a fane-like dell, where stain'd 
 
252 ALUM BAY. 
 
 With black, as if with sable tapestry hung, 
 Light pinnacles rise taper ; further yet 
 Swells out in solemn mass a dusky veil 
 Of purple crimson, — while bright streaks of red 
 Start out in gleam-like tint, to tell of veins 
 Which the slow-winning sea, in distant times, 
 Shall bare to unborn gazers. 
 
 If this scene 
 Grow too fantastic for thy pensive thought, 
 Climb either swelling down, and gaze with joy 
 On the blue ocean, pour'd around the heights, 
 As it embraced the wonders of that shield 
 Which the vow'd Friend of slain Patroclus wore, 
 To grace his fated valour ; nor disdain 
 The quiet of the vale, though not endow'd 
 With such luxurious beauty as the coast 
 Of UnderclifF embosoms ; — mid those lines 
 Of scanty foliage, thoughtful lanes and paths, 
 And cottage roofs, find shelter ; the blue stream, 
 That with its brief vein almost threads the isle, 
 Flows blest with two grey towers, beneath whose shade 
 The village life sleeps trustfully, — whose rites 
 Touch the old weather-harden'd fisher's heart 
 With child -like softness, and shall teach the boy 
 Who kneels, a sturdy grandson, at his side, 
 When his frail boat amidst the breakers pants, 
 To cast the anchor of a Christian hope 
 In an unrippled haven. Then rejoice. 
 That in remotest point of .this sweet isle. 
 Which with fond mimicry combines each shape 
 
ALUM BAY. 253 
 
 Of the Great Land that, by the ancient bond 
 
 (Sea-parted once, and sea-united now), 
 
 Binds her in unity — a Spirit breathes 
 
 On cHff, and tower, and valley, by the side 
 
 Of cottage-fire, and the low grass-grown grave, 
 
 Of Home on English earth, and Home in Heaven! 
 
VERSES 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A CHILD NAMED AFTER CHARLES LAMB, 
 
 WHO DIED AT BRIGHTON, 30tH DECEMBER, 1835} 
 
 AGED SIX YEARS,* 
 
 OiJR gentle Charles has pass'd away 
 From Earth's short bondage free, 
 
 And left to us its leaden day 
 And mist-enshrouded sea. 
 
 * The child who bore the name of Charles Lamb, and shared largely in his af 
 fections, survived him just a year — Lamb's death having taken place on the 27th 
 December, 1834. He had been taken to Brighton in the hope of restoration from 
 mild sea air, and at first seemed revived by its influence ; but severe weather set 
 in, our hopes withered, and he sunk, leaving us the consolation of a most beauti- 
 ful image in his deatli — alighting-up and ennobling the face at the last, which I 
 cannot consent to refer to mere physical causes. The thoughts expressed in these 
 verses — if they deserve the name — were suggested at the time when we lost him ; 
 but I could not then find the heart to attempt putting them into rhyme, notwith- 
 standing the opinion of the nurse who watched his patient decay, " That Master 
 Charles ought to have verses written upon him ;" and have only just accomplish- 
 ed her wish. From a similar feeling I abstained from publishing among Lamb's 
 letters the following little note, on his being informed of the use 1 had made of 
 his name; but I have a pleasure (scarcely melancholy) in adding it now. 
 
 "Dear T— 
 *' You could not have told me of a more friendly thing than you have been do- 
 ing. I am proud of my namesake. I shall take care never to do any dirty action, 
 pick pockets, or anyhow get myself haiig'd, for fear of reflecting ignominy upon 
 your young Crisom I have now a motive to be good. I shall not omiiis moriar, 
 my name borne down the black gulf of oblivion. I shall survive in eleven letters 
 ■ — five more than Caesar. Possibly I shall come to be knighted, or more — 
 
 Sir C. L. Talpourd, Bt. 
 
 Yet hath it an authorist's twang with it, which will wear out with my name for 
 poetry. Give him a smile from me till I see him. If you do not drop down be- 
 
MEMORIAL VERSES. 255 
 
 Here, by the restless ocean's side, 
 Sweet hours of hope have flown, 
 
 When first the triumph of its tide 
 Seem'd omen of our own. 
 
 That eager joy the sea-breeze gave, 
 
 When first it raised his hair, 
 Sunk with each day's retiring wave, 
 
 Beyond the reach of prayer. 
 
 The sun-blink that through drizzling mist. 
 
 To flickering hope akin. 
 Far waves with feeble fondness kiss'd, 
 
 No smile as faint can win; 
 
 Yet not in vain with radiance weak 
 
 The heavenly stranger gleams — 
 Not of the world it lights to speak. 
 
 But that from whence it streams. 
 
 That world our patient sufferer sought, 
 
 Serene with pitying eyes. 
 As if his mounting Spirit caught 
 
 The wisdom of the skies. 
 
 fore, some day in the week after next I will come and take one night's lodging 
 with you, if convenient, before you go hence. You shall name it. We are io 
 town, tamen speciali gratis, but by no arrangement can get near you. Believe us 
 both, with the greatest regards, yours and Mrs. Talfourd's. 
 
