Class 
 
 Book. 
 
/ 
 
 
 
 * 
 
ION: 
 
 A TRAGEDY, 
 
 / 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 
 THOMAS NOON TALFOURD. 
 
 FfPST ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE, 26th MAY 1836. 
 
 FOURTH EDITION 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED SONNETS. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 
 
 1837. 
 

 46157 
 
 PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, 
 RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET. 
 
NOTICE, 
 
 INSTEAD OF DEDICATION. 
 
 In offering this attempt at dramatic composition to the publie 
 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 indulgent 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 pro- 
 priety 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 
 
iv NO TJ C E. 
 
 intervals, had always mingled 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 Tragedy, which he super- 
 intended, 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 har- 
 monises the pictures of human character, found little in his 
 to spiritualise or to soften ; but if it has not enhanced the 
 feeling of his excellences in the minds of those who felt their 
 influence, it has enabled them to express that feeling without 
 the semblance of flattery. It has left them free, not only to 
 expatiate on those well-directed labours which have faci- 
 litated the access of the young to the elements of sound 
 learning; on the solemn and persuasive tone of his pulpit 
 eloquence ; on the steadiness of his attachment to principles 
 adopted with caution, expressed with moderation, yet main- 
 tained without a sigh at the cost of the emoluments and 
 honours 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 characterised, but wholly moulded of 
 Christian love to a degree of entireness 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 
 
NOTICE. v 
 
 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 Jj^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 never touched him 
 with a sense of reality. His guileless simplicity of heart 
 Was not preserved in learned seclusion, or by a constant / 
 watchfulness over the development 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 render emulation itself subservient to the generous 
 friendships which it promoted. His charity, in its compre- 
 hensiveness, resembled nothing less than the imagination of 
 the greatest of our poets, embracing every thing human ; 
 shedding its light upon the just and the unjust ; detecting 
 " the soul of goodness in things evil," and 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 childhood 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 
 
vi NOTICE. 
 
 which the Reading-school boy had upon it could not be 
 forfeited, not even " by slights, the worst of injuries ; " and 
 when broken in fortune, 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 perceived 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 affections 
 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 accu- 
 mulated around him; — the gentlest of monitors, and the 
 most considerate of sufferers — 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. 
 
 T. N. T. 
 London, 26th May, 1836. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE FOURTH PUBLISHED EDITION. 
 
 The following Drama, as the readers of two Editions 
 which were printed for private circulation are already 
 aware, was composed and printed without any hope of its 
 being found capable of representation on the stage. Its 
 publication in its present form was cotemporary with 
 its production on the night of Mr. Macready's benefit, 
 26th of May, 1836; and as, at that time, its repetition 
 was not anticipated, it was thought unnecessary to ac- 
 company it with any Preface. But as its performance has 
 since been attended with unexpected success both in this 
 country and in America, 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 assist- 
 ance it has thus far been rendered vital. The first of 
 those purposes will be best accomplished by extracting 
 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 Euripides, which gave the first hint of the situation 
 
vin PREFACE. 
 
 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 sub- 
 stance,' 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 existence and its pleasures, yet willing to lay 
 them down at the call of duty,— is scarcely capable of 
 being rendered sufficiently striking in itself, or of being 
 subjected to such agitations, as tragedy requires in 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 ele- 
 ments 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 notion 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 of 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, 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 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 pre- 
 sentation, in which a certain verisimilitude is essential to 
 the faith of the spectator. Whether any groups, sur- 
 rounded with the associations of the Greek Mythology, 
 and subjected to the capricious laws of Greek super- 
 stition, could be endowed by genius itself with such pre- 
 sent life as to awaken the sympathies of an English 
 audience, may well be doubted ; but it cannot be ques- 
 tioned, 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 co- 
 herent 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 expressions 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 the 
 phantasm of a tragedy, — not a thing of substance mortised 
 into the living rock of humanity, — and therefore incapable 
 of exciting that interest which grows out of human feeling, 
 or of holding that permanent place in the memory, which 
 truth only can retain. 
 
x PREFACE. 
 
 " 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, contemplated the achievement of a 
 tragedy. The narrow and well-defined limits by which 
 the action of tragedy is circumscribed — the various af- 
 fections 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 shapings 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, unchilled 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 plea- 
 sure. Perhaps ' gorgeous tragedy ' left a deeper im- 
 pression when she passed ' sweeping by ' my intellectual 
 vision, than 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 acquaintance 
 with plays, I had derived from Mrs. More's ' Sacred 
 Dramas * my first sense of that peculiar enjoyment which 
 the idea of dramatic action, however imperfectly con- 
 veyed, gives ; and stiff and cumbrous as they now seem, I 
 
PREFACE. xi 
 
 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 incapable of appreciating the 
 deep humanities of Shakspeare, ' rested and expatiated ' 
 in the brocaded grandeurs of Dryden, Rowe, and Ad- 
 dison. 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 fol- 
 lowed, when the visions of Roman constancy and classic 
 grace, which had haunted the mind through all its school- 
 boy 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 
 suggested at once the feeling of earthly weakness and of 
 immortal hope, — and when the old Stoic, in his rigid 
 grandeur, was reconciled to the human heart by the 
 struggle of paternal love, and became * passioned as our- 
 selves,' 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 con- 
 templations 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 fan- 
 
xi i PREFACE. 
 
 tasies, I was too much disgusted with the alternate bald- 
 ness and fustian of the blank verse, which I produced in 
 the attempt to execute them, to proceed. At this time 
 also, just as the laborious avocations of my life were com- 
 mencing, 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 uni- 
 verse ' 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 
 phraseology, 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, but 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, now 
 filling a judicial situation at Gibraltar, who overcame my 
 reluctance to peruse what the e Edinburgh Review ' had 
 so triumphantly 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 pro- 
 foundest emotions, or to regard them as associated with 
 
PREFACE. xm 
 
 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 Shakspeare's age dis- 
 appeared, we shall search in vain for serious plays of 
 equal power and beauty with Virginius, William Tell, 
 Mirandola, Rieiizi, 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 intimately 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 realisation of their noblest 
 conceptions, 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 
 
xiv PREFACE. 
 
 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, 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 out- 
 line 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 com- 
 position 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 to emulate the 
 ponderous lines of the dramatists of Garrick's age. Still 
 the idea of my hero occurred to me often ; I found my 
 pleasantest 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. It has been chiefly written in scraps of 
 time ; composed for the most part on journeys, and after- 
 wards committed to paper ; and thus, at the close of last 
 year, I found four acts reduced into form. At this time, 
 the sudden realisation 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 com- 
 pleting my Drama before those duties should commence, 
 to free myself from the bondage of those threads of fan- 
 
PREFACE. xv 
 
 tastical 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 mo- 
 mentous business, I had communicated to a few friends 
 the result of my scribblings, and bade adieu to my dra- 
 matic endeavours and hopes. 
 
 " But it may well be asked, Why, with the sense I have 
 of the feebleness of this poetical sketch, I have ventured 
 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 certainly 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 ; be- 
 cause, although as a drama it is unw 7 orthy the attention of 
 the world, yet, as containing 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 delightful 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 valleys indenting 
 the Table-Land above Church Stretton, or haply by 
 
xvi PREFACE. 
 
 moonlight in the churchyard of Ross. I take leave to 
 mention these as 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 sometimes Sessions-leader, who has committed 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 disdain it." 
 
 With these views Ion was sent to the press, and pre- 
 sented to many of my friends. The favour with which it 
 was received by some, whose approbation was most valu- 
 able, would have induced me at once to publish it, if I had 
 not been withheld by the suggestion of Mr. Macready, that 
 it would be effective in representation, 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, might burst 
 into light at the torch of sympathy, and become palpable 
 to the senses and the affections of a multitude, was too 
 delightful to be resigned, and was ultimately realised 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 endue it with sufficient interest to 
 render it attractive on ordinary occasions, I looked for- 
 ward 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 com- 
 
PREFACE. xvu 
 
 position were even less sanguine than myself as to the 
 probable event of the evening, and apprehended 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 has graced the stage of late years. Although other 
 of his performances are abstractedly greater, none I 
 believe approach this as an effort of art, estimated with 
 reference to the nature of the materials which he ani- 
 mated, to the 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 gradually rendered the 
 whole possible — probable— true ! The consequence of 
 this extraordinary power of vivifying the frigid, and fami- 
 liarising the remote, was to dissipate the fears of my 
 friends; to render the play an object of attraction during 
 the short remainder 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. 
 
 b 
 
xvin PREFACE 
 
 How little it was anticipated that the success of the 
 first performance would justify its repetition may be 
 gathered from the 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 watched with admi- 
 ration ; whose success I have hailed with delight ; and 
 through whom I was most happy to express my feelings. 
 
 " What airy visions on a play's first night 
 Have flash'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 greet appeal 
 To bear him witness — stamp'd with living seal — 
 Of passion into forms of grandeur wrought, 
 And 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, for a transient glance, he dares unveil 
 The feeble outlines of 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 fame where genius tips 
 With love's immortal lustre heavenly lips, 
 
PREFACE. xix 
 
 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 ! 
 
 u 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 ; 
 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 ! " 
 
 The part of the heroine, which affords too little scope 
 for the development of tragic power, was on this night 
 graced by the elegance 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 impos- 
 sible 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 faintness of its outline. Its 
 subsequent production at the Haymarket calls for a 
 sincere acknowledgment to Mr. Morris, the veteran 
 
xx PREFACE. 
 
 manager of that delightful place of entertainment, and to 
 all the members of his company, especially to Mr. Van- 
 denhoff for his kingly personation of Adrastus ; to Miss 
 Taylor for her earnest and affecting Clemanthe ; and, 
 most of all, to the original representative 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 de- 
 lightful characters, but of all that is most graceful and 
 refined in English womanhood, — or fail to cherish a wish 
 for her fame and happiness, 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 grati- 
 fication—that it has been read without disapproval by 
 many of those estimable persons whose conscientious 
 scruples withhold them from the theatre, 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 
 fortune not to any tone of moral feeling superior to that 
 which is to be felt in its more powerful cotemporaries, 
 but to the incidental relations of its author, and to the 
 manner of its original distribution ; and I refer to it, 
 therefore, with pleasure rather than with pride. If such 
 as these are still deterred from sharing in the refined 
 enjoyments of the acted drama, and from permitting 
 their children to receive from it the vivid impressions 
 which it leaves, by a just fear of the accidental influences 
 with which it has been too frequently associated, they 
 may be assured that an opportunity is now offered to them 
 
PREFACE. xxi 
 
 of accepting the benefit without the alloy. They will find 
 one of those great theatres — where alone the mightiest 
 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 pro- 
 fession or rank, and who, in seeking to dissipate the lan- 
 guor 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 
 embodies 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 skreen, as far as possible, from their thoughts. If, 
 indeed, 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 vapidity 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 imaging the graces of society without 
 its bitterness ; if it is an offence against the Beneficent 
 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 fruitless. But if 
 
xxn PREFACE. 
 
 there are those who, while they hold the faith and morals 
 of Milton, are not afraid to accept his precept and to 
 follow 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 ; because 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 gra- 
 dually 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 hitherto 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. 
 
 T. N. T. 
 London, 14th November, 1837. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 
 
 AS REPRESENTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE. 
 
 Adrastus, King of Argos, 
 
 Medox, { H i f h A P o r 1 ^ St ° f the Temple 
 
 Crythes, Captain of the Royal Guard, 
 
 Phocion, son of Medon, 
 
 Ctesiphon, 1 i i a • xl 
 
 Cassandek, } ™ble Argive youths, 
 
 Ion, 
 
 Agenor, "I 
 
 Cleon, > sages of Argos, 
 
 Timocles, J 
 
 Irus, a boy, slave to Agenor, 
 Clemanthe, daughter of Medon, 
 Abra, attendant on Clemanthe, 
 
 f Mr. Dale, 
 \Mr. Vandenhoff. 
 
 } 
 
 Mr. Thompson. 
 
 (Mr. C. Hill, 
 \ Mr. Roberts. 
 
 Mr. G. Bennett. 
 
 CMr.H Wallack, 
 
 < Mr. J. Webster. 
 [Mr. Howard. 
 
 Mr. Macready. 
 
 CMr. Pritchard. 
 
 < Mr. Tilbury. 
 [Mr. Harris. 
 
 Miss Lane. 
 
 f Miss Ellen Tree, 
 \ Miss H. Faucit. 
 
 Miss Lacy. 
 
 Scene — Argos. 
 
 The Time of the Action is comprised in one day and night 
 and the following morning. 
 
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 
 
 AS REPRESENTED AT THE HAYMARKET THEATRE. 
 
 Adrastus, King of Argos, 
 
 Crythes, Captain of the Royal Guard, 
 
 , T f High Priest of the Ten 
 
 Medon, J J Apoll0j 
 
 Phocion, son of Medon, 
 
 ^ T ' > noble Arrive youths, 
 
 Cassander, J & J 
 
 Ion, 
 
 Agenor, 
 Cleon 
 
 TlMOCLES 
 
 ■"' } 
 
 LES, J 
 
 sages of Argos, 
 
 Irus, a boy, slave to Agenor, 
 Clemanthe, daughter of Medon, 
 A bra, attendant on Clemanthe, 
 
 {Mr. Vandenhoff, 
 Mr. Elton. 
 
 Mr. Yarnold. 
 j Mr. Selby. 
 
 Mr. J. Vining. 
 
 {Mr. Vining. 
 Mr. Saville. 
 
 Miss Ellen Tree. 
 
 f Mr. Haines. 
 < Mr. Gough. 
 [Mr. GalloU 
 
 Miss E. Phillips. 
 
 Miss Taylor. 
 
 Miss Gordon, 
 
 
ION; 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is supposed 
 to be placed on a rocky eminence. Early morning. 
 The interior lighted by a single lamp suspended from 
 the roof Agenor resting against a column; — Irus 
 seated on a bench at the side of the scene. 
 
 Agenor comes forward and speaks. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 A 
 
2 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 I 'm loth so soon to break thy scanty rest, 
 But my heart sickens for the tardy morn ; 
 Sure it is 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 ? 
 
 TRUS. 
 
 Know it ? Yes, my Lord ; 
 There often have I bless'd the opening day, 
 Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste 
 In happy wandering through the forests. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Well, 
 Thou art not then afraid to tread it ; there 
 The earliest streak from the unrisen sun 
 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. 
 
 agenor. 
 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 
 
scene !.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 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 
 
 Wliere life was. 
 
 Re-enter Irus. 
 Are there signs of day-break ? 
 irus. 
 
 None ; 
 The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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-render'd service : but my brother — 
 
4 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 Thou mayst have noted him, — a sturdy lad, 
 
 With eye so merry and with foot so light 
 
 That none could chide his gamesomeness — fell sick 
 
 But yesterday, and died in my weak arms 
 
 Ere I could seek for stouter aid : I 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 link'd in arm, to watch the gleaming sails — 
 
 His favourite pastime, for he burn'd 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 sure 'twill cheer thy heart to speak with him. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep, 
 
 Or, if thou wilt, to weep. [Exit Irus. 
 