 " Charles Lamb— Philo-Talfotjbd. 
 "I come as near it asl cnn," 
 
256 MEMORIAL VERSES. 
 
 With boundless love it look'd abroad 
 For one bright moment given, 
 
 Shone with a loveliness that aw'd, 
 And quiver'd into Heaven. 
 
 A year made slow by care and toil 
 
 Has pac'd its weary round, 
 Since Death's enrich'd with kindred spoil 
 
 The snow-clad, frost-ribb'd ground. 
 
 Then Lamb, with whose endearing name 
 Our boy we proudly grac'd, 
 
 Shrank from the warmth of sweeter fame 
 Than ever Bard embrac'd. 
 
 Still 'twas a mournful joy to think 
 
 Our darling might supply. 
 For years on earth, a living link 
 
 To name that cannot die. 
 
 And though such fancy gleam no more 
 
 On earthly sorrow's night. 
 Truth's noble torch unveils the shore 
 
 Which lends to both its lig-ht. 
 
 'o 
 
 The nurseling there that hand may take 
 
 None ever grasp'd in vain, 
 And smiles of well-known sweetness wake 
 
 Without their tinge of pain. 
 
MEMORIAL VERSES. 257 
 
 Though 'twixt the Child and childlike Bard 
 
 Late seem'd distinction wide, 
 They now may trace, in Heaven's regard, 
 
 How near they were allied. 
 
 Within the infant's ample brow 
 
 Blythe fancies lay unfurl'd. 
 Which all uncrush'd may open now 
 
 To charm a sinless world. 
 
 Though the soft spirit of those eyes 
 Might ne'er with Lamb's compete — 
 
 Ne'er sparkle with a wit as wise, 
 Or melt in tears, as sweet. 
 
 That calm and unforgotten look 
 
 A kindred love reveals, 
 With his who never friend forsook. 
 
 Or hurt a thing that feels. 
 
 In thought profound, in wildest glee. 
 
 In sorrow's lengthening range, 
 His guileless soul of infancy 
 
 Endur'd no spot or change. 
 
 From traits of each our love receives 
 
 For comfort nobler scope ; 
 
 While light which childlike genius leaves 
 
 Confirms the infant's hope : 
 23* 
 
258 MEMORIAL VERSES. 
 
 And in that hope with sweetness fraught 
 
 Be aching hearts beguil'd, 
 To blend in one delightful thought 
 
 The Poet and the Child. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 NOTE TO THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE.— Page 160. 
 On the final exit of Ismene, the original play thus proceeded to its close 
 Iph. Since no opposing voice of oracle 
 Confutes her sentence, it must be fulfilled. 
 ^ Advance, and bind the victim. 
 
 Tho. Hold, for mercy! 
 
 A moment! Gods, who hover o'er our council, 
 Ye cannot look upon this and be silent! 
 Corinthians, ye have known him from a child ; 
 Behold him now. Upon his forehead Heaven 
 Hath set a living seal of innocence. 
 Which should outspeak a thousand vices — feign'd 
 It may be — while the unspotted soul, that speaks 
 In nature's honest signs, shall find an answer 
 In every honest heart 1 Ye are silent. Then 
 I turn to ye, Athenians. Countrymen ! 
 Whom I have led to conquest — Masters here, 
 Draw your keen swords, and teach the conquered justice. 
 
 [Athenians advance. 
 
 Iph. Forbear! 
 
 Tho. Deliver, then, your prisoner, my charge : 
 
 Let me confer with him apart from all. 
 I'll answer for his life's blood with mine own. 
 
 Iph. Corinthians ! we will give the Athenian way; 
 He speaks with power that is not of the earth. 
 Fate struggles into light — let us retire. 
 
 [Exeunt all hut Htllus and Thoas. 
 
 Hyl. Thoas, thou wilt not let Creusa think 
 Her brother guilty ? 
 
 Tho. Would that for myself 
 
 I might implore like grace I but that I fear 
 Thou canst not grant. I have another suit 
 For that which thou canst give. 
 
 Hyl. What boon can I, 
 
 In these my numbered minutes, grant to thee ? 
 What canst thou ask ? Forgetfulness ? Alas 
 I have no power. 
 
 Tho. Yes ; in the boon I ask 
 
 That blessing is included. 'T is a thing 
 Whieh I must shortly taste, a thing 1 thirst for ; 
 
260 APPENDIX. 
 
 But it will have no sweetness aad no worth, 
 Unless it come from thee. 
 
 Hyl. What is it ? 
 
 Tho. Death. 
 
 Hyl. I know that one of us must die. The lot 
 Hath fallen on me ; and it is best. My life 
 Is that of a slight stripling ; thine is rich 
 In promises of greatness. 
 
 Tho. No ; most worthless— 
 
 For it is tainted. Had my soul been base 
 From nature, I might win a conqueror's wreath 
 Still in the field ; but noble as it was, 
 It shivers at the shadow of its crime, 
 And shuts itself from this world ; — in another 
 
 He plucks the knife from hit bosom. 
 It may expand unsoil'd. Behold this steel, 
 Which thy brave kindness left me ; it is red 
 From the paternal fountain whence thou drew 
 The blood that circles in thy veins ; receive it, 
 And sheath it here ! \kneels The gods require a life 
 For his, and mine alone can justly pay 
 The forfeit. 
 
 Hyl. Mine will satisfy. 
 
 Tho. No, Hyllus; 
 
 So paid, 'twill bring upon thy native Corinth 
 A double curse. For there is none so deadly 
 As that of guiltless blood, poured out by men 
 In the high name of justice. Think, O think, 
 What torture will be mine, when pestilence 
 Lays waste thy city ; when Creusa wails 
 For her slain brother, and the burning truth 
 Lives ever in my vision: O, be just! 
 Be merciful, and send the dagger home ! 
 
 Hyl. I may not stain Jove's temple with thy blood. 
 Tho. [rising] Thou art right ; thou art right. There is a fitter spot. 
 Walk with me to the grove, in whose recess 
 Thy father's ashes are inurn'd ; where still 
 His shade is waiting unavenged, and calls 
 His son to his last duty. 
 
 Hyl. I will go. 
 
 Tho. 'Tis well. Now may I grasp thy hand again 
 And taste thy generous friendship ; for I feel 
 The stain of blood already passing from me, 
 As though the sacrifice were past. May'st thou 
 And she, whom thou wilt cherish with such love 
 As brothers rarely feel, live happy. 
 Hyl. Never! [Exeunt, 
 
 Scene II. — The outside of the Funereal Grove. 
 Enter two Corinthian Soldiers. 
 Ist Oor. Sol. Comrade, hast thou heard tidings from the temple? 
 
APPENDIX. 26 1 
 
 2wd Oor. Sol. None since the crowd withdrew from it and left 
 The prince and the Athenian leader there ; 
 But these may tell us more. 
 
 Enter two Athenian Soldiers. 
 
 let Cor. Sol. Can you inform us 
 
 How the strange conference, between our prince 
 And him who led you, ended ? 
 
 1st Ath. Sol. They have left 
 
 The fane together, and have bent their way 
 To the thick grove which holds the urn of Creon ; 
 Take heed uo evil happen to our chief, 
 Or we will make a wilderness of Corinth. 
 
 Is* Oor, Sol. This is the grove. They must have enter'd it 
 On the west side. Ye need not fear — the prince 
 Was without arms, and Thoas, in the might 
 Of corporal strength, o'ermatches him. Hast heard 
 Aught of the queen ? 
 
 2nd Oor. Sol. Here comes the priest. — Dost know 
 
 Enter Iphitus. 
 Whither the queen hath wandered ? 
 
 Iph. From the fane 
 
 Where she in madness had denounc'd a youth 
 Whom I believe most innocent, she pac'd 
 The city, with a step so firm and brow 
 So resolute, that none dar'd stay her course 
 By deed or question. To the mournful glen, 
 Which, if hnsh'd rumours are believ'd, she lov'd 
 Strangely to linger in, she bent her way ! 
 Its depth was clear, — the poisonous vapour slept 
 Within its frightful home. From a tall crag, 
 Whence none could stop her, I beheld her pass 
 To the detested cavern ; at its entrance 
 §he paused an instant, cast a mournful look 
 Jpon the sun j ust setting 5 toss'd her arms 
 Wildly towards heaven, then drew them to her breast, 
 In act as if she press'd an infant there ; 
 And, as her eye, uplifted, caught a glimpse 
 Of those who might prevent her, backward drew 
 Into the cave, whose deadly vapours wreathed 
 Her form grown spectral. So she faded hence, 
 Where none dare ever tread to seek for that 
 Which was Ismene ! 
 
 Enter Ckettsa. 
 Ore. Where is Hyllus! whera's 
 
 The Athenian chief? I iiear they left the fane 
 Together — they are gone to mortal conflict, — 
 I'm sure on't. — Iphitus, thou art Jove's priest ; 
 
 Hasie with me, and prevent them ! [A groan from the wood. 
 
 Heard ye that ? 
 
262 APPENDIX.. 
 
 It is too late for succour. I will go, 
 Though sights of horror blast me ! 
 
 Iph. Lady, thou 
 
 Wilt be distracted, 
 
 Cre. No ; there is no refuge 
 
 In madness for a wretchedness like mine ! 
 Away! away! Holdback, I pass alone, 
 
 Iph. Let's follow. [Exeimt. 
 
 Scene III. — The interior of the Funereal Ghrove. 
 The Urn of Ckeon. The Knife bloody on its Pedestal. On one side Thoas 
 wounded; on the other, Hvllus, with face averted^ and covered with his 
 hands. 
 
 To. I bless thee! do not mourn ; it was well done — 
 Speak kindly of me as thou canst, to her^ — 
 Thy sister. 
 
 Enter Pentheus and Athenian Soldiers. 
 
 Pen. Have I come too late ? 
 
 Tho. No, Pentheus, 
 
 In happy time. 
 
 Pen. Alas ! but to avenge thee. 
 