 I envy thee 
 The privilege, but Jupiter forfend 
 That I should rob thee of it ! 
 
 Enter Cleon. 
 
 cleon. 
 
 Hail, Agenor ! 
 Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet 
 To find thy age unstricken. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Rather mourn 
 That I am destined still to linger here 
 
scene i.J ION; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 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 
 
 With 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 license, 
 
 Which firmly he refuses. 
 
 CLEON. 
 
 Do not chide me 
 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 i $ 
 
 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 grove 
 Smiling amidst the storm, a most rare infant, 
 Should have had sternness to deny. 
 
6 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act I 
 
 AGRNOR. 
 
 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 
 Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth, 
 Expanding with its progress, as the store 
 Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals 
 Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury, 
 To flush and circle in the flower. No tear 
 Hath fill'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 
 In righteous indignation, he hath heard 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 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 thoughtful 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. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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 
 
8 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i 
 
 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 ? 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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 1 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 
 To murmurings of doom. There is a foe 
 Who in the glorious summit of the state 
 Draws 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 pluck'd 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— 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 9 
 
 An honest though a crabbed one — Timocles : 
 Something hath ruffled him. — Good day, Timocles ! 
 
 [Timocles passes in front. 
 He will not speak to us. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 But he shall speak. 
 Timocles — nay then, thus I must enforce thee ; 
 
 [staying him. 
 Sure thou wilt not refuse a comrade's hand 
 That may be cold ere sunset. 
 
 timocles. [giving his hand. 
 
 Thou mayst school me ; 
 Thy years and love have license : but I own not 
 A stripling's mastery ; is 't fit, Agenor ? 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Nay, 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 ? 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 I blush to tell it. Weary of the night 
 
 And of my life, I sought the western portal : 
 
 It opened, 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, 
 
10 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 I bade him stand aside and let me pass ; 
 
 When — wouldst thou think it? — in determined speech 
 
 He gave me counsel to return ; I press 'd 
 
 Impatient onward : he, with 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. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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 
 Again thy pardon. I am young in trust, 
 And fear lest, in the earnestness of love, 
 I stayed 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 experiences of years 
 From one rash moment's danger. 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 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 
 
scenei.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 11 
 
 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 ! 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 What, to strike ? to slay ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 No ! — not unless the audible voice of Heaven 
 
 Call thee to that dire office ; but to shed 
 
 On ears abused by 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, 
 
12 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 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. 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 Have I not said so ? 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Welcome to the morn ! 
 
 The eastern gates unfold, the Priest approaches ; 
 
 [As Age nor 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 will triumph ; 
 
 Bless'd be the omen ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 God of light and joy, 
 Once more delight 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. 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 13 
 
 ION. 
 
 Sayst thou in blood ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Yes, Ion ! — why, he sickens at the word, 
 Spite of his new-born strength ; — the sights of woe 
 That he will seek have shed their paleness on him. 
 Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 I pass'd the palace where the frantic king 
 Yet holds his crimson revel, whence 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 ? 
 
 T1MOCLES. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Yes ; I believe he felt our sufferings once ; 
 When, at my strong entreaty, he dispatched 
 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 
 
14 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 Impatient of all counsel, — to his palace 
 In awful mood retiring, wildly calPd 
 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. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 I am prepared to brave it. 
 
 CLEON. 
 
 So am I. 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 And I— 
 
 ION. 
 
 O Sages, do not think my prayer 
 Bespeaks unseemly forwardness — send me ! 
 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 ; 
 I am a lone stray thing, whose little life 
 By strangers' bounty cherish'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. 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 15 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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 a cloudless holiday ; 
 And O, my more than father ! let me look 
 Up to thy face as if indeed a father's, 
 And give me a son's blessing. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Bless thee, son ! 
 I should be marble now ; let 's part at once. 
 
 ION. 
 
 If I should not return, bless Phocion from me ^ 
 And, for Clemanthe — may I speak one word, 
 One parting word with my fair playfellow ? 
 
16 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 O grant it be in life ! Let 's to the sacrifice. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 An apartment of the Temple. Enter Clem a nth e 
 followed by A bra. 
 
 clemanthe. 
 Is he so changed ? 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 His bearing is so alter'd, 
 That, distant, I scarce knew him for himself; 
 But, looking in his face, I felt his smile 
 Gracious as ever, though its sweetness wore 
 Unwonted sorrow in it. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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. 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 17 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 Thou knowest that he has privilege to range 
 The infected city ; and, 'tis said, he spends 
 The hours of needful rest in squalid hovels 
 Where death is most forsaken. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 He comes to answer for himself. I '11 leave you. [Exit. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Stay ! Well my heart may guard its secret best 
 By its own strength. 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 ion. 
 How fares my pensive sister ? 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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, 
 
18 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act! 
 
 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 
 
 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 honor'd death-bed of the rich, 
 
 To him who else were lonely, that another 
 
 Of the great family is near and feels. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Oh, 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 
 
scene II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 19 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Thou wilt leave us ! 
 I read it plainly in thy alter'd 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 To the palace ! 
 Knowest thou the peril — nay the certain issue 
 That waits thee ? Death ! — The tyrant has decreed it, 
 Confirmed it with an oath ; and he has power 
 To keep that oath ; for, hated as he is, 
 
•20 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i, 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Never ! 
 What will to me be father, brother, friends, 
 When thou art gone — the light of our life quench 'd — 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 21 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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 affection grew 
 To this, I know not ; — day succeeded day, 
 Each fraught with the same innocent delights, 
 Without one shock to ruffle the disguise 
 Of sisterly regard which veil'd it well, 
 Till thy changed mien reveaPd 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 ungrateful 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. 
 
22 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Thou canst not mean it ! 
 Have I disclaim'd all maiden bashfulness, 
 To tell the cherish'd 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 honor. 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 endowed 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 ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Go! 
 I would not have thee other than thou art, 
 Living or dying — and if thou shouldst fall — 
 
 ION. 
 
 Be sure I shall return. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 If thou shouldst fall, 
 I shall be happier as the affianced bride 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 23 
 
 Of thy cold ashes, than in proudest fortunes — 
 Thine — ever thine — [she faints in his arms. 
 
 ion. [calls.] 
 Abra ! — So best to part — [Enter Abra. 
 Let her have air ; be near her through the day ; 
 I know thy tenderness — should ill news come 
 Of any friend, she will require it all. 
 
 [Abra bears Clemanthe out. 
 Ye Gods, that have enrich'd the life ye claim 
 With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 END OF ACT 
 
24 ION; A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Terrace of the Palace. 
 
 ADRASTUS, CRYTHES. 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 The air breathes freshly after our long night 
 Of glorious revelry. I '11 walk awhile. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 It blows across the town ; dost thou not fear 
 It bear infection with it 1 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 My liege, of human might all know thee fearless, 
 But may not heroes shun the elements 
 When sickness taints them ? 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 25 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Let them blast me now ! — 
 I stir not ; tremble not ; these massive walls, 
 \$bose date o'erawes tradition, gird the home 
 Of a great race of kings, along whose line 
 The eager mind lives aching, through the darkness 
 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, 
 In mute obedience. I, sad heriter 
 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. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 Thou art ever royal in thy thoughts. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 No more — 
 I would be private. [Exit Crythes. 
 
 Grovelling parasite ! 
 Why should I waste these fate-environ'd hours, 
 And pledge 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 
 
26 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 11. 
 
 Companionship : I '11 henceforth feast alone. 
 
 Enter a Soldier. 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 My liege, forgive me. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Well ! Speak out at once 
 Thy business, and retire. 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 I have no part 
 In the presumptuous message that I bear. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Ha ! the greybeards 
 Who, mid the altars of the gods, conspire 
 To cast the image of supernal power 
 
scenei.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 27 
 
 From 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Most bravely plann'd ! 
 Sedition worthy of the reverend host 
 Of sophist traitors ; brave to scatter fancies 
 Of discontent midst sturdy artisans, 
 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 gentle 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 
 
28 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii 
 
 To do his office. [Exit Soldter, 
 
 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- 
 place, 
 To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd ; 
 And if he cross yon threshold, he shall die. 
 
 Enter Crythes and Ion. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 The king ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Stranger, I bid thee welcome ; 
 We are about to tread the same dark passage, 
 Thou almost on the instant. — Is the sword 
 
 [To Crythes. 
 Of justice sharpen'd, and the headsman ready? 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 Thou mayst 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. 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 29 
 
 ADRASTUS. [to IoN.] 
 
 Dost thou see them ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 I do. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes ! till yon dial 
 Cast its thin shadow on the approaching hour, 
 I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant, 
 Come without word, and lead him to his doom. 
 Now leave us. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 What, alone ? 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Yes, slave! alone. 
 He is no assassin ! [Exit Crythes. 
 
 Tell me who thou art. 
 What generous source owns that heroic blood, 
 
30 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act n 
 
 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 
 
 Upon the verge of bloody death as calm, 
 
 As equal in its beatings, as when sleep 
 
 Approach'd me nestling from the sportive toils 
 
 Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial dreams 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 I know it must ; so mayst thou spare thy warnings. 
 
 The envious gods in me have doom'd a race, 
 
 Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts, 
 
 Whence their own dawn'd 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 sayst, too late j nor seek 
 
scene i] ION; A TRAGEDY. 31 
 
 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 father's 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Steel'd 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, i*" maternal love embraced thee then, 
 
 Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet 
 
 Glare o'er their perishing children : hast thou 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 ! 
 
32 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii, 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 In every word thou dost but steal my soul. 
 My youth was blasted ; — parents, brother, kin — 
 All that should people infancy with joy — 
 Conspired to poison mine ; despoiled 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 — 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 — 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Beware ! beware ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 Thou hast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not marble, 
 And thou shalt hear me ! — Think upon the time 
 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 being ; — taste in thought again 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 33 
 
 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 sympathy with one, 
 Grew bountiful to all ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 unb ought affection to me, 
 And waked my soul to blessing ! — O sweet hours 
 Of golden joy, 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Again ! — that voice again ! — thou hast seen me moved 
 As never mortal saw me, by a tone 
 W hich 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, broke out in clamorous ecstasies ; 
 
 c 
 
34 ION; A TRAGEDY, [act ii. 
 
 Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups 
 
 Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun, 
 
 And welcome thunder'd from a thousand throats, 
 
 My doom was seaPd. 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-appalling 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 accursed, 
 
 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 freezingiy upon me ! 
 
 § ,ON - 
 
 But thy brother-*|j 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Died. Thou hast heard the lie, 
 The common lie that every peasant tells 
 Of me his master,— that I slew the boy. 
 'Tis false ! One summer's eve, below a crag 
 Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb, 
 He lay a mangled corpse : the very slaves, 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 35 
 
 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 ? 
 
 ADRASTUS, 
 
 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 my father's shudder ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 Didst not declare thy innocence ? 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 
 
36 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 
 
 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 boughs, till limbs once lightly strung 
 
 Might mate in cordage with its infant stems ; 
 
 Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest 
 
 Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air 
 
 Headlong committed, clove the water's depth 
 
 Which plummet never sounded ; — but in vain. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Yet succour came to thee ? 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 
 
scene l.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 37 
 
 The body of her aged sire, whose death 
 Left her alone. I aided her sad work, 
 And soon too 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 1 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Fools ! did they deem 
 Its worst accomplishment could match the ill 
 Which they wrought on me ? It had left unharm'd 
 A thousand ecstasies 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 wave eddies : I stood still 
 
38 ION; A TRAGEDY. [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 — 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 ! She looks upon me now ! 
 
 There 's magic in 't. Bear with me — I am childish. 
 
 Enter Crythes and Guards. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Why art thou here ? 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 The dial points the hour. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd ? 
 Hast thou no heart — no sense ? 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 Scarce half an hour 
 Hath flown since the command on which I wait. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Scarce half an hour ! — years— years have roll'd since then. 
 
scenei.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 39 
 
 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 word. [Exit Crythes. 
 
 What wouldst thou have me do ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 Let thy awaken'd heart speak its own language ; 
 Convene thy Sages ; — frankly, nobly meet them ; 
 Explore with them the pleasure of the gods, 
 And, whatsoe'er the sacrifice, perform it. 
 
 ADKASTUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Yet stay — he 's gone — his spell is on me yet ; 
 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 ! 
 
40 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 11 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Interior of the Temple, 
 
 [Same as Act I. Scene I.] 
 
 [Clemanthe seated — Abra attending her.] 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 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 ra'pt. 
 
 [Enter Agenor.] 
 
 O speak to my sweet mistress ; 
 Haply thy voice may rouse her. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Dear Clemanthe, 
 Hope dawns in every omen ; we shall hail 
 Our tranquil hours again. 
 
 Enter Medon, Cleon, Timocles, and others. 
 medon. 
 Clemanthe here ! 
 How sad ! how pale ! 
 
scene 11.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 4] 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 Her eye is kindling — hush ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Hark ! hear ye not a distant footstep ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 No. 
 Look round, my fairest child ; thy friends are near thee. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Yes ! — now 'tis lost — 'tis on that endless stair — 
 Nearer and more distinct — 'tis his — 'tis his — 
 He lives ! he comes ! 
 
 [Clemanthe rises 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 1 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Dearest girl, 
 This is no scene for thee ; go to thy chamber; 
 I '11 come to thee ere long. 
 
 [Exeunt Clemanthe and Abra. 
 She is o'erwrought 
 By fear and joy for one whose infant hopes 
 Were mingled with her own, even as a brother's. 
 
 TIMOCLES. 
 
 Ion! 
 How shall we do thee honor ? 
 
42 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii 
 
 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 nature's latest rally in him, 
 In fitful strength, ere it be quench 'd for ever ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Haste to your seats ; I will but speak 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 Me don 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 my 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 
 A fellowship in childhood's thousand joys 
 And household memories had nurtured friendship 
 Which might hold blameless empire in the soul ; 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 43 
 
 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. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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. 
 
 medon. 
 Ctesiphon !— and breathless- 
 Art come to chide me to the council ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 No; 
 To bring unwonted joy ; thy son approaches, 
 
44 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Thank Heaven ! Hast spoken with him ? Is he well ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 I strove in vain to reach him, for the crowd, 
 
 Roused 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 ! 
 
 The throng is tending this way — now it parts, 
 
 And yields him to thy arms. 
 
 Enter Phocion. 
 medon. 
 
 Welcome, my Phocion — 
 Long waited for in Argos ; how detain'd 
 Now matters not, since thou art here in joy. 
 Hast brought the answer of the god ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 I have : 
 Now let Adrastus tremble ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 May we hear it ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 I am sworn first to utter it to him. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 But it is fatal to him ! — Say but that ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Ha, Ctesiphon ! — I mark'd thee not before ; 
 
sceneii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 45 
 
 How fares thy father ? 
 
 ion. [to Phocion.] 
 Do not speak of him. 
 ctesiphon. [overhearing Ion.] 
 Not speak of him ! Dost think there is a moment 
 When common things eclipse the burning thought 
 Of him and vengeance ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Has the tyrant's sword — 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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 gathered strength, 
 In his old seat, to speak one word of warning. 
 Thou know'st how bland with years his wisdom grew, 
 And with what phrases, steep'd in love, he sheath'd 
 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- 
 stroke ! 
 The old man totter'd home, and only once 
 Raised his head after. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Thou wert absent ? Yes ! 
 
46 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 11. 
 
 The royal miscreant lives ! 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Had I beheld 
 That sacrilege, the tyrant had lain dead, 
 Or I had been torn piecemeal by his minions. 
 But I was far away : when I return 'd, 
 I found my father on the nearest bench 
 Within our door, his thinly silver'd head 
 Supported by wan hands, which hid his face 
 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 
 Gleam'd with a youthful fire ; — I fell in awe 
 Upon my knees before him — still he spake not, 
 But slowly raised his arm untrembling ; clench 'd 
 His hand as if it grasp'd an airy knife, 
 And struck in air : my hand was joined with his 
 In nervous grasp — my lifted eye met his 
 In steadfast gaze — my pressure answer'd 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 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 47 
 
 From the proud gates which shelter him. He lives — 
 And I am here to babble of revenge ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 It comes, my friend — haste with me to the king ! 
 
 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, 
 
 give allowance to his soften'd nature ! 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Show grace to him ! — Dost dare ? — I had forgot, 
 Thou dost not know how a son loves a father ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 1 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 w r eakling ; whom the heat unnerves, 
 
 The north wind pierces ; and the hand of death 
 
 May, in a moment, change to clay as vile 
 
 As that of the scourged slave whose chains it severs ? 
 
 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 
 
48 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii 
 
 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 wreathe 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! 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Go talk to others, if thou wilt ; — to me 
 All argument, save that of steel, is idle. 
 
 medon. 
 No more ; — let 's to the council — there, my son, 
 Tell thy great message nobly ; — and for thee, 
 Poor orphan'd youth, be sure the gods are j ust ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 49 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The great Square of the City. Adrastus seated on a 
 throne; Agenor, Timocles, Cleon, and others, 
 seated as Councillors — Soldiers line the stage at a 
 distance. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Upon your summons, Sages, I am here ; 
 
 Your king attends to know your pleasure ; speak it ! 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 And canst thou ask ? If the heart dead within thee 
 
 "Receives no impress of this awful time, 
 
 Art thou of sense forsaken ? Are thine ears 
 
 So charm'd by strains of slavish minstrelsy 
 
 That the dull groan and frenzy-pointed shriek 
 
 Pass them unheard to Heaven 1 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 furrows 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 
 
 Starts into frightful courage, all unlike 
 
 The gentle strength its gentle weakness feeds 
 
 To make affliction beautiful, and stalks 
 
 D 
 
50 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 
 
 Abroad, a tearless, an unshuddering thing; — 
 
 While Childhood, in 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 with furious passion digs 
 
 Amid sepulchral images for gauds 
 
 To cheat its fancy with ? — Do sights like these 
 
 Glare through the realm thou shouldst be parent to, 
 
 And canst thou find the voice to ask " our pleasure ? " 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Cease, babbler ; — wherefore would ye stun my ears 
 
 With vain recital of the griefs I know, 
 
 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. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Thou hast the power 
 To cast thyself upon the earth with us 
 In penitential shame ; or, if this power 
 Hath 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 I have yet power to punish insult — look 
 I use it not, Agenor ! — Fate may dash 
 
scene m.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 51 
 
 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 M 
 
 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 show'd 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 ! 
 
52 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 11. 
 
 So shall the royalty of Argos pass 
 
 In festal blaze to darkness ! Have ye spoken ? 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 I speak no more to thee ! — Great Jove, look down ! 
 [Shouting without.] 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 What factious brawl is this ? — disperse it, soldiers. 
 [Shouting renewed — As some of the soldiers are about to 
 
 march, Phocion rushes in, followed by Ctesiphon, 
 
 Ion, and Medon. 
 Whence is this insolent intrusion ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 King! 
 I bear Apollo's answer to thy prayer. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Has not thy travel taught thy knee its duty ? 
 Here we had school'd thee better. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Kneel to thee ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Patience, my son ! Do homage to the king. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Never ! — thou talk'st of schooling — know, Adrastus, 
 
 That I have studied in a nobler school 
 
 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, 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 53 
 
 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 no mightier than themselves, 
 Save in the absence of that love that softens. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Peace ! speak thy message. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Shall I tell it here ? 
 Or shall I seek thy couch at dead of night, 
 And breathe it in low whispers ? — As thou wilt. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Here — and this instant ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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." 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Tis not God's will, but man's sedition speaks : — 
 Guards ! tear that lying parchment from his hands, 
 And bear him to the palace. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Touch him not, — 
 He is Apollo's messenger, whose lips 
 Were never stain'd with falsehood. 
 
54 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Come on, all ! 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Surround him, friends ! Die with him ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Soldiers, charge 
 Upon these rebels ; hew them down. On, on ! 
 The soldiers advance and surround the people ; they 
 seize Phocion. Ion rushes from the back of the 
 stage, and throws himself between Adrastus and 
 Phocion. 
 
 Phocion 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 spirit 
 Is mourning for thee now ! 
 
 adrastus. 
 
 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 ; 
 
sceneiii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 55 
 
 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Art mad ? 
 Resign thy state ? Sue to the gods for life, 
 The common life which every slave endures, 
 And meanly clings to I 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, who stands apart leaning on a pedestal. 
 'Tis seal'd ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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 wrapt in meditation. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Tis well ; the measure of his guilt is fill'd. 
 Where shall we meet at sunset ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 In the grove, 
 
56 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 11. 
 
 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Thither 
 Will I bring friends to meet thee. Shall we speak 
 To yon rapt youth ? [pointing to Ion. 
 
 phocion. 
 His nature is too gentle. 
 At sunset we will meet. — With arms 1 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 A knife — 
 One sacrificial knife will serve. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 At sunset ! 
 [Exeunt Ctesiphon and Phocion severally. 
 Ion comes forward, 
 
 ION. 
 
 O wretched man, thy words have seal'd thy doom ! 
 
 Why should I shiver at it, when no way, 
 
 Save this, remains to break the ponderous oloud 
 
 That hangs above my wretched country ? — death — 
 
 A single death, the common lot of all, 
 
 Which it will not be mine to look upon, — 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 57 
 
 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 ! [Exit. 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
58 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Terrace of the Temple. 
 
 CLEMANTHE, ION. 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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 ugly. 
 
 ION. 
 
 No, my fair one, 
 The gloom that wrongs thy love is unredeem'd 
 By generous sense of others' woe : too sure 
 It rises from dark presages within, 
 x\nd will not from me. 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 59 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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, 
 Remain 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 
 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 sculptured mockery 
 
60 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iu. 
 
 Of present empire sit, their eyes of stone 
 
 Bent on ine instinct with a frightful life 
 
 That drew me into fellowship with them, 
 
 As conscious marble ; while their ponderous lips — 
 
 Fit organs of eternity — unclosed, 
 
 And, as I live to tell thee, murmur'd " Hail ! 
 
 Hail! Ion the Devoted!" 
 
 CLEM A NTH E. 
 
 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 '11 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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 ! 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 61 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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, 
 When, with unswerving hand and piteous eye, 
 He stops the brief life 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 the knife 
 Of the selected slayer ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Tis thyself 
 Whom thy strange language pictures — Ion ! thou — 
 
 ION. 
 
 She has said it ! Her pure lips have spoken out 
 What all things intimate ; — didst thou not mark 
 Me for the office of avenger — me ? 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 No ; — save from the wild picture that thy fancy — 
 Thy o'erwrought fancy drew ; I thought it look'd 
 Too like thee, and I shudder'd. 
 
62 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Let me 
 Go with thee. O, how often hand in hand 
 In such a lovely light have we roam'd 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, 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Farewell then ! 
 
scene i!.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 63 
 
 How fearful disproportion shows in one 
 
 Whose life hath been all harmony ! He bends 
 
 Towards that thick covert where in blessed hour 
 
 My father found him, which has ever been 
 
 His chosen place of musing. Shall I follow ? 
 
 Am I 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 ! [ExiL 
 
 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 
 
64 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act in. 
 
 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 1 — 
 
 Where fly ? — I see the myrtle-cradled spot 
 
 Where human love instructed by divine 
 
 Found and embraced me first ; I '11 cast me down 
 
 Upon that earth as on a mother's breast, 
 
 In hope to feel myself again a child. 
 
 [Ion goes into the wood. 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and other Argive youths. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Sure this must be the place that Phocion spoke of; — 
 The twilight deepens, yet he does not come. 
 O, if, instead of idle dreams of freedom, 
 He knew the sharpness of a grief like mine, 
 He would not linger thus ! 
 
 CASSANDER. 
 
 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 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 65 
 
 Are eager as the favouring darkness. 
 
 Enter Phocion. 
 ctesiphon. 
 
 Welcome ! 
 Thou know'st all here. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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 '11 not shame 
 Our young imaginations. Ctesiphon, 
 We look to thee for guidance in our aim. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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 
 1 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 
 
66 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 
 
 Oppress'd with heavy sleep, while his loose soldiers, 
 
 Made by the fierce carousal vainly mad 
 
 Or grossly dull, are scatter'd through the courts 
 
 Unarm'd and cautionless. The eastern portal 
 
 Is at this moment open ; by that gate 
 
 We all may enter unperceived, and line 
 
 The passages which gird the royal chamber, 
 
 While one blest hand within completes 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 ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 And I! 
 
 CASSANDER. 
 
 And I ! 
 
scene II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 67 
 
 ION. 
 
 [ Who has advanced from the wood, rushes to the altar, 
 
 and exclaims] 
 And I! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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 round of waking dreams 
 Into this fellowship which makes all clear. 
 Wilt trust me, Ctesiphon ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Yes ; but we waste 
 The precious minutes in vain talk : if lots 
 Must guide us, have ye scrolls? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Cassander has them : 
 The flickering light of yonder glade will serve him 
 To inscribe them with our names. Be quick, Cassander ! 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 I wear a casque, beneath whose iron circlet 
 My father's dark hairs whiten'd ; let it hold 
 The names of his avengers ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon takes off his helmet and gives it io Cassander, 
 who retires vnth it.] 
 
68 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act in. 
 
 PHOCION [to CTESIPHON.] 
 
 He whose name 
 Thou 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 ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Now, gods, decide ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon draws a lot from the helmet. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 The name ? Why dost thou pause ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Tis Ion ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 Well I knew it would be mine ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon draws another lot. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Phocion ! it will be thine to strike him dead 
 If he should prove faint-hearted. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 With my life 
 I '11 answer for his constancy. 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 69 
 
 ctesiphon [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,'] 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Receive this steel, 
 For ages dedicate in my sad home 
 To sacrificial uses ; grasp it nobly, 
 And consecrate it to untrembling 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Such words 
 The god hath used who never speaks in vain. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 There were old rumours of an infant born 
 And strangely vanishing ; — a tale of guilt 
 Half-hush'd, perchance distorted in the hushing, 
 And by the wise scarce heeded, for they deem'd it 
 One of a thousand guilty histories, 
 Which, if 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, 
 
70 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 
 
 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 joy. 
 
 Ion 
 [Approaches the altar, and, lifting up the knife, speaks] 
 Ye eldest gods, 
 Who in no statues of exactest form 
 Are palpable ; 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 
 AVith blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe 
 Through the proud halls of time-embolden'd 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 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 71 
 
 My country asks, harden my soul to shed it ! — 
 Was not that thunder ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 No ; I heard no sound. 
 Now mark me, Ion ! — thou shalt straight be led 
 To the king's chamber ; we shall be at hand ; 
 Nothing can give thee pause. Hold ! one should watch 
 The city's eastern portal, lest the troops, 
 Returning from the work of plunder home, 
 Surround us unprepared. Be that thy duty. 
 
 [To Phocion. 
 
 phocion. 
 I am to second Ion if he fail. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Be brief then, or the season of revenge 
 
 Will pass. At yonder thicket we '11 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 
 
72 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 
 
 From any human eye. [He conceals the knife in his vest. 
 
 [Enter Clemanthe.] 
 Clemanthe here ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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 thou art wont to seek 
 Beside the bed of death. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Death, sayst 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Not without thee. 
 Indeed thou art not well ; thy hands are marble ; 
 Thine eyes are fix'd ; let me support thee, love : — 
 Ha ! what is that gleaming within thy vest ? 
 A knife ! Tell me its purpose, Ion ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 No; 
 My oath forbids. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 An oath ! O gentle Ion, 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 73 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Nay, do not leave me thus. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Tis very sad [voices again]— I dare not stay — farewell ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 It must be to Adrastus that he hastes ! 
 
 If by his hand the fated tyrant die, 
 
 Austere 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. 
 
74 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Chamber in the Temple. 
 
 Enter Mevok , followed by Abra. 
 
 medon. 
 My daughter not within the temple, sayst thou ? 
 Abroad at such an hour ? Sure not alone 
 She wander'd : 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. 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 She went forth alone ; 
 But it is true that Ion just before 
 Had taken the same path. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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. 
 
 Abra [looking out.] 
 
 No ; young Irus, 
 The little slave, whose pretty tale of grief 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 75 
 
 Agenor, with so gracious a respect, 
 This morning told us. 
 
 MEDOJS. 
 
 Let him come ; he bears 
 Some message from his master. 
 
 E)iter Irus. 
 Medon [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 scroll 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 chilness 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, 
 
76 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 
 
 Me don [reading the scroll."] 
 
 These are high tidings. 
 Abra ! is not Clemanthe come ? I long 
 To tell her all. 
 
 Enter Clemanthe. 
 medon. 
 Sit down, my pensive child. 
 Abra, 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. 
 
 medon. 
 
 Nay, I will use 
 Thy master's firmness here, and use it so 
 As he would use it. Keep him prisoner, Abra, 
 Till he has done my bidding. 
 
 [Exeunt Abra and Iuus. 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 It is of Ion ; — no — I do not blush, 
 
 But tremble. O my father, what of Ion ? 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 77 
 
 ME DON. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Dost thou mean Adrastus ? 
 He cannot — must not — be that tyrant's son ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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 
 Upon us first, hath moulded for her own 
 
78 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 
 
 The suppliant of her bounty ; — thou art bless'd ; 
 Thus, let me bid thee joy. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Impossible ! 
 Ion, the gentlest 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 It is true, my father ; 
 I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest ; 
 I heard him calPd ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Shall I alarm the palace ? 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 No ; in the fierce confusion, he would fall 
 Before our tale could be its safeguard. Gods ! 
 Is there no hope, no refuge ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Yes, if Heaven 
 Assist us. I bethink me of a passage, 
 Which, fashion'd 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. 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 79 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 O, make haste, my father ! 
 Shall I attend thee ? 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 No ; thou wouldst impede 
 My steps; — thou art fainting; when I have lodged thee safe 
 In thy own chamber, I will light the torch, 
 And instantly set forward. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 The gods protect thee ! 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
80 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Royal Chamber, Adrastus on a couch, asleep. 
 Enter Ion with the knife. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Why do I creep thus stealthily 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 I — Yes ; I have heard your voices ; 
 
 For I dare pray ye now to nerve my arm 
 
 And see me strike ! [He 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, 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 81 
 
 And he shall know their sentence. Wake, Adrastus ! 
 Collect thy spirits, and be strong to die ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Who dares disturb my rest ? Guards ! Soldiers ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Villains ! does no one hear i 
 
 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 
 Of Powers who watch above me while I stand 
 To execute their sentence. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 dar'st do it ; but bethink thee first 
 
82 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 How the grim memory of thy thankless deed 
 Will haunt thee to the grave ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 It is most true ; 
 Thou spar'dst my life, and therefore do the gods 
 Ordain me 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 I have none on earth. 
 If thou hast courage, end me ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 Not one friend ! 
 Most piteous doom ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
scene i. J ION; A TRAGEDY. 83 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 No ; strike at once ; my hour is come : in thee 
 I recognise the minister of Jove, 
 And, kneeling thus, submit me to his power. 
 [Ad r ast us kneels.} 
 
 ION. 
 