 Tho. Friend, there is nothing to avenge ; this death 
 Was yielded to mj'^ prayer. Thou may'st guess well 
 Why I have courted it. My brief command 
 Will now devolve on thee ; but I would make 
 A treaty with this youth, whom I now hail 
 As King of Corinth. 'Twill be short, but sealed 
 With blood : — that the Athenian troops retire. 
 Laden with the rich spoils they have achiev'd, 
 And leave his reign in peace. Wilt thou consent? f To HvLLUS. 
 
 Hyl. Alas ! I must. 
 
 Tho. And, Pentheus, thou wilt see 
 
 Our part fulfilled? 
 
 Pen. Thy wish shall be obeyed. 
 
 Enter Ckeusa, followed by Iphitus, and others- 
 Ore. Ha! Thoas wounded! first and only love! 
 O, cruel, cruel brother ! never more 
 Be called by that dear title. 
 
 Tho. Hold, Creusa, 
 
 I will not purchase a last ecstasy 
 By such disunion. Hear me ! and Corinthians, 
 Attend ! My death is just. 'Tis I who slew 
 Your king ! — with what excuse of circumstance 
 You will hereafter gather from the prince. 
 Whose noble tongue will speak too gently of me. 
 Pentheus, thy hand ; convey these poor remains 
 To that fair citj' I have lov'd so well ; 
 Her glories dawn upon me now, more cleat 
 Than I have ever seen them in the dreams 
 Which have enrich'd my little life! O, Athena! {Dies. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 263 
 
 Hyl. Sister ! 
 
 Cre Forgive me, brother. 
 
 { She falls on his breast, and bursts into tears. 
 
 Hyl. Weep there ; 'tis thy home. 
 
 Fate, which has stricken us so young, and made 
 Our regal state so dismal, leaves this joy — 
 That we shall cleave together to the grave. 
 
 NOTES TO GLENCOE. 
 
 Note 1. Page 195. 
 
 " Frank disdain 
 Of dull existence, which had faintly gleam- d 
 Like yonder Serpent river, through dark rocks 
 Which bury it." 
 
 The Serpent River is a rapid mountain stream on the north side of Loch 
 Leveu, which after a fall of about twenty feet, rushes through a series of over- 
 hanging rocks, like natural arches, through which the rapid water below can 
 be scarcely discerned. 
 
 Note 2. Page 196. 
 
 " No broad lake 
 Studded with island woods, which make the soul 
 Effeminate with richness, like the scenes 
 In which the baffled Campbells hid their shame, 
 And scorn'd their distant foes." 
 These lines refer to the charge which the enemies of the Campbells used to 
 urge against them, that when beaten from the borders of Loch Finne, they found 
 shelter on the shores and in the islands of Loch AwC; and defied their foes to fol- 
 low them, by the proverb, "It is a far cry to Loch Awe." Perhaps Loch Awe 
 embraces or borders on the most lovely scenery in the Highlands, and Glencoe is 
 embedded in that which is the most sublime. 
 
 Note 3. Page 213. 
 
 " We were charm'd. 
 Not awe-struck ; — for The Beautiful was there 
 Triumphant in its palace." 
 
 In seeking to embody in this passage the author's impression of the Cave of 
 Fingal, in Staffa, he is aware that it differs from that which all the descriptions 
 he has read of the same scene convey. All suggest far greater dimensions — a 
 boUow far more vast and awful, but less exquisite in beauty, than to his eye the 
 reality justifies. "Compared to this (it has been said) what are the cathedrals 
 or the palaces built by men ? — mere models or playthings ; — imitative or dimin- 
 utive as his works will always be when compared with those of nature." Ac- 
 cording to the author's recollection, the cave would be more fitly compared to a 
 narrow aisle of a great cathedral, fashioned with nicest art, and embellished with 
 the most florid sculpture, than represented as something immeasurably greater 
 than the cathedral itself; and the actual admeasurement of the cave will rather 
 accord with this impression, tlian with that which is more popular The height 
 of the lop of the arch above the water at mean tide is sixty-six feet ; the breadth 
 at the entrance forty-two feet: whence it contracts during its length two hua- 
 
264 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 dred and twenty-seven feet, until at the extremity it is only twenty-two feet in 
 width; and the roof descends in nearly the same proportion. When it is fur- 
 ther recollected that even this width is narrowed to the eye by the row of exqui- 
 site columns which continue on the northern side, and along which the adventu- 
 rer may step, and that a slight bend about half way breaks its uniformity, per- 
 haps he will be pardoned for thinking ihat there has been much exaggera- 
 tion in attributing the grandeur which arises from space and gloom to this won- 
 derful cavern. On tlie other hand, justice has not been done — indeed, never 
 can be done by words — to the fairy loveliness of the scene, — the delicate colour 
 of the water, — the grace of the columns, — the elegance of the arched roof, and 
 the blue serenity of the distant sea, as seen from beneath it. 
 
 Note 4. Page 217. 
 " The order is to guard the avenues 
 To-night ; and ere the morning, put in force 
 The Royal ordinance on the lives of all 
 Below the age of seventy." 
 