 Avert thy face ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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, 
 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 I 
 [Ion raises his arm to stab Adrastus, who is kneeling, 
 and gazes steadfastly upon him. The voice of Me don 
 is heard without, calling Ion ! Ion ! — Ion drops his 
 arm.} 
 
 ADRASTUS, 
 
 Be quick, or thou art lost ! 
 
84 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 [As Ion has again raised his arm to strike, Me don 
 rushes in behind him.'] 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Ion, forbear! 
 Behold thy son, Adrastus ! 
 
 [Ion stands for a moment stnpified with horror, drops 
 the knife f and falls senseless on the ground.] 
 adrastus. 
 What strange words 
 Are these which call my senses from the death 
 They were composed to welcome ? Son ! 'tis false — 
 I had but one — and the deep wave rolls o'er him ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 That wave received, instead of the fair nurseling, 
 One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight 
 In wicked haste to slay ; — I '11 give thee proofs. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Great Jove, I thank thee ! — raise him gently — proofs ! 
 Are there not here the lineaments of her 
 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 ! 
 [Ion, reviving, sinks on one knee before Adrastus.] 
 
 ion. 
 Father! [Noise without. 
 
scene I.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 85 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 The clang of arras ! 
 
 ion. [starting up.] 
 
 They come ! they come ! 
 They who are leagued with me against thy life. 
 Here let us fall ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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.'] 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Have mercy on him, gods, for the dear sake 
 Of your most single-hearted worshipper ! 
 
 [Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and others.] 
 ctesiphon. 
 What treachery is this — the tyrant fled, 
 And Ion fled too ! — Comrades, stay this dotard, 
 While I search yonder chamber. 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Spare him, friends, — 
 Spare him to clasp awhile his new-found son ; 
 Spare him as Ion's father ! 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Father ! yes — 
 That is indeed a name to bid me spare ; — 
 Let me but find him, gods ! 
 
 [He rushes into the inner chamber. 
 
86 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 Medon [to Cassander and the others.] 
 
 Had ye but seen 
 What have I seen, ye would have mercy on him. 
 
 Cry the s enters with soldiers. 
 Ha, soldiers ! hasten to defend your master ; 
 
 That way 
 
 [As Crythes is about to enter the inner chamber, 
 Ctesiphon rushes from it with a bloody dagger, and 
 stops them.] 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 It is accomplished ; the foul blot 
 Is wiped away. Shade of my murder'd father, 
 Look on thy son, and smile ! 
 
 crythes. 
 
 Whose blood is that ? 
 It cannot be the king's ! 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 It cannot be ! 
 Think'st thou, foul minion of a tyrant's will, 
 He was to crush, and thou to crawl for ever I 
 Look there, and tremble ! 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 Wretch ! thy life shall pay 
 The forfeit of this deed. 
 
 [Crythes and soldiers seize Ctesiphon. 
 Enter Adrastus mortally wounded, supported by Ion. 
 adrastus. 
 Here let me rest ; 
 In this old chamber did my life begin, 
 
scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 87 
 
 And here I '11 end it : Crythes ! thou hast timed 
 Thy visit well, to bring thy soldiers hither 
 To gaze upon my parting. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 To avenge thee ; 
 
 Here is the traitor ! 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 CTESTPHON. 
 
 Farewell ! [Exit Ctesiphon. 
 
 Adrastus [to Crythes and the soldiers.] 
 Why do ye tarry here ? 
 Begone ! — still do ye hover round my couch ? 
 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 arid Adrastus. 
 ion. 
 O my father ! 
 How is it with thee now ? 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 » Well ; very well ; — 
 
88 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act lv. 
 
 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 thy helplessness ! To me 
 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 happy years 
 As cherish'd youth e'er knew. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 I bless the gods 
 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 sweetness in this moment, 
 That, howsoe'er they deal with me hereafter, 
 I shall not deem them angry. Let me call 
 For help to stanch thy wound ; thou art strong yet, 
 And yet may live to bless me. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 Do not stir ; 
 
 
scenei.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 89 
 
 My strength is ebbing fast ; yet, as it leaves me, 
 
 The spirit of my stainless days of love 
 
 Awakens; 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 ? 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 ADRASTUS. 
 
 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. — 
 
90 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 So ! So ! — thy hair is glossy to the touch 
 
 As when I last enwreath'd its tiny curl 
 
 About my ringer ; I did image then 
 
 Thy reign excelling mine ; it is fulfill'd, 
 
 And I die happy. Bless thee, King of Argos ! [Dies. 
 
 ION. 
 
 He 's 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-reveal'd. Come back, thou truant steel ; 
 Half 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 Age nor and others. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Does the king live ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 Alas ! in me. The son 
 Of him whose princely spirit is at rest, 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 91 
 
 Claims his ancestral honours. 
 
 AGENOE. 
 
 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, 
 Phocion on guard. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Fool that I was to take this idle office 
 At most inglorious distance from the scene 
 Which shall be freedom's birth-place ; to endure 
 The phantasies of danger which the soul 
 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 ! 
 
92 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon. 
 All hail, my brother freeman ! — art not so ? — 
 Thy looks are haggard — is the tyrant slain ? 
 Is liberty achieved ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 The king is dead ; 
 This arm — I bless the righteous Furies ! — slew him. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Did Ion quail, then ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Ion ! — clothe thy speech 
 In phrase more courtly ; he is king of Argos, 
 Accepted as the tyrant's son, and reigns. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 It cannot be ; I can believe him born 
 
 Of such high lineage ; yet he will not change 
 
 His 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 93 
 
 In humble prayer that he would deign to tread 
 Upon their necks ; and he is pleased to grant it. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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, 
 
 Which has not known a selfish throb till now, 
 
 And thou shalt see him smile this greatness from him. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Why thus severe 1 Our nature's common wrongs 
 Affect thee not ; and that which touch'd thee nearly 
 Is well avenged. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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 assign 'd to thee by lot, 
 
94 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 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 the prince dizzy with strange turns of fortune, 
 To do thy part. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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 
 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 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 95 
 
 And faintly listen. Canst thou bid me slay him ? 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 The deed be mine. Thou 'It not betray me 1 
 
 [Going. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Be speedy, then ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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. 
 
 AGENOR, 
 
 Wilt thou not in to rest 1 
 
 ION. 
 
 My rest is here — 
 
96 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 Beneath the greatness of the heavens, which 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 wan city ? 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Farewell, my lord ! [Exit. 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 97 
 
 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 seem'd 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 
 Gleam'd palpable to sight as things of earth. 
 Who passes there ? 
 
 [Enter Phocion behind, who strikes at Ion with a 
 
 dagger.] 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 This to the king of Argos ! 
 [I on struggles with him, seizes the dagger, which he 
 throws away."] 
 
 ION. 
 
 I will not fall by thee, poor wavering novice 
 
98 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 
 
 In the assassin's trade! — thy arm is feeble — 
 
 [He confronts Phocion. 
 Phocion ! — was this well aim'd ? thou didst not mean — 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 I meant to take thy life, urged by remembrance 
 Of yesterday's great vow.'. 
 
 ION. 
 
 And couldst thou think 
 /had forgotten ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Thou? 
 
 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 me 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 ! 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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 
 
scENii in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 99 
 
 I will not speak ; — what have I to forgive ? 
 A devious fancy, and a muscle raised 
 Obedient to its impulse ! Dost thou think 
 The tracings of a thousand kindnesses, 
 Which taught me all I guess'd of brotherhood, 
 Are in the rashness of a moment lost ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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 climb'd yon walls — 
 Two vagrant urchins, and with tremulous joy 
 Skimm'd through these statue-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 retracing. Come, my friend ! — ■ 
 What, drooping yet ! thou wert not wont to seem 
 So stubborn — cheerily, my Phocion — come! [Exeunt* 
 
 END OF ACT IV, 
 
100 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 TIME THE MORNING OF THE SECOND DAY, 
 
 The Terrace of the Palace. 
 Two Soldiers on guard, 
 
 1 SOLDIER. 
 
 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 SOLDIER. 
 
 'Tis honest nature ; 
 The royal instinct was but smouldering in him, 
 And now it blazes forth. I pray the gods 
 He may not give us cause to mourn his sire. 
 
 1 SOLDIER. 
 
 No more ; he comes. 
 
scene i.J ION; A TRAGEDY. 101 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 ion. 
 Why do ye loiter here ? 
 Are all the statues decked with festal wreaths 
 As I commanded ? 
 
 1 SOLDIER. 
 
 We have been on guard 
 Here by Agenor's order since the nightfall. 
 
 ION. 
 
 On guard ! Well, hasten now and see it done ; 
 
 I need no guards. [Exeunt Soldiers, 
 
 The awful hour draws near ; 
 I am composed to 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. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Canst thou speak 
 In that old tone of common cheerfulness, 
 That blithely promises delightful years, 
 And hold thy mournful purpose 1 
 
 ION. 
 
 I have drawn 
 From the selectest fountain of repose 
 A blessed calm : — when I lay down to rest, 
 
102 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 
 
 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. 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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, 
 
 And 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. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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, 
 
scene i] ION; A TRAGEDY. 103 
 
 [Ion resumes his address to Phocion, and continues it 
 broken by 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 veiFd 
 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 ! — 
 
 Enter Cleon. 
 cleon. 
 
 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 Cleon. 
 
 Could I recall 
 
104 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 
 
 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. 
 
 CASSANDER. 
 
 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 '11 madden me. — 
 Dost thou not see me circled round with care ? 
 Urge me no more. 
 
 [As Cassander is going, Ion leaves Phocion, and 
 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. 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 105 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 Tis time we seek 
 The temple. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Phocion ! must I to the temple ? 
 
 PHOCION. 
 
 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, ABRA. 
 ABLIA. 
 
 Be comforted, dear lady ; — he must come 
 To sacrifice. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Recall that churlish word, 
 That stubborn " »*«$&/• that bounds my living hopes, 
 As with an iron circle. He must come ! 
 
106 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 
 
 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. 
 
 A BRA. 
 
 I see him now with Phocion 
 Pass through the inner court. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 He will not come 
 This way, then, to the place for sacrifice. 
 I can endure no more : speed to him, Abra ; - 
 And bid him, if he holds Clemanthe's life 
 Worthy a minute's loss, to seek me here. 
 
 ABRA. 
 
 Dear lady ! — 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Do not answer me, but run, 
 Or I shall give yon crowd of sycophants 
 To gaze upon my sorrow. [Exit Abra. 
 
 It is hard ; 
 Yet I must strive to bear it, and find solace 
 In that high fortune which has made him strange. 
 He bends this way — but slowly — mournfully. 
 O, he is ill ; how has my slander wronged him ! 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 107 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 ion. 
 What wouldst thou with me, lady 1 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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, 
 In 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Dost thou yet 
 
108 ION; A TRAGEDY [act v. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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 must 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 sceptral thing they circle. Dark and cold 
 
scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 109 
 
 Stretches the path, which, when I wear the crown, 
 1 needs must enter : — the great gods forbid 
 That thou shouldst follow in it ! 
 
 CLE MAN THE. 
 
 O unkind ! 
 And shall we never see each other ? 
 
 Ion [after a pause.] 
 Yes! 
 I have ask'd that dreadful question of the hills 
 That look eternal ; of the flowing streams 
 That lucid flow for ever ; of the stars, 
 Amid 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 MAN THE. 
 
 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 
 
110 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 
 
 Comfort enough : — do not deny me this ; 
 Or if stern fate compel thee to deny, 
 Kill me at once ! 
 
 ION. 
 
 No ; thou must live, my fair one : 
 There 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 length will bring repose 
 To the sad mind that studies to perform them. 
 Thou dost not mark me. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Oh, I do ! 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. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 Thou art mine own then still ? 
 
 ION. 
 
 I am thine own ! thus let me clasp thee ; nearer j 
 O joy too thrilling and too short ! 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. Ill 
 
 Enter Agenor. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 My Lord, 
 The sacrificial rites await thy presence. 
 
 ION. 
 
 I come. — One more embrace — the last, the last 
 
 In this world ! Now farewell ! [Exit. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 The last embrace ! 
 Then he has cast me off! — No, 'tis not so ; 
 Some mournful secret of his fate divides us : 
 I '11 struggle to bear that, and snatch a comfort 
 From seeing him uplifted. I will look 
 Upon him in his throne ; Minerva's shrine 
 Will shelter me from vulgar gaze ; I '11 hasten, 
 And feast my sad eyes with his greatness there ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE 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. 
 
 CTES1PHON. 
 
 Vex me no more, by telling me, Cassander, 
 Of his fair speech : I prize it at its worth : 
 Thou 'It see how he will act when seated firm 
 
]12 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v 
 
 Upon the throne the craven tyrant fill'd, 
 Whose blood he boasts, unless some honest arm 
 Should shed it first. 
 
 CASSANDER. 
 
 Hast thou forgot the time 
 When thou thyself vvert 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 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 Medon, Age nor, Phocion, 
 Timocles, 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 ? 
 
 # 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Permit thy earliest friend, 
 
scene in.] * ION; A TRAGEDY. 113 
 
 Who has so often propp'd thy tottering steps, 
 To lead thee to thy throne, — and thus fulfil 
 His fondest vision. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Thou art still most kind — 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 I await thy will. 
 
 ION. 
 
 To thee I look as to the wisest friend 
 
 Of this afflicted people : — thou must leave 
 
 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. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 Pardon me — 
 
114 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v 
 
 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. 
 
 AGENOR. 
 
 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 ringers quick to clasp 
 His shivering prey at noontide. Let me see 
 The captain of the guard. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 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 treasurers my stores contain, 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. [\£ 
 
 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. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 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, 
 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 
 Infect us. See that they embark, Agenor, 
 Ere night. 
 
 CRYTHES. 
 
 My lord— 
 
116 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 
 
 ION. 
 
 No more — my word hath pass'd. 
 Medon, there is no office I can add 
 To 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 ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 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 magic of a single name 
 Which wider regions may require to draw 
 Their interests into one ; but, circled thus, 
 Like a bless'd family by simple laws, 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 117 
 
 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 ! 
 
 MEDON. 
 
 Wherefore ask this now ? 
 Thou shalt live long ; — the paleness of thy face 
 Which late appall'd me is grown radiant 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, 
 
]18 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 
 
 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. 
 
 CTESIPHON. 
 
 Thou hast pluck'd 
 The poor disguise of hatred from my soul, 
 And made me feel how shallow is the wish 
 Of vengeance. Could I die to save thee ! 
 
 Clemanthe rushes forward. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 AnoS for this it was 
 
scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 119 
 
 Thou wouldst have wean'd me from thee ? Couldst thou 
 
 think 
 I would be so divorced ? 
 
 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 1 feign'd I truly said — 
 Wilt thou not, sweet one ? 
 
 CLEMANTHE. 
 
 I will treasure all. 
 
 Enter I it us. 
 mus. 
 I bring you glorious tidings — Ha! no joy 
 Can enter here. 
 
 ION. 
 
 Yes — is it as I hope ? 
 
 IRUS. 
 
 The pestilence abates. 
 
 Ion. [springs 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 dispelPd — Agenor, give 
 This gentle youth his freedom, who hath brought 
 Sweet tidings that I shall not die in vain — 
 
120 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v 
 
 And Medon ! 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. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 i. 
 
 EVENING SERVICE 
 
 PERFORMED BY DR. VALPY AT READING SCHOOL. 
 
 There is a holy magic in that tone, 
 
 Can wake from Memory's selectest cell 
 
 The hour when first upon my heart it fell 
 
 Like dew from heaven : — the years that since have flown 
 
 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 $ blessing to implore 
 
 On thee, mild Charity's unspotted Priest ! 
 
122 SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 THE FORBURY, AT READING, 
 
 VISITED ON A MISTY EVENING IN AUTUMN. 
 
 Soft uplands, that in boyhood's earliest days 
 Seeui'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 do 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, 123 
 
 III. 
 
 ON HEARING THE SHOUTS OF THE PEOPLE 
 
 AT THE READING ELECTION IN THE SUMMER 1826, 
 
 AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 Hark ! from the distant town the long acclaim 
 
 On the charm'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 idie ; 
 
 And shall — earth's fondest aspirations dead — 
 
 Fulfil their first and noblest prophecy. 
 
124 SONNETS, 
 
 IV. 
 VIEW OF THE VALLEY OF READING, 
 
 FROM TILEHURST, AT THE CLOSE OF THE SAME ELECTION. 
 
 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. 125 
 
 TO THE THAMES AT WESTMINSTER, 
 
 IN RECOLLECTION OF THE BANKS OF THE SAME RIVER 
 AT CAVERSHAM, 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 coyly plays ; 
 
 And glides delighted through thy crystal ways, 
 
 Till on her eye those wave-fed poplars gleam, 
 
 Beneath whose shade her first etherial maze 
 
 She fashion'd ; where she traced in clearest dream 
 
 Thy mirror'd course of 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. 
 
126 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. 
 As 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. 127 
 
 VII. 
 
 TO W. C. MACREADY, ESQ. 
 
 ON HIS PERFORMANCE OF WERNER, IN LORD BYROn's 
 TRAGEDY OF THAT NAME. 
 
 learned in Affection's thousand ways J 
 
 1 thought thy art had proved its happiest power, 
 When thou didst bend 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 ! 
 
128 SONNETS. 
 
 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 life unchanging, — strength 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. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, 
 RED LION COURT. FLEET STREET. 
 
S^yy At.^ y- c 
 
 J^2 J/^ 
 
 2^-V-^^C 
 
A SPEECH 
 
 DELIVERED BV 
 
 THOMAS NOON TALFOURD, 
 
 Jjtrgtant at ttato, 
 IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, 
 
 ON 
 
 WEDNESDAY, 25& APRIL, 1838, 
 
 ON MOVING THE SECOND READING OE 
 
 THE BILL TO AMEND THE LAW OF COPYRIGHT 
 
 LONDON : 
 EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXXXVI1I. 
 
46575 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 BKADBUKY AM) EVANS, I KIN i BUS, 
 
 WHITF.FniAKS. 
 
SPEECH, 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 Mr. Speaker, 
 When I had the honour last year to move the second 
 reading of a bill essentially similar to the present, I found 
 it unnecessary to trouble the house with a single remark ; 
 for scarcely a trace then appeared of the opposition which 
 has since gathered around it. I do not, however, regret 
 that the measure was not carried through the legislature 
 by the current of feeling which then prevailed in its 
 favour, but that opportunity has been afforded for the 
 full discussion of the claims on which it is founded, and 
 of the consequences to individuals and to the public that 
 may be expected from its operation. Believing, as I do, 
 that the interests of those who, by intellectual power, 
 laboriously and virtuously exerted, contribute to the 
 delight and instruction of mankind — of those engaged in 
 the mechanical processes by which those labours are 
 made effectual — and of the people who at once enjoy and 
 reward them, are essentially one ; believing that it is 
 impossible at the same time to enhance the reward of 
 authors, and to injure those who derive their means of 
 
6 
 
 subsistence from them, and desiring only that this bill 
 shall succeed if it shall be found, on the fullest dis- 
 cussion, that it will serve the cause of intellect in its 
 noblest and most expanded sense, I rejoice that all classes 
 who are interested in reality or in belief in the proposed 
 change, have had the means of presenting their state- 
 ments and their reasonings to the consideration of Par- 
 liament, and of urging them with all the zeal which an 
 apprehension of pecuniary loss can inspire. I do not, 
 indeed, disguise that the main and direct object of the 
 bill is to insure to authors of the highest and most en- 
 during merit a larger share in the fruits of their own 
 industry and genius than our law now accords to them ; 
 and whatever fate may attend the endeavour, I feel with 
 satisfaction that it is the first which has been made sub- 
 stantially for the benefit of authors, and sustained by no 
 interest except that which the appeal on their behalf to 
 the gratitude of those whose minds they have enriched, 
 and whose lives they have gladdened, has enkindled. 
 The statutes of Anne and of George III., especially the 
 last, were measures suggested and sustained by publishers ; 
 and it must be consoling to the silent toilers after fame, who 
 in this country have no ascertained rank, no civil distinc- 
 tion, in their hours of weariness and anxiety to feel that 
 their claim to consideration has been cheerfully recognised 
 by Parliament, and that their cause, however feebly pre- 
 sented, has been regarded with respect and with sympathy. 
 In order that I may trespass as briefly as I can on 
 the indulgence with which this subject has been treated, 
 I will attempt to narrow the controversy of to-night 
 
7 
 
 by stating at once what I regard to be the principle 
 of this bill, and call on honourable members now to 
 affirm, and what I regard as matters of mere detail, 
 which it is unnecessary at this moment to consider. 
 That principle is, that the present term of copyright is 
 much too short for the attainment of that justice which 
 society owes to authors, especially to those (few though 
 they be) whose reputation is of slow growth and of 
 enduring character. Whether that term shall be ex- 
 tended from its present length to sixty years, or to some 
 intermediate period — whether it shall commence at the 
 death of the author or at the date of first publication — in 
 what manner it shall be reckoned in the cases of works 
 given to the world in portions — are questions of detail on 
 which I do not think the house are to-night required to 
 decide. So the prohibition of extracts made merely for 
 the compiler's gain, which, however, is merely declaratory 
 of the present law — of unauthorised abridgments, which is 
 new — and some provisions which were introduced merely 
 from an anxiety to protect subsisting interests, obviously 
 fall into the same class. On the one hand, I do not ask 
 honourable members to vote for the second reading merely 
 because they think there are some uncertainties in the 
 law of copyright which it is desirable to remove, or some 
 minor defects which they are prepared to remedy. On the 
 other hand, I would entreat them not to reject this bill on 
 account of any objections to its mere details, but as they 
 may think the legalised property of authors sufficiently 
 prolonged and secured, or requiring a substantial exten- 
 sion, to oppose or to support it. 
 
8 
 
 In maintaining the claim of authors to this extension, 
 I will not intrude on the time of the house with any 
 discussion on the question of law ; whether perpetual 
 copyright had existence by our common law ; or of the 
 philosophical question whether the claim to this extent 
 is founded in natural justice. On the first point, it is 
 sufficient for me to repeat, what cannot be contradicted, 
 that the existence of the legal right was recognised by 
 a large majority of the judges, with Lord Mansfield at 
 their head, after solemn and repeated argument; and 
 that six to five of the judges only determined that the 
 stringent words " and no longer" in the statute of Anne 
 took that right away. And even this I do not call in aid 
 so much by way of legal authority, as evidence of the feel- 
 ing of those men (mighty though few) to whom our infant 
 literature was confided by Providence, and of those who 
 were in early time able to estimate the labour which we 
 inherit. On the second point I will say nothing ; unable, 
 indeed, to understand why that which springs wholly 
 from within, and contracts no other right by its usurpa- 
 tion, is to be regarded as baseless, because, by the condi- 
 tion of its very enjoyment, it not only enlarges the source 
 of happiness to readers, but becomes the means of mecha- 
 nical employment to printers, and of speculation to pub- 
 lishers. I am content to adopt the intermediate course, 
 and to argue that question, whether a fair medium between 
 two extremes has been chosen. What is to be said in 
 favour of the line now drawn, except that it exists and 
 bears an antiquity commencing in 1814? Is there any 
 magic in the term of 28 years ? Is there any conceivable 
 
principle of justice which bounds the right, if the author 
 survives that term, by the limit of his natural life ? As 
 far as expediency shall prevail — as far as the welfare of 
 those for whom it is the duty and the wish of the dying 
 author to provide, may be regarded by parliament ; the 
 period of his death is precisely that w T hen they will most 
 need the worldly comforts which the property in his work 
 would confer. And, as far as analogy may govern, the 
 very attribute which induces us to regard with pride the 
 works of intellect is, that thev survive the mortal course 
 of those who framed them — that they are akin to what is 
 deathless. Why should that quality render them worth- 
 less to those in whose affectionate remembrance their 
 author still lives, while they attest a nobler immortality ? 
 Indeed, among the opponents of this measure, it is ground 
 of cavil that it is proposed to take the death of the author 
 as a starting point for the period w 7 hich it adds to the pre- 
 sent term. It is urged as absurd that even the extent of 
 this distant period should be affected by the accident of 
 death ; and yet those who thus argue are content to support 
 the system which makes that accident the final boundary 
 at which the living efficacy of authorship, for the ad- 
 vantage of its professors, ceases. 
 
 I perfectly agree with the publishers in the evidence 
 given in 1818, and the statements which have been re- 
 peated more recently — that the extension of time will 
 be a benefit only in one case in five hundred of works 
 now issuing from the press ; and I agree with them that 
 we are legislating for that five hundredth case. Why 
 not ? It is the great prize which, out of the five hundred 
 
10 
 
 risks, genius and goodness win. It is the benefit that 
 can only be achieved by that which has stood the test of 
 time — of that which is essentially true and pure — of that 
 which has survived spleen, criticism, envy, and the chang- 
 ing fashions of the world. Granted that only one author 
 in five hundred attain this end ; does it not invite many 
 to attempt it, and impress on literature itself a visible 
 mark of permanence and of dignity ? The writers who 
 attain it will necessarily belong to two classes — one class 
 consisting of authors who have laboured to create the 
 taste which should appreciate and reward them, and only 
 attain that reputation which brings with it a pecuniary 
 recompense just as the term for which that reward is held 
 out to them wanes. Is it unjust in this case, which is 
 that of Wordsworth, now in the evening of life, and in 
 the dawn of his fame, to allow the author to share in the 
 remuneration society tardily awards him ? The other class 
 are those who, like Sir Walter Scott, have combined the 
 art of ministering to immediate delight with that of out- 
 lasting successive races of imitators and apparent rivals ; 
 who do receive a large actual amount of recompense, but 
 whose accumulating compensation is stopped when it 
 most should increase. Now, surely, as to them, the 
 question is not what remuneration is sufficient in the 
 judgment of the legislature to repay for certain benefac- 
 tions to society, but whether, having won the splendid 
 reward, our laws shall permit the winner to enjoy it? 
 We cannot decide the abstract question between genius 
 and money, because there exist no common properties 
 by which they can be tested, if we were dispensing an 
 
u 
 
 arbitrary reward ; but the question how much the 
 author ought to receive is easily answered — so much 
 as his readers are delighted to pay him. When we say 
 that he has obtained immense wealth by his writings, 
 what do we assert, but that he has multiplied the sources 
 of enjoyment to countless readers, and lightened thou- 
 sands of else sad, or weary, or dissolute hours ? The two 
 propositions are identical ; the proof of the one at once 
 establishing the other. Why, then, should we grudge it, 
 any more than we would reckon against the soldier, not 
 the pension or the grant, but the very prize-money which 
 attests the splendour of his victories, and in the amount 
 of his gains proves the extent of ours ? Complaints have 
 been made by one in the foremost rank in the opposition 
 to this bill, the pioneer of the noble army of publishers, 
 booksellers, printers, and bookbinders, who are arrayed 
 against it — that in selecting the case of Sir Walter Scott 
 as an instance in which the extension of copyright would 
 be just, I had been singularly unfortunate, because that 
 great writer received, during the period of subsisting copy- 
 right, an unprecedented revenue from the immediate sale 
 of his works. But, sir, the question is not one of reward 
 — it is one of justice. How would this gentleman 
 approve of the application of a similar rule to his own 
 honest gains ? From small beginnings this very publisher 
 has, in the fair and honourable course of trade, I doubt 
 not, acquired a splendid fortune, amassed by the sale of 
 works, the property of the public — of works, whose authors 
 have gone to their repose, from the fevers, the disappoint- 
 ments, and the jealousies which await a life of literary toil. 
 
12 
 
 Who grudges it to hirn ? Who doubts his title to retain 
 it ? And yet this gentleman's fortune is all, every far- 
 thing of it, so much taken from the public, in the sense 
 of the publisher's argument ; it is all profit on books 
 bought by that public, the accumulation of pence, which, 
 if he had sold his books without profit, would have re- 
 mained in the pockets of the buyers. On what principle 
 is Mr. Tegg to retain what is denied to Sir Walter ? Is 
 it the claim of superior merit ? Is it greater toil ? Is it 
 larger public service ? His course, I doubt not, has been 
 that of an honest, laborious tradesman ; but what have been 
 its anxieties, compared to the stupendous labour, the 
 sharp agonies of him, whose deadly alliance with those 
 very trades whose members oppose me now, and whose 
 noble resolution to combine the severest integrity with 
 the loftiest genius, brought him to a premature grave — a 
 grave which, by the operation of the law, extends its 
 chillness even to the result of those labours, and despoils 
 them of the living efficacy to assist those whom he has 
 left to mourn him ? Let any man contemplate that he- 
 roic struggle of which the affecting record has just been 
 completed ; and turn from the sad spectacle of one who 
 had once rejoiced in the rapid creation of a thousand cha- 
 racters glowing from his brain, and stamped with indivi- 
 duality for ever, straining the fibres of the mind till the 
 exercise which was delight became torture — girding him- 
 self to the mighty task of achieving his deliverance from 
 the load which pressed upon him, and with brave endeavour, 
 but relaxing strength, returning to the toil till his faculties 
 give way, the pen falls from his hand on the unmarked 
 
13 
 
 paper, and the silent tears of half-conscious imbecility fall 
 upon it — and to some prosperous bookseller in his country 
 house, calculating the approach of the time (too swiftly 
 accelerated) when he should be able to publish for his own 
 gain, those works, fatal to life, and then tell me, if we are 
 to apportion the reward to the effort, where is the justice 
 of the bookseller's claim ? Had Sir Walter Scott been 
 able to see, in the distance, an extension of his own right 
 in his own productions, his estate and his heart had been 
 set free, and the publishers and printers, who are our 
 opponents now, would have been grateful to him for a 
 continuation of labour and rewards which would have im- 
 pelled and augmented their own. 
 