 Sir Walter Scott's narrative of the massacre : — 
 
 Mac Ian of Glencoe (this was the patronymic title of the chief of this clan) 
 was a man of a stately and venerable person and aspect. He possessed both 
 courage and sagacity, and was acustomed to be listened to by the neighbouring' 
 chieftains, and to take a lead in their deliberations. Mac Ian had been deeply 
 engaged both in the campaign of Killiecrankie, and in chat which followed un- 
 der General Buchan ; and when the insurgent Plighland chiefs held a meeting 
 with the Earl of Bread albane, at a place called Auchallader, in the month of 
 July, 1691, for the purpose of arranging an armistice, Mac Ian was present with 
 the rest, and, it is said, taxed Bread albane with the design of retaining a part of 
 the money lodged in his hands for the pacification of the Highlands. The Earl 
 retorted with vehemence, and charged Mac Ian with a theft of cattle, 
 committed upon some of his lands by a party from Glencoe. Other causes of 
 offence took place, in which old feuds were called to recollection; and Mac 
 Ian was repeatedly heard to say, he dreaded mischief from no man so much as 
 from the Earl of Breadalbane. Yet this unhappy chief was rash enough to 
 stand out to the last moment, and declined to take advantage of King William's 
 indemnity, till the time appointed by the proclamation was well nigh expired. 
 
 The displeasure of the Earl of Breadalbane seems speedily to have communi- 
 cated itself to the Master of Stair, who, in his correspondence with Lieutenant 
 Colonel Hamilton, then commanding in the Highlands, expresses the greatest 
 resentment against Mac Ian of Glencoe, for having, by his interference, marred 
 the bargain between Breadalbane and the Highland chiefs. Accordingly, in a 
 letter of 3d December, the Secretary intimated that Government was determin- 
 ed to destroy utterly some of the clans, in order to terrify the others, and he 
 hoped that, by standing out and refusing to submit under the indemnity, the 
 Mac Donalds of Glencoe would fall into the net, — which meant that they would 
 afford a pretext for their extirpation. This letter is dated a month before the 
 time limited by the indemnity ; so long did these bloody thoughts occupy the 
 mind of this unprincipled statesman. 
 
 Ere the term of mercy expired, however, Mac lan's own apprehensions, or the 
 advice of friends, dictated to him the necessity of submitting to the same condi- 
 tions which others had embraced, and he went with his principal followers to 
 take the oath of allegiance to King William. This was a very brief space before 
 the 1st of January, when, by the terms of the proclamation, the opportunity of 
 claiming the indemnity was to expire. Mac Ian was, therefore, much alarmed to 
 find that Colonel Hill, the governor of Fort William, to whom he tendered his 
 oath of allegiance, had no power to receive it, being a military, and not a civil 
 officer. Colonel Hill, however, sympathised with the distress and even tears of 
 the old cliieftain, and gave him a letter to Sir Colin Campbell of Ardkinlas, She- 
 riff of Aigyleshire, requesting him to receive the "lost sheep," and admini.ster 
 the oath to him, that he might have the advantage of the indemnity, though so 
 late in claiming it. 
 
APPENDIX. 265 
 
 Mac Ian hastened from Fort William to Inverary, without even turning aside 
 to his own house, though he passed within a mile of it. But the roads, always 
 very bad, were now rendered ahiaost impassable by a storm of snow ; so that, 
 with all the speed the unfortunate chieftain could exert, the fatal 1st of January 
 was past before he reached Inverary. 
 
 The Sheriff, however, seeing that Mac Tan had complied with the spirit of the 
 statute, in tendering his submission within the given period, under the sincere, 
 though mistaken belief, that he was applying to the person ordered to receive it ; 
 and considering also, that, but for the tempestuous weather, it would after all have 
 been offered in presence of the proper law-officer, did not hesitate to administer 
 the oath of allegiance, and sent off an express to the Privy Council, containing 
 an attestation of Mac lan's having taken the oaths, and a full explanation of the 
 circumstances which had delayed his doing so until the lapse of the appointed 
 period. The Sheriff also wrote to Colonel Hill what he had done, and requested 
 that he would take care that Glencoe should not be annoyed by any military par- 
 ties until the pleasure of the Council should be known, which he could not doubt 
 would be favourable. 
 
 Mac Ian. therefore, returned to his own house, and resided there, as he suppos- 
 ed, in safety, under the protection of the Government to which he had sworn al- 
 legiance. That he might merit this protection, he convoked his clan, acquainted 
 tliem with his submission, and commanded them to live peaceably, and give no 
 cause of offence, under pain of his displeasure. 
 
 In the meantime, the vindictive Secretary of State had procured orders from 
 his sovereign respecting the measures to be followed with such of the chiefs as 
 should not have taken the oaths within the term prescribed. The first of these 
 orders, dated 11th January, contained peremptory directions for military execu- 
 tion, by fire and sword, against all who should not have made their submission 
 within the time appointed. It was, however, provided, in order to avoid driving 
 them to desporation, that there was still to remain a power of granting mercy to 
 those clans who, even after the time was past, should still come in and submit 
 themselves. Such were the terms of the first royal warrant, in which Glencoe 
 was not expressly named. 
 