 These two classes comprise, of necessity, all the in- 
 stances in which the proposed change would operate at 
 all ; the first, that of those whose copyright only becomes 
 valuable just as it is about to expire ; the last, that of 
 those whose works which, at once popular and lasting, 
 have probably, in the season of their first success, en- 
 riched the publisher far more than the author. It 
 will not be denied that it is desirable to extend the be- 
 nefit to both classes, if it can be done without injury to 
 the public, or to subsisting individual interests. The 
 suggested injury to the public is, that the price of books 
 would be greatly enhanced ; and on this assumption the 
 printers and bookbinders have been induced to sustain 
 the publishers in resisting a change which is represented 
 as tending to paralyse speculation — to cause fewer books 
 to be written, printed, bound, and bought — to deprive 
 the honest workmen of their subsistence, and the people of 
 
14 
 
 the opportunity of enjoying the productions of genius. 
 Even if such consequences were to be dreaded, if justice 
 required the sacrifice, it ought to be made. The commu- 
 nity have no right to be enriched at the expense of indi- 
 viduals, nor is the liberty of the press (magic words which 
 I have heard strangely blended in the din of this contro- 
 versy) the liberty to smuggle and to steal. Still, if to 
 these respectable petitioners, men often of intelligence 
 and refinement beyond their sphere, which they have 
 acquired from their mechanical association with literature, 
 I could think the measure fraught with such mischiefs, I 
 should regard it with distrust and alarm. But never, 
 surely, were the apprehensions of intelligent men so 
 utterly baseless. In the first place, I believe that the ex- 
 istence of the copyright, even of that five-hundredth case, 
 would not enhance the price of the fortunate work ; for 
 the author or the bookseller, who enjoys the monopoly, as 
 it is called, is enabled to supply the article at a much 
 •cheaper rate when a single press is required to print all 
 the copies offered for sale, instead of the presses and 
 % establishments of competing publishers ; and I believe a 
 comparison between the editions of standard works in 
 which there is copyright, with those in which there is 
 none, would confirm the truth of the inference. To cite, 
 as an instance to the contrary, " Clarendon's History of 
 the Rebellion," is to confess that a fair test would disprove 
 the objection ; for what analogy is there between the 
 motives and the acts of a great body, having no personal 
 stimulus or interest, except to retain what is an ornament 
 to their own power, and those of a number of individual 
 
15 
 
 proprietors ; or between a state of things in which the 
 instance stands alone, and one in which all authors would 
 be instigated to publish;, and all readers — the class for 
 whom the works would be published, or from whom 
 they would be withheld ? But, after all, it is only in 
 this five-hundredth case — the one rare prize in this huge 
 lottery — that even this effect is to be dreaded. Now, 
 this effect is the possible enhancing the price of the five- 
 hundredth or five-thousandth book, and this is actually 
 supposed " to be a heavy blow and great discouragement 
 to literature," enough to paralyse the energies of pub- 
 lishers, and to make Paternoster-row a desert ! Let it 
 only be announced, say our opponents, that an author, 
 whose works may outlast twenty-eight years, shall be- 
 queath to his children the right which he enjoyed, that 
 possibly some sixpence a volume may be added to its price 
 in such an event, and all the machinery of printing and 
 publication will come to a pause ! Why, sir, the same 
 apprehension was entertained in 1813, when the publish- 
 ers sought to obtain the extension of copyright for their 
 own advantage to twenty-eight years. The printers then 
 dreaded the effect of the prolonged monopoly : they peti- 
 tioned against the bill, and they succeeded in delaying it 
 for a session. And surely they had then far greater plau- 
 sibility in their terrors ; for in proportion as the period at 
 which the contemplated extension begins is distant, its 
 effects must be indistinct and feeble. Fewer books, of 
 course, will survive twenty-eight years than fourteen; 
 the act of 1814 operated on the greater number if at all ; 
 and has experience justified the fears which the publishers 
 
16 
 
 then laughed to scorn ? Has the number of books dimin- 
 ished since then ? Has the price of books been enhanced ? 
 Has the demand for the labour of printers or bookbinders 
 slackened since then ? Have the profits of the bookseller 
 failed ? I need no committee of inquiry to answer these 
 questions, and they are really decisive of the issue. We 
 all know that books have multiplied ; that the quartos, in 
 which the works of high pretension were first enshrined, 
 has vanished ; and, while the prices paid for copyrights 
 have been far higher than in any former time, the pro- 
 prietors of these copyrights have found it more profitable 
 to publish in a cheap than in a costly form. Will 
 authors, or the children of authors, be more obstinate — 
 less able to appreciate and to meet the demands of the age — 
 more apprehensive of too large a circulation — when both 
 will be impelled by other motives than those of interest to 
 seek the largest sale ; the first by the impulse of blameless 
 vanity or love of fame ; the last by the affection and the 
 pride with which they must regard the living thoughts 
 of a parent taken from this world, finding their way 
 through every variety of life, and cherished by unnum- 
 bered minds, which will bless his memory ? 
 
 If, sir, I were called to state in a sentence the most power- 
 ful argument against the objection raised to the extension of 
 copyright on the part of the public, I would answer,—" The 
 opposition of the publishers." If they have ground to com- 
 plain of loss, the public can have none. The objection sup- 
 poses that the works would be sold at something more than 
 the price of the materials, the workmanship, and a fair profit 
 on the outlay, if the copyright be continued to the author, 
 
17 
 and, of course, also supposes that works of which the copy- 
 rights have expired are sold without profit beyond those 
 charges — that, in fact, the author's superadded gain will 
 be the measure of the public loss. Where, then, does the 
 publisher intervene ? Is the truth this— that the usage 
 of the publishing trade at this moment indefinitely pro- 
 longs the monopoly by a mutual understanding of its 
 members, and that besides the term of twenty-eight years, 
 which the publisher has bought and paid for, he has some- 
 thing more? Is it a conventional copyright that is in 
 danger? Is the real question whether the author shall 
 hereafter have the full term to dispose of, or shall sell a 
 smaller term, and really assign a greater ? Now, either the 
 publishers have no interest in the main question, or this is 
 that interest. If this is that interest, how will the public 
 lose by paying their extra sixpence to the author who 
 created the work, instead of the gentleman who prints his 
 name at the foot of the title-page, and who will still take 
 his 25 per cent, on the copies he may sell ? This argument 
 applies, and, I apprehend, conclusively, to the main 
 question — the justice and expediency of extending the 
 term. I am aware that there is another ground of com- 
 plaint more plausible, which does not apply to the main 
 question, but to what is called the retrospective clause — a 
 complaint, that in cases where the extended term will 
 revert to the family of the author, instead of excluding, 
 by virtue of an implied compact, all the rest of the world, 
 they, like all the rest of the world, will be excluded ; that 
 they had a right to calculate on this liberty in common 
 with others when they made this bargain ; and that, there- 
 
18 
 
 fore, it is a violation of faith to deprive them of their share 
 of the common benefit. That there is any violation of 
 faith I utterly deny — they still have all they have paid 
 for ; and when, indeed, they assert (which they do when 
 they argue that the measure will confer no benefit on 
 authors) they would not give an author any more for a 
 copyright of sixty than of twenty-eight years, they them- 
 selves refute the charge of breach of faith, by showing that 
 they do not reckon such distant contingencies in the price 
 which they pay. If any inconvenience should arise, I 
 should rejoice to consider how it can be obviated ; and 
 with that view I introduced those clauses which have been 
 the subject of much censure, empowering the assignee to 
 dispose of all copies on hand at the close of his term, and 
 allowing the proprietors of stereotype plates still to use 
 them. But supposing some inconvenience to attend this 
 act of justice to authors, which I should greatly regret, 
 still are the publishers entirely without consolation ? In 
 the first place, they would, as the bill now stands, gain all 
 the benefit of the extension of Jftture copyrights, hereafter 
 sold absolutely to them by the author, and, according to 
 their own statement, without any advance of price. If 
 this benefit is small — is contingent — is nothing in 500 
 cases to one, so is the loss in those cases in which the 
 right will result to the author. But it should further be 
 recollected that every year, as copyrights expire, adds to 
 the store from which they may take freely. In the 
 infancy of literature a publisher's stock is scanty unless 
 he pays for original composition ; but as one generation 
 after another passes away, higtorie^ novels, poems — all of 
 
19 
 
 undying interest and certain sale — fall in ; and each gene- 
 ration of booksellers becomes enriched by the spoils of 
 time, to which he has contributed nothing. If, then, in a 
 measure which restores to the author what the bookseller 
 has conventionally received, some inconvenience beyond 
 the just loss of what he was never entitled to obtain be 
 incurred, is not the balance greatly in his favour ? And 
 can it be doubted that, in any case where the properties of 
 the publisher and of the author's representatives are 
 imperfect apart, either from additions to the original, or 
 from the succession of several works falling in at dif- 
 ferent times, their common interest would unite them ? 
 
 One of the arguments used, whether on behalf of the 
 trade or the public I scarcely know, against the extension 
 of the term, is derived from a supposed analogy between 
 the works of an author and the discoveries of an inventor, 
 whence it is inferred that the term which suffices for 
 the protection of the one is long enough for the recom- 
 pense of the other. It remains to be proved that the 
 protection granted to patentees is sufficient ; but sup- 
 posing it to be so, although there are points of similarity 
 between the cases, there are grounds of essential and oja^us 
 distinction. In cases of patent, the merits of the invention 
 are palpable, the demand is usually immediate, and the 
 recompense of the inventor, in proportion to the utility 
 of his work, speedy and certain. In cases of patent, the 
 subject is generally one to which many minds are at once 
 applied ; the invention is often no more than a step in a 
 series of processes, the first of which being given, the con- 
 sequence will almost certainly present itself sooner or later 
 
20 
 
 to some of these inquirers, and if it were not hit on this 
 year by one, would probably be discovered the next by 
 another ; but who will suggest that if Shakspeare had not 
 written " Lear," or Richardson " Clarissa," other poets or 
 novelists would have invented them ? In practical science 
 every discovery is a step to something more perfect ; and 
 to give to the inventor of each a protracted monopoly 
 would be to shut out all improvement by others. But 
 who can improve the masterpieces of genius ? They 
 stand perfect ; apart from all things else ; self-sustained ; 
 the models for imitation ; the sources whence rules of art 
 take their origin. And if we apply the analogy of me- 
 chanical invention to literature, we shall find that in so 
 far as it extends there is really in the latter no monopoly 
 at all, however brief. For example, historical or critical 
 research bears a close analogy to the process of mechanical 
 discovery, and how does the law of copyright apply to 
 the treasures it may reveal? The fact discovered, the 
 truth ascertained, becomes at once the property of man- 
 kind — to accept, to state, to reason on ; and all that 
 remains in the author, is the style in which it is expressed. 
 No one ever dreamed that to assume a position which 
 another had discovered ; to reject what another had proved 
 to be fallacious ; to stand on the table-land of recognised 
 truth, and start from it anew ; was an invasion of the 
 author's right. How earnest has been the thought, how 
 severe the intellectual toil, by which the noblest speculations 
 in regard to the human mind and its destiny have been 
 conducted ! They are the beatings of the soul against the 
 bars of its clay tenement, which, if ruffled in the collision, 
 
21 
 
 attest at once, by their strength and their failure, that it 
 is destined to move in a wider sphere. And yet the pro- 
 ducts of divine philosophy melt away into the intellectual 
 atmosphere which they enrich, and become the dreams and 
 the assurances of others ! So that the law of literary pro- 
 perty of necessity accommodates itself to the nature of its 
 subject— when the work is properly a creation, leaving it 
 preserved in its entirety — when it is mere discovery, ren- 
 dering the essence of truth to mankind, and preserving 
 nothing to its author but the form in which it is enshrined. 
 It has, sir, been asserted that authors themselves 
 have little interest in this question, and that they are, in 
 fact, indifferent or hostile to the measure. True it is, 
 that the greatest living writers have not thought it befit- 
 ting the dignity of their cause to appear as petitioners for 
 it, as a personal boon ; but I believe there are few who do 
 not feel the honour of literature embarked in the cause, 
 and earnestly desire its success. Mr. Wordsworth, emerg- 
 ing for a moment from the seclusion he has courted, has 
 publicly declared his conviction of its justice. Mr. Lock- 
 hart has stated his apprehension that the complete 
 emancipation of the estate of Sir Walter Scott from 
 its incumbrances depends on the issue ; and, although 
 I agree that we ought not to legislate for these cases, 
 I contend that we ought to legislate by the light of 
 their examples. While I admit that I should rejoice if 
 the immediate effect of this measure were to cheer the 
 evening of a great poet's life, to whom I am under intel- 
 lectual obligation beyond all price, and to enlarge the re- 
 wards of other living authors whose fame will endure, I 
 do not ask support to this measure on their behalf ; but I 
 
22 
 
 present these as the proofs of the subsisting wrong. The 
 instances pass away ; successive generations do successive 
 injustice ; but the principle is eternal. True it is that in 
 many instances, if the boon be granted, the errors and 
 frailties which often attend genius may render it vain ; 
 true it is that in multitudes of cases it will not operate, 
 but we shall have given to authors and to readers a great 
 lesson of justice ; we shall have shown that where virtue 
 and genius combine we are ready to protect their noble 
 offspring, and that we do not desire a miserable advantage 
 at the cost of the ornaments and benefactors of the world. 
 I call on each party in this house to unite in rendering 
 this tribute to the minds by which even party associations 
 are dignified ; on those who anticipate successive changes 
 in society, to acknowledge their debt to those who expand 
 the vista of the future, and people it with goodly visions ; 
 on those who fondly linger on the past, and repose on 
 time-hallowed institutions, to consider how much that is 
 ennobling in their creed has been drawn from minds which 
 have clothed the usages and forms of other days with the 
 symbols of venerableness and beauty ; on all, if they 
 cannot find some common ground on which they may 
 unite in drawing assurance of progressive good for the 
 future from the glories of the past, to recognise their 
 obligation to those, the products of whose intellect shall 
 grace and soften and dignify the struggle. With those 
 feelings, I move that this bill be now read a second time. 
 
 LONDON : 
 BHADBUICY AND EVANS, I'HINTERS, « II! I BFR1AIIS. 
 
3Just $trf)lisl)efc. 
 
 Price 4s. sd., 
 
 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE 
 
 8 Cragrtfi). 
 
 By MR. SERJEANT TALFOURD, M.P, 
 
 ii« 
 
 Price 4s., 
 
 ION: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 By MR. SERGEANT TALFOURD, M.P. 
 FOURTH EDITION. 
 
 TO WHICH ARK ADDED, SONNETS, AND A NEW PREFACE. 
 
 III. 
 
 EN ONE VOLUME, 
 
 Illustrated "by a Portrait and Vignette, 
 Price 20s. cloth, 
 
 THE 
 
 DRAMATIC WORKS OF WILLIAM 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 WITH A LIFE, BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq, 
 
In ti)0 $m». 
 
 4 ■ 
 
 in one volume, 
 uniform with the " curiosities of literature," 
 
 THE 
 
 DRAMATIC WORKS OF BEAUMONT 
 AND FLETCHER. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME, 
 
 AS A COMPANION TO THE ABOVE, 
 
 WORKS OF BEN JONSON. 
 
THE 
 
 ATHENIAN CAPTIVE 
 
THE 
 
 3 
 
 ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 THOMAS NOON TALFOURI). 
 
 AUTHOR OF " ION," &C. 
 
 F1K.ST ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE, APRIL 28, 1838. 
 
 LONDON : 
 EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXXXVIII. 
 
465 
 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, 
 
 PRINTERS-EXTRAORDINARY TO THE QUEEN, 
 
 WHITEFRIARS. 
 
TO 
 
 THE RIGHT HON. THOMAS LORD DENMAN, 
 
 LORD CHIEF JUSTICE OF HER MAJESTY'S COURT OF QUEEN'S BENCH, 
 IN TESTIMONY OF DEEP 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 existence of the following scenes is entirely to be 
 attributed 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 contented with the unhoped for association I had 
 obtained with the living influences of scenic representation, 
 in the indulgence accorded to " Ion," I should have post- 
 poned all thought of again venturing before the public, 
 until years had brought leisure, which might enable me to 
 supply, by labour and by care, what I knew to be wanting 
 in the higher requisites of tragic style. But I could not 
 perceive a gentleman, whose friendship I had long enjoyed, 
 forsaking the certain rewards of his art, and the tranquil 
 pleasures of domestic life, to engage in the chivalrous 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 endeavour to support a cause, which I believe to be that of 
 humanity and of goodness, and which seemed almost des- 
 perate, 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 without 
 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 determi- 
 nation 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 senti- 
 ment, at a time when it was unforeseen that one of the most 
 distinguished of our authors would lend his aid — when no 
 tragic creation of Knowles " cast its shadow before," with 
 its assurance 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, I fear, with more zeal than 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 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, with the 
 exception of some alterations (for the suggestion of the 
 principal of which I am indebted to him,) succeeded so far 
 as to finish it before the renewal of other (1 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 constant friend, Mr. Serle, — who 
 should rather be engaged in embodying his own con- 
 ceptions than in lending strength to mine. And I cannot 
 refrain from mentioning the sacrifice made to the common 
 
x PREFACE. 
 
 cause by Miss Helen Faucit, in consenting to perform 
 a character 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 First Scene of the Third Act, and the Second 
 Scene of the Fourth Act, are omitted in the representation ; 
 and some alterations, suggested at rehearsal, have been 
 made in the conduct of the closing Scene. 
 
 T. N. T. 
 
 Russell Square, 28th April, 1838. 
 
persons of tfie Crania, 
 
 AS REPRESENTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE. 
 
 Creon . . King of Corinth Mb. Warde. 
 
 Hyllus . Son of Creon Mr. Anderson. 
 
 Iphitus . Priest of the Temple of Jupiter the 1 
 
 * . n • .1. r M R « Serle. 
 Avenger, at Corinth .... J 
 
 Calchas . An Athenian, living at Corinth . . Mr. Waldron. 
 
 Thoas . An Athenian Warrior Mr. Macready. 
 
 Pentheus An Athenian Warrior, his Friend . Mr. Diddear. 
 
 Lycus . . Master of the Slaves to the King of) M tt 
 
 „ . . > Mr. Howe. 
 
 Corinth J 
 
 Athenian and Corinthian Soldiers, fyc. 
 
 Ismene . Queen of Corinth ; second wife of "| 
 
 J1Y1 US* WARNER* 
 
 Creusa . Daughter of Creon ; twin-born of 
 his first wife with Hyllus . ■ 
 
 > Miss Helen Fau< 
 
 Scene — Corinth, and its immediate neighbourhood. 
 Time of Action — Two days. 
 
THE 
 
 ATHENIAN CAPTIVE, 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Acropolis of Corinth. 
 
 Creon reclining on a bench, beneath open columns. — 
 Iphitus a little behind him, in the dress of Augury, 
 watching the flight of birds. The Sea seen far below , 
 in the distance. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Wheel through the ambient air, ye sacred birds, 
 
 In circles still contracting, that aspire 
 
 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 
 
 B 
 
2 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 From insolent battalions, that have borne 
 Their triumphs to our gates. Rejoice, my king ! 
 Leave mournful contemplation of the dust, 
 To hail the omen ! 
 
 CREON. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 1PH1TCJS. 
 
 Surely, my king — for I will answer thee 
 
 Untrembling, as Jove^ minister — these signs 
 
 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 hath — from shame 
 
 Without example in our story, now 
 
 Bid it expand, as our beleaguer'd gates 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 Shall open wide to let our heroes pass, 
 
 With 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 wealth, 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, prepaid, with beaming joy, 
 To hail a young successor ? 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Still thine age 
 Is green and hopeful ; there is nought about thee 
 To speak of mortal sickness, and unnerve 
 A soul that once was noble. 
 
 CIIEON. 
 
 Priest, forbear ! 
 The life that lingers in me is the witness 
 
 B 2 
 
4 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 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 
 
 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 ? 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 If thou wert 
 A father, thou wouldst 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 f> asses across the stage behind Creon, bearing 
 
 offerings."} 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 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 C re us a, who 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 shapes of horror live 
 As present things ; and, lost in their pursuit, 
 I heeded not my father. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 In the battle? 
 Is Hyllus in the combat 'mid those ranks 
 Of iron ? He who hath not rounded yet 
 
6 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 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, rous'd 
 His spirit to an ecstasy ; 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 field — 
 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. O my girl, 
 Had not my wayward fancy been enthralPd 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 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 regard 
 
 From one whose heart is dead amidst the living. 
 
 Re-enter Iphitus. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 Comes the queen hither ? Does she mock our bidding ? 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 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 some hint of distant sounds, 
 
 Yet none from living intercourse of man 
 
 Can pierce that marble solitude. Her face 
 
 Uprais'd, 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 
 
8 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 Kindled with frightful lustre; — but the shade 
 Pass'd instant thence ; her face resumM its look 
 Of stone, as death-like 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 Hyllus 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 — 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 9 
 
 CREON. [Hastily interrupting him. 
 
 What of the prince — my son ? 
 Thou dost avoid his name ; — have ye achiev'd 
 This noisy triumph with his blood ? 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 A wound, 
 Slight, as we hope, hath grac'd his early valour, 
 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. 
 
JO THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 He is faint, 
 Exhausted, breathless, — bleeding. Lean on me, 
 
 [To Hyllus. 
 And let me lead thee to the king, who pants 
 To bid his youngest soldier welcome. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Nay 
 "Tis nothing. Silly trembler ! — See, my limbs 
 Are pliant and my sinews docile still. [Kneels to Ckeon. 
 Kneel 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 ? 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 He utter'd shallow scorn 
 Of Athens ; — which he ne'er will speak again. 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 11 
 
 CREON. 
 Wouldst dare to curb bis speech ? 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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 
 An apter phrase of modesty, and shewn 
 What generous courage is, which till this day 
 I dimly guess'd at. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 Canst thou tell his name, 
 Who impious drew the blood of him who soon — 
 Too soon, alas ! — shall reign in Corinth ? 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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 spar'd me 
 To grace another fight, — the sudden smart 
 His sword inflicted, made me vainly rush 
 To grapple with him ; from his fearful grasp 
 
12 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 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 returned 
 
 His falchion to its sheath, and with a hand 
 
 Frank and sustaining as a brother's palm, 
 
 Uprais'd me ; — while he whispered in mine ear, 
 
 " Thou hast dar'd well, young soldier," our hot troops 
 
 Environ 'd him, and bore him from the plain 
 
 Our army's noblest captive. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 He shall die ; 
 The gen'rous falsehood of thy speech is vain. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 O no ! my brother's words were never false ; 
 The heroic picture proves his truth ; — they bring 
 A gallant prisoner towards us. Sure, 'tis 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. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Say rather, found 
 Raising that prince whose rashness he chastised, 
 And taught how he should treat a noble foe. 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 13 
 
 creon. \_To the Soldiers. 
 
 Answer to me ! Why have ye brought this man, 
 Whom the just gods have yielded to atone 
 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 transnVd ? Wilt thou not speak for him 
 Who spar'd 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 gloom 
 Which opens to enfold me, let me bless 
 The vision that hath cross'd it ! 
 
 hyllus. [_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. 
 
14 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 t s m e n e . Q Speaking slowly to C R E O N . 
 Let him breathe 
 A slave's ignoble life out here ; 'twill prove 
 The sterner fortune. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 Hearken to me, prisoner! 
 My boy hath won this 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, surviv'd ; and I have lov'd 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 15 
 
 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 miry sands, but having caught one gleam 
 Of loveliness to grace it, dash from earth 
 To darkness and to silence. Lead me forth — 
 (To C reus a.) The Gods requite thee ! 
 
 CREON. 
 
 Hath the captive chosen ? 
 I will not grant another moment ; — speak ! 
 Wilt serve or perish ? 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 {Throwing himself before Thoas. 
 Do not answer yet ! 
 Grant him a few short minutes to decide, 
 And let me spend them with him. 
 
 creon. {Rising. 
 
 Be it so, then ! 
 Kneel, prisoner, to the prince who won thee grace 
 
lfi THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 No other mortal could have gainM : —remember 
 The master of my slaves attends the word 
 Thou presently slialt 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 folloics ; as she passes T ho as, she speaks in a 
 low and solemn tone. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Live ! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Who gave that shameful counsel ? 
 
 ismene. [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, 
 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 ! 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 17 
 
 LYCUS. 
 
 My lord, I dare not wait. 
 
 hyllus. {Eagerly to Lycus. 
 
 He yields ; — I read it in his softening gaze ; 
 It speaks of life. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Yes ; I will owe life to thee. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Thoas, thy faith is pledged. [To Lycus.] Stand back awhile, 
 If thou hast nature. Thoas will to me 
 Resign his arms. 
 
 c 
 
IS 
 
 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 t ho as. { 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 imag'd it above a throng 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 
 Lycus. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 'Tis nobly done ; 
 No doubt that it again shall clasp thy brow, 
 And the plume wave in victory. Thy sword ? 
 Forgive me ; I must filch it for awhile : 
 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 of his sword. 
 
 Farewell, old sword, 
 
sckne i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 19 
 
 Thou wert the bright inheritance which grac'd 
 
 My finish'd years of boyhood — all that time 
 
 And fortune spar'd of those from whom I drew 
 
 The thirst of greatness. In how proud an hour 
 
 Did I 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 blood 
 
 I felt within my swelling veins ! Farewell ! 
 
 [Thoas gives his sword to Hyllus, who delivers it to 
 Lycus. 
 
 hyllus. [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. 
 
 hyllus. [Hesitatingly. 
 
 Hold !— one thing more — thy girdle holds a knife ; 
 I grieve that I must ask it. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 By the sense 
 Which 'mid delights I feel thou hast not lost, 
 
 c 2 
 
20 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 
 
 Of what, in dread extremity, the brave, 
 Stripp'd of all other refuge, would embrace, — 
 I do adjure thee, — rob me not of this ! 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Conceal it in thy vest. 
 
 f 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 
 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 ! 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 21 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 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 cloath'd 
 Unchanged and free as ours. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 I cannot speak. 
 Come — or mine eyes will witness me a slave 
 To my own frailty's masterdom. — Come on ! 
 
 [To Lycus. 
 Thou hast done thy office gently. Lead the way. {Exeunt. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
22 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 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 strength 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 hurPd 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 I am ; he shall feel 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 23 
 
 What yet an old man can inflict. He comes ; 
 Why 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. 
 
 Lefs 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, methinks 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 I 
 
 Gods, keep me patient ! I will to my task. \_Going. 
 
 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 ? 
 
24 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act n. 
 
 THOAS. 
 What ! are they merry ? 
 
 LYCUS. 
 
 Dost thou not hear them ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 They are slaves, indeed ! 
 Forgive me, I would rather to the quarry. {Going. 
 
 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 ! 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 25 
 
 CREON. 
 
 One so strong 
 As thou, had he been native here, would joy 
 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 lov'd 
 When freeman to indulge in, for the gaze 
 Of those who were my foes and are my masters. 
 
 Enter Messenger y in haste. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 My lord — the prince — 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Is he in peril ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 As his chariot, far 
 Before all rivals, glitter'd to the goal, 
 The coursers plung'd as if some fearful thing 
 Unseen by human eyes had glar'd 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 
 
26 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act it. 
 
 In frightful circles whirl the youth ; no power 
 Of man can stay them. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Friend, I come ! I come ! 
 
 lycus. [Attempting to stop him. 
 Thou must not go. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Away ! I'm master now. {Rushes out. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 My son ! my son ! I shall embrace thy corpse, 
 
 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 C reus a. 
 
 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. QCreusa addressing him. 
 From thy sacred lips the truth 
 Must flow. 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 27 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 Be calm ; thy brother is preserv'd ; 
 Urg'd by his furious steeds, his chariot hung 
 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 astonished crowd ; 
 Appear^ 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. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 Thou dost not speak 
 The hero's name ; — yet can I guess it well. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 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. 
 
28 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act it. 
 
 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 
 SharM ; for the hour that yielded us to day 
 Snatch'd her who bore us. Thence attached we grew, 
 As if some portion of that mother's love 
 Each for the other cherish'd ; twin-born joys, 
 Hopes, fancies, and affections, each hath watchM 
 In the clear mirror of the other's soul, 
 By that sweet union doubled. Thou hast sav'd 
 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 ! 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 29 
 
 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 
 
 Thy life — upon whose forehead virtue sits 
 
 Enthroned in regal majesty — thus held 
 
 In vilest thraldom ? 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Ah ! my sweet Creusa, 
 Thy words breathe more than gratitude. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 My brother, 
 I pray thee, do not look into my face. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Nay, raise thy head, and let thine eye meet mine ; 
 It reads no anger there. Thy love is pure 
 And noble as thyself, and nobly plac'd : 
 And one day shall be honorM. 
 
30 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act it. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 Spare me ! 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Come, 
 The banquet hath begun ; the king expects us. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Banqueting- Hall in Creon's Palace. 
 
 Creon, Ismene, Iphitus, Calchas, and Corinthians, 
 seated at the Banquet. 
 
 creon. [Rising. 
 
 I thank ye for my son ; — he is unharm'd, 
 And soon will join our revelry. 
 
 ismene. 
 
 We lack 
 Attendance. Where is Thoas ? It were fit 
 In Corinttfs day of triumph, he should wait 
 On his victorious enemies. Go seek him. 
 