 It seems afterwards to have occurred to Stair, that Glencoe and his tribe would 
 be sheltered under this mitigation of the intended severities, since he had already 
 come in and tendered his alfegiance, without waiting for the menace of military 
 force. A second set of instructions were, therefore, made out on the 16th Janu- 
 ary. These held out the same indulgence to other clans, who should submit 
 themselves at the very last hour (a hypocritical pretext, for there existed none 
 which stood in such a predicament), but they closed the gate of mercy against 
 the devoted 3Iac Ian, who had already done all that was required of others. The 
 words are remarkable : — "As for Mac Ian of Glencoe, and that tribe, if they can 
 be well distinguished from the rest of the Highlanders, it will be proper, for the 
 vindication of public justice, to extirpate that set of thieves." 
 
 You will remark the hypocritical clemency and real cruelty of these instruc- 
 tions, which profess a readiness to extend mercy to those who needed it not (for 
 all the other Highlanders had submitted within the limited time), and deny it to 
 Glencoe, the only man v/ho had not been able literally to comply with the procla- 
 mation, though, in all fair construction, he had done what it required. 
 
 Under what pretence or colouring King William's authority was obtained for 
 such cruel instructions, it would be in vain to inquire. The Sheriff of Argyle's 
 letter had never been produced before the Council ; and the certificate of Mac 
 lan's having- taken the oath « as blotted out, and, in the Scottish phrase, deleted 
 fiom the books of the Privy Council. It seems probable, therefore, that the fact 
 of that chief's submission was altogether concealed from the King, and that he 
 was held out in the light of a desperate and incorrigible leader of banditti, who 
 was the main obstacle to the peace of the Highlands ; but if we admit that Wil- 
 liam acted under such misrepresentations, deep blame will still attach to him for 
 rashly issuing orders of an import so dreadful. It is remarkable that these fatal 
 instructions are both superscribed and subscribed by the King himself, whereas, 
 in most state papers, the sovereign only superscribes, and they are countersigned 
 by the Secretary of State, who is answerable for their tenor; a responsibility 
 which Stair, on that occasion, was not probably ambitious of claiming. 
 
 The secretarv's letter to the military officers, directing the mode of executing 
 23 
 
266 APPENDIX. 
 
 the King's orders, betray the deep and savage interest which he took personally 
 in their tenor, and his desire that the bloody measure should be as general as 
 possible. He dwelt in these letters upon the proper time and season for cutting 
 oS the devoted tribe. " The winter," he said, " is the only season in which the 
 Highlanders cannot elude us, or carry their wives, children, and cattle to the 
 mountains. They cannot escape you; for what human constitution can then en- 
 dure to be long out of house? This is the proper season to maul them, in the 
 long dark nights." He could not suppress his joy that Glencoe had not come in 
 within the term prescribed ; and expresses his hearty wishes that others had fol- 
 lowed the same course. He assured the soldiers that their powers should be am- 
 ple ; and he exacted from them proportional exertion^. He entreated that the 
 thieving tribe of Glencoe might be rooted out in earnest ; and he was at pains ti 
 explain a phrase which is in itself terribly significant. He gave directions foi 
 securing every pass by which the victims could escape, and warned the soldien 
 that it were better to leave the thing unattempted, than fail to do it to purpose 
 '■ To plunder their lands, or drive off their cattle, would" says his letters, '"b* 
 only to render them desperate ; they must be all slaughtered, and the manner a 
 execution must be sure, secret, and effectual." 
 
 These instructions, snch as have been rarely penned in a Christian country, 
 were sent to Colonel Hill, the Governor of Fort William, who, greatly surprised 
 and grieved at their tenor, endeavoured for some time to evade the execution of 
 them. At length, obliged by his situation to render obedience to the King's com- 
 mands, he transmitted the orders to Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, directing him 
 to take four hundred men of aHighland regiment belonging to the Earl of Argyle, 
 and fulfil the royal mandate. Thus, to make what was intended yet worse, if 
 possible, than it was in its whole tenor, the perpetration of this cruelty was com- 
 mitted to soldiers, who were not only the countrymen of the proscribed, but the 
 near neighbours, and some of them the close connexions of the Mac Donalds of 
 Glencoe. This is the more necessary to be remembered because the massacre 
 has unjustly been said to have been committed by English troops. The course 
 of the bloody deed was as follows : 
 
 Before the end of January, a party of the Earl of Argyle's regiment, com- 
 manded by Captain Campbell of Glenlyon, approached Glencoe. Mac lan's sons 
 went out to meet them with a body of men, to demand whether they came as 
 friends or foes. The officer replied, that they came as friends, being sent to 
 take up their quarters for a short time in Glencoe, in order to relieve the garri- 
 son of Fort William, which was crowded with soldiers. On this they were wel- 
 comed with all the hospitality which the chief and his followers had the means 
 of extending to them, and they resided for fifteen days amongst the unsuspecting 
 Mac Donalds, in the exchange of every species of kindness and civility. That 
 the laws of domestic affection might be violated at the same time with those of 
 humanity and hospitalitj', you are to understand that Alaster Mac Donald, one 
 of the sons of Mac Ian, was married to a niece of Glenlyon, who commanded 
 the party of soldiers. It appears also, that the intended cruelty was to be exer- 
 cised upon defenceless men ; for the Mac Donalds, though afraid of no other ill- 
 treatmect from their military guests, had supiposed it possible the soldiers might 
 have a commission to disarm them, and therefore had sent their weapons to a 
 distance, where they might be out of reach of seizure. 
 
 Glenlyon's party had remained in Glencoe for fourteen or fifteen days, when 
 he received orders from his commanding officer, Major Duncanson, expressed in 
 a manner which shows him to have been the worthy agent of the cruel Secre- 
 tary. They were sent in conformity with orders of the same date, transmitted 
 to Duncanson by Hamilton, directing that all the fliac Donalds, under seventy 
 years of age, were to be cut off, and that the Government was not to be troubled 
 with prisoners. Duncanson's orders to Glenlyon were as follows : — 
 
 " You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels, and to put all to the sword 
 under seventy. You are to have especial care that the old fox and his cubs do 
 on no account escape your hands ; you are to secure all the avenues, that no 
 man escape. This you are to put in execution at four in the morning precisely, 
 and by that time, or very shortly after, I will strive to be at you with a stronger 
 party. But if I do not come to 3'ou at four, you are not to tarry for me, but fal' 
 on. This is by the King's special command, for the good and safetj' of the conn- 
 
APPENDIX. 267 
 
 try, that these miscreants be cutoff root and branch. See that this be put into 
 execution without either fear or favour, else 3 ou may expect to be treated as not 
 true to the King or Government, nor a man fit tocai-ry a commission in the King's 
 service. Expecting that you will not fail iu tlie fulfilling hereof, as you love 
 yourself, I subscribe these with my hand, "Robert Duncanson." 
 
 This order was dated 12th February, and addressed, "For their Majesties' 
 service to Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon." 
 
 This letter reached Glenlyon soon after it was v/ritten ; and he lost no time 
 in carrying the dreadful mandate into execution. In the interval, he did not ab- 
 stain from any of those acts of familiarity which had lulled asleep the suspicions 
 of his victims. He took his morning draught, as had been his practice every 
 day since he came to the glen, at the house of Alaster Mac Donald, Mac lan's sec- 
 ond son, who was married to his (Glenlyon's) niece. He, and two of his oflicers 
 named Lindsay, accepted an invitation to dinner from Mac Ian himself, for the 
 following day, on which they had determined he should never see the sun rise. 
 To complete the sum of treachery, Glenlyon played at cards, in his own quar- 
 ters, with the sons of Mac Ian, John and Alaster, both of whom were also destin- 
 ed for slaughter. 
 
 About four o'clock in the morning of 13th February, the scene of blood be- 
 gan^ A party, commanded by one of the Lindsays, came to Mac Tan's house and 
 knocked for admittance, which was at once given. Lindsay, one of the expect- 
 ed guests at the family meal of the day, commanded this party, who instantly 
 shot Mac Ian dead by his own bed-side, as he was in the act of dressing himself, 
 and giving orders for refreshments to be provided for his fatal visitors. His aged 
 wife was stripped by the savage soldiery, who, at the same time, drew off the 
 gold rings from her fingers v/ith their teeth, ^he died the next day, distracted 
 with grief, and the brutal treatment she had received. Several domestics and 
 clansmen were killed at the same place. 
 
 The two sons of the aged chieftain had not been altogether so confident as 
 their father respecting the peaceful and friendly purpose of their guests. They 
 observed, on the evening preceding the massacre, that the sentinels were doubled, 
 and the mainguard strengthened. John, the elder brother, had even overheard 
 the soldiers muttering amongst themselves, that they cared not about fighting 
 the men of the glen fairly, but did not like the nature of the service they were 
 engaged in ; while others consoled themselves with the military logic, that their 
 officers must be answerable for the orders given, they having no choice save to 
 obey them. Alarmed with what had been thus observed and heard, the young 
 men hastened to Glenlyon's quarters, where they found that officer and his men 
 preparing their arms. On questioning him about these suspicious appearances, 
 Glenlyon accounted for them by a storj' that he was bound on an expedition 
 against some of Glengarry's men ; and alluding to the circumstance of their al- 
 liance, which made his own cruelty more detestable, he added, " If anything 
 evil had been intended, would I not have told Alaster and my niece?" 
 
 Reassured by this communication, the young men retired to rest, but were 
 speedily awakened by an old domestic, who called on the two brothers to rise 
 and fly for their lives. " Is it time for you," he said, " to be sleeping, when your 
 father is murdered on his own hearth?" Thus roused, they hurried out in great 
 terror, and heard thi-oughout the glen, wherever there was a place of human 
 habitation, the shouts of the murderers, the reports of the muskets, the screams 
 of the wounded, and the groans of the dying. By their perfect knowledge of 
 the scarce accessible, cliffs amongst which they dwelt, they were enabled to es- 
 cape observation, and fl^ed to the southern access of the glen. 
 
 Meantime, the work of death proceeded with as little remorse as Stair himself 
 Could have desired. Even the slight mitigation of their orders respecting those 
 above seventy years, was disregarded by the soldiery in their indiscriminate 
 thirst for blood, and several very aged and bedridden persons were slain amongst 
 others. At the hamlet where Glenlyon had his own quarters, nine men, includ- 
 ing his landlord, were bound and shot like felons ; and one of them, 3Iac Donald 
 of Auchintriaten, had General Hill's passport in his pocket at the time. A fine 
 lad of twenty had, by some glimpse of compassion ou the part of the soldiers, 
 been spared, when one Captain Drummond came up, and demanding why the 
 orders were transgressed in that particular, caused him instantly to be put 
 to death. A boy, of five or six years old, clung to Glenlyon's knees, entreating 
 
268 - APPENDIX. 
 
 for inorcy, and oifering to become his servant for life, if he would but spare him 
 Glenlyou was moved ; but the same Drunimoud stabbed the child with his dirk, 
 -vhile he was in this agony of supplication. 
 
 At a place called Auchnaion. one Barber, a sergeant, with a party of .soldiers, 
 fired ou a group of nine Mac Donalds, as they were assembled round their morn- 
 insj fire, and killed four of tliem. The owner of the house, a brother of the slain 
 Aucliintriaten, escaped unhurt, and expressed a wish to be put to death rather in 
 the open air than within the house. " For your bread which I have eaten," an- 
 swered Barber, " I will grant the request." Mac Donald was dragged to the door 
 accordingly ; but he was an active man, and when the soldiers were presenting 
 their firelocks to shoot him, he cast his plaid over their faces, and taking advan- 
 tage of the confusion, broke from them, and escaped up the glen. 
 
 The alarm being now general, many other persons, male and female, attempted 
 their escape in the same manner as the two sons of Mac Ian and the person last 
 mentioned. Flying from their burning huts, and from their murderous visitors, 
 the half-naked fugitives committed themselves to a winter morning of darkness, 
 snow, and storm, amidst a wilderness the most savage in the West Highlands, 
 having a bloody death behind them, and before them tempest, famine, and desola- 
 tion. Bewildered in the snow-wreaths, several sunk to rise no more. But the 
 severities of tlie storm were tender mercies compared to the cruelty of their per- 
 secutors. The great fall of snow, which proved fatal to several of the fugitives, 
 was tlie means of saving the remnant that escaped. Major Duncanson, agreeably 
 to the plan expressed in hi-< orders to Glenlyon, had not failed to put himself in 
 motion, with four hundred men on the evening preceding the slaughter; and, 
 had he reached the eastern passes out of Glencoe by four in the morning, as he 
 calculated, he must have intercepted and destroyed all those who took that only 
 way of escape from Glenlyon and his followers. But as this reinforcement ar- 
 rived so late as eleven in the forenoon, they found no Mac Donald alive in Glen- 
 coe, save an old man of eighty, whom they slew ; and after burning such houses 
 as were yet unconsumed. they collected the property of the tribe, consisting of 
 twelve hundred head of cattle and horses, besides goats and sheep, and drove 
 them off to the garrison of Fort William. 
 
 Thus endedthis horrible deed of massacre. The number of persons murdered 
 was thirty-eight ; those who escaped might amount to a hundred and fifty males, 
 who, with the women and children of the tribe, had to fly more than twelve 
 miles through rocks and wildernesses ere they could reach any place of safety or 
 shelter 
 
 7Q * Note 5. Page 223. 
 
 O TC " Stoutly have I fought 
 
 Upon King James's side ; but with Dundee 
 His cause expired.''^ 
 
 "Dundee himself," says Sir Walter Scott, "contrary to the advice of the 
 Highland chiefs, was in the front of the battle, and fatally conspicuous. Observ. 
 ing the stand made by two English regiments, he galloped towards the clan of 
 Mac Donald, and was in the act of bringing them to the charge, with his right 
 arm elevated, as if pointing the way to victory, when he was struck by a luillet 
 beneath the armpit, where he was unprotected by the cuirass. He tried to ride 
 on, but being unable to keep the saddle, fell mortally v/ounded, and died in the 
 course of that night. Such was the general opinion of his talents and coura:;e, 
 and the general sense of the peculiar crisis at which his death took place, that 
 the common people of the low country cannot even now be persuaded that he 
 died an ordinary death. They say that a servant of his own, shocked at the 
 severities which, if triumphant, his master was likely to accomplish against the 
 Presbyterians, and giving way to the popular prejudice of his having a charm 
 against the effect of leaden balls, shot him in the tumult of the battle with a silver 
 button taken from his livery coat. The Jacobites and Episcopalian party, on the 
 other hand, lamented the deceased victor as the last of the Scots, the last of the 
 Grahams, and the last of all that was great in his native country." — Tales of a 
 Grandfather, chap. 56. 
 
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