 [Exit an Attendant. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 I would have spar'd his services to-day ; 
 He is but young in service, and hath done 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 31 
 
 A glorious deed. Drink round, my friends, and pledge 
 My son once more. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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, 
 When 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 
 As such a man as thou should feel, to 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, 
 
32 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ismene. 
 
 Slave ! attend ! 
 
 Enter Hyllus and C reus a. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 Hyllus, our friends have pledg'd thee; take thy place, 
 And thank them. 
 
 hyllus. [Advancing. 
 
 I am grateful. — Thoas, thus ? 
 
 CREON. 
 
 We blamM thy absence, daughter. Sit beside 
 The queen. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 A humbler place befits me, father. 
 
 [Sits at the end of the circle. 
 [Thoas attempts to hand the cup. 
 
 creusa. [To Hyllus. 
 
 Brother, dost see? 
 
 hyllus. [Aside to Thoas, taking the 
 cup from him, 
 Thoas, I blush at this ; 
 Give me the cup. — Corinthian citizens, 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 33 
 
 This is a moment when I cannot trust 
 
 The grace of serving you to any hand 
 
 Except mine own. The wine will send a glow 
 
 Of rare delight when minister'd by one 
 
 Who hath this day touchM life's extremest verge, 
 
 And been most bravely rescued. 
 
 [Hyllus hands the cup, 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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 
 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. 
 
34 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 
 
 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? 
 
 hyllus. [Trying to appease the 
 
 guests. 
 'Tis ecstasy — 
 Some phrenzy 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 
 With olive and enrich 'd with peerless fanes 
 Ye would dishonour, but an opening world 
 Diviner than the soul of man hath yet 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 35 
 
 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 dust 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 ! 
 
 And ye, frail insects of a day, would quaff 
 
 " Ruin to Athens !" 
 
 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. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Hold! 
 Some god hath spoken through him. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Priest ! we need 
 No counsel from thee. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Father, he will bend — 
 'Twas madness — was't not, Thoas ? — answer me : 
 Retract thy words ! 
 
 d 2 
 
36 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act it. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Fve spoken, and Til die. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 '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. 
 
 HYLLUS. \_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. 
 
 ismene. \_Aside. 
 
 Cold ! I must bear that too. {Aloud,) 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, think to share 
 The fate of the rash slave for whom thou plead'st. 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 37 
 
 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 very sport, 
 So thou recall the sentence on thy son. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 Thou wilt prolong his exile. To thy cell ! [To Thoas. 
 There wait thy time of death ; — my heart is sick — 
 But I have spoken. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 iphitus. 
 
 [Offering to support Creon. 
 Hold ! he faints ! 
 
 CREON. 
 
 No; — I can walk unaided—rest will soothe me. 
 
 [Exit Creon. 
 
53 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act 11. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Good night, my friends ! 
 
 [Exeunt all but Ismene, Thoas, and Calchas. 
 Thou, Calchas, wait and guard 
 The prisoner to his cell. Thou know'st the place. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Lead on. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 [Coming to the front to Thoas. 
 Thou wilt not sleep? 
 
 thoas. 
 
 I wish no sleep 
 To reach these eyes, till the last sleep of all. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Others may watch as well as thou. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Strange words 
 Thou speakest, fearful woman ; are they mockeries ? 
 Methinks they sound too solemn. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Said I not, 
 I am of Athens ? Hush ! These walls have echoes ; 
 Thy gaoler is of Athens, too; at midnight 
 He shall conduct thee where we may discourse 
 In safety. Wilt thou follow him ? 
 
sckne n.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 39 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 I will. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 'Tis well. Conduct the prisoner to his dungeon. 
 Remember, thou hast promis'd me. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 My blood 
 Is cold as ice ; yet will I keep the faith 
 I plight to thee. 
 
 [Exeunt Thoas and Calchas. 
 
 ismene (alone). 
 
 It is the heroic form 
 Which I have seen in watching, and in sleep 
 Frightfully broken, through the long, long, years 
 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 glar'd in upon my bed to mock 
 My soul with hopes of vengeance, keep your gaze 
 Fix'd stedfast on me now ! My hour is nigh ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 end of act 
 
40 
 
 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 [act III. 
 
 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 foreshew 
 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 light, as of a star, 
 Gleams in the narrow cavern's steep descent ; 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 41 
 
 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 here 
 Thus boldly to perform a holy office, 
 Which should have been my brother's. — When he fled 
 The city of his nurture, his last thoughts 
 Were bent on his preserver ; he bequeathed 
 His strong injunction never to forsake 
 The aim of thy deliverance. I exult 
 That heaven thus far has prospered it ; be quick, 
 And follow me to freedom. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Did'st 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, 111 tell thee when we meet 
 In safety, — if we ever meet again ! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 And dost thou wish it ? 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 Do I wish it ? Yes ! 
 
42 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 
 
 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 — 
 But 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 rapt eyes of him 
 Whose happy boldness rais'd it, rivals you 
 In sanctity which rich affection lends 
 To things of earthly mould. Methinks ye spring 
 Rounded to columns; your dank mists are curFd 
 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 Hnger not ; 
 The watch will change at midnight. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Midnight — Jove ! — 
 I cannot go. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 Not go ! I ask no thanks — 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 43 
 
 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, 
 
 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 nature ; 
 I never knew her shed a tear, nor heard 
 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 poisonous vapours rise 
 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 
 
44 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 
 
 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 I tremble 
 Lest witchery of that awful woman's grief 
 Lead thee to some rash deed. Thou art a soldier, 
 A young proficient in the game of death, 
 And mayst be wrought on — 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Do not fear for me ; 
 Where shews 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 
 As from some guilt not aim'd at human things 
 But at the majesty of gods. 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 4 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 Forgive me ; 
 It was a foolish terror swept across 
 My soul, — I should not have forgot 'twas mercy 
 That made thee captive. 
 
 Voice without. 
 Thoas! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 I am calPd. 
 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. 
 Farewell ! [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. 
 
 Voice without. 
 Thoas ! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 I come ! {Exit, 
 
46 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Tfie Hall of Statues, in Creon's Palace. 
 Enter Ismene. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Why tarries Calchas ? It is past the hour 
 Of deepest night, when he should hither guide 
 The avenger of my sorrows. Gods of Athens ! 
 Whom strong expostulation hath compelled 
 To look upon my shames, 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 thou hast bid me leave 
 The stubborn rock, where I had grown as dull, 
 As painless, as the cell to which thy breath 
 Consign'd me ? — thou, who urg'd the king to wreak 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 47 
 
 His most inglorious spleen on one too low 
 
 To be mark'd out for anger, too resolv'd 
 
 To heed it! . r> 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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 linger" d long 
 In sorrow's mighty school ? I'm mistress in it, 
 And know its lessons well. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 If thou hast aught 
 Of honor 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 ! 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Had'st thou borne 
 Long years of lingering wretchedness like mine, 
 Thou would'st not play the casuist thus. 'Tis well 
 
48 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 
 
 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 gulph, 
 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 who 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 weaken'd, save the wish, 
 The longing of the spirit, which laughs out 
 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 ? 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Reduc'd to basest needs 
 By slow decay in Attica, array 'd 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE, 49 
 
 In hateful splendour here, I bear small trace 
 
 Of whence I sprung. No matter — spurn' d — disownM 
 
 By living kindred, I have converse held 
 
 With those of my great family whom Death 
 
 Hath stripped of all but glory ; and they wait 
 
 The triumph of this hour to hail me theirs, 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Shame to our city, who allowed a matron 
 Of that great race to languish ! 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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 center'd 
 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 would'st have me do? 
 
5» THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. Tact hi. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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 ! 
 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, 
 In honor, shall be thine. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 I thought I knew 
 Athenians well ; and yet, thy speech is strange. 
 Whence drew thou these affections, — whence these thoughts 
 Which reach beyond a soldier's sphere ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 From Athens: 
 
 Her groves ; her halls ; her temples ; nay, her streets 
 Have been my teachers. I had else been rude, 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 51 
 
 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 
 Her 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 wrapt her in the mantle of its cloud, 
 While every flash that shiver'd it reveal'd 
 Some exquisite proportion, pictur'd 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. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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, 
 
 e 2 
 
52 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi 
 
 Save those his virtues shed upon its rudeness. 
 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, 
 Blackened by fire, bear witness to a tale 
 Of rapine which destroyed my mother's cot, 
 And bore her thence to exile. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Mighty gods ! 
 Where stand these ruins? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 On a gentle slope. 
 Broken by workings of an ancient quarry, 
 About a furlong from the western gate, 
 Stand these remains of penury ; one olive, 
 Projecting o'er the cottage site which fire 
 Had blighted, with two melancholy stems, 
 Streamed o'er its meagre vestiges. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 'Tis plain ! 
 Hold ! 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 greyly pass 
 Before my mortal vision, — dismal forms 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. ;53 
 
 Of a fate-stricken race — I see him now, 
 Whom ye led follower of your ghastly train — 
 O nerve him for his office ! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Fearful woman, 
 Speak thy command, if thou would have it reach 
 A conscious ear; for whilst 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. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 It is well ; — 
 Hast thou a weapon ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Yes ; the generous prince, 
 When I resign' d my arms, left me a dagger. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 The prince ! The Furies sent it by his hand, 
 For justice on his father. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 On thy husband ? 
 
 ISMENE, 
 
 Husband! Beware !— my husband moulders yet 
 Within his rusting armour ; such a word 
 
.54 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 
 
 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 pleas'd 
 
 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 hurPd upon me once ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 What shame ? 
 
 1SMENE. 
 
 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 
 Drained the frank goblet ; fell upon my knees ; 
 Embrac'd his foot-stool with my hungry arms, 
 And shriek'd aloud 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 trac'd 
 Its skiey lineage to the gods, and bore 
 The impress of its origin, — on me, 
 A woman, and a mother ! 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 55 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Let me fly 
 And whet Athenian anger with thy wrongs — 
 My thoughts are strange and slaughterous. 
 
 ismene. \_After a pause. 
 
 Fly then ! Yes !— 
 {Aside.) 'T will 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 rais'tt 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. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Hold off thy hand — it thrills me. — Swear ! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 By those 
 Who hover o'er us now, I swear ! 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Be firm. 
 That is the door; — thou canst not miss the path. 
 Is thy steel ready ? 
 
56 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iit. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Yes ; — my breast is cold 
 As is that steel. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Haste — the thick darkness wanes. 
 
 [_Exit Thoas. 
 Infernal powers ! I thank ye — all is paid — 
 By thousand ectsasies in which my soul 
 Grows wanton. Calchas ! 
 
 Enter Calchas. 
 
 Wish me joy, old servant ! 
 What dost thou think of him who left me now ? 
 
 calchas. 
 A gallant soldier. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 ,r 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, thro 1 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 P 
 
 calchas. 
 He may slumber. 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 57 
 
 ISMENK. 
 
 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. 
 
 CALCHAS. 
 
 Whither go'st thou ? 
 
 1SMENE. 
 
 To the pale shrine of her whose withering shield 
 
 Is dedicate to Athens. I have pray'd 
 
 At coldest midnight there, without a hope 
 
 Which might give ardour to 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 ! 
 
 \_Excunt Ismene and Calchas. 
 
58 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 
 
 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. 
 
 pent he us (walking backwards andfoncards as a Guard). 
 
 The cold grey dawn begins to glimmer ; speed it, 
 
 Ye powers that favour Athens ! From the sea, 
 
 Her everlasting guardian, Phoebus, rise, 
 
 To pour auspicious radiance o'er the field, 
 
 In which she may efface the foul dishonour 
 
 Her arms own'd yesterday. Not shame alone, 
 
 But loss no morrow can repair, is hers ! 
 
 Arch as, 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 ! 
 
scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 59 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 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 Thoas. 
 
 thoas. 
 No ! — hold me from thee ! — 
 My heart can ne^r 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 ? 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 If thou hast struck 
 Some soldier down to vindicate thy freedom, 
 Who shall accuse thee ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 'Twas no soldier, Pentheus ; 
 No stout opponent that my fatal knife 1 
 Dismiss'd to Erebus. A wither'd hand, 
 
60 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 
 
 As from an old man, in the gloom stretcird 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 
 Glar'd on my soul in characters of flame, 
 And madden'd me to strike. I rais'd 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, assur'd me it had done 
 A murderer's office. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 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 quenchM my mortal thirst, and I rejoiced, 
 For I seem'd grown to demon, till the streaan 
 Cool'd my hot throat, and then I laugh'd aloud, 
 To find that I had something human still. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 Fret not thy noble heart with what is past. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 No ! — 'tis not past ! — the murderer has no past ; 
 But one eternal present. 
 
scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 61 
 
 hyllus. [Within the wood. 
 
 Help me ! — answer ! — 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 The voice of Hyllus ! — of that noble youth, 
 Who, for my sake, is outcast from his home, 
 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 serv'd me, 
 In yonder city ; leave thy watch to me 
 A moment. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 No — thy passion's dangerous; 
 I dare not trust it. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 See — I have subdu'd 
 The pang which wrung me. By our ancient loves 
 Grant me this boon — perhaps the last. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 Be quick, 
 For the watch presently will be remov'd, 
 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. 
 
62 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act in. 
 
 Enter Hyllus. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 I have lost my path, 
 Wandering the dismal night in this old wood ; 
 Fd seek the coast ; canst thou point out the way ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Avoid it — on each side the Isthmus, ships 
 Of Athens ride at anchor. 
 
 hyllus. [Recognising him. 
 
 Thoas ! free — 
 Then I am bless'd, and I can bear my lot, 
 However hard ; — I guess the hand that op'd 
 The dungeon door ; — how didst thou quit the palace ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Why dost thou ask me that ? Through a large chamber 
 That open'd on a terrace — 'twas all dark ; — 
 Tell me who lay there ? 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 '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 ? 
 
scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. G3 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Sure. No one else 
 May enter after sunset, save the queen. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 The queen ! all's clear ; — Jove strike me into marble ! 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Why dost thou tremble so ? as if a fit 
 Of ague shook thee. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Nothing — only thought 
 Of my past danger came upon my soul 
 And shook it strangely. Was the old man there ? 
 
 [ Stands abstractedly as stupefied. 
 
 PENTHEUS. [Without. 
 
 Thoas ! 
 
 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. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Whither fly ? 
 The camp of Athens is before me ; — ships 
 Of Athens line the coasts, — and Corinth's king 
 
64 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act in 
 
 Hath driven me forth an exile. I'll return 
 And crave my fathers pardon. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 No — not there- 
 Yet, where should the poor stripling go? O Jove ! 
 When he shall learn — . 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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 forms of fiery serpents— how they hiss — 
 And point their tongues at Thoas ! 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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 — 
 
scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE, C5 
 
 Look not upon me; by this lurid light 
 
 Thou look'st a spectre. Hence, or I will rend thee ! 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 I rather would die here. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Fool ! fool ! away ! 
 
 [Exit Hyllus. 
 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. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 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, 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 A crown 
 Of laurel which hath floated in thy dreams 
 From thy brave infancy — 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 A grave! a grave ! [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
66 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The interior of the Funereal Grove at Corinth. 
 
 The Urn o^Creon. 
 
 Creusa discovered bending over it. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 'Tis strange! — I cannot weep for him; Fve 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 receiv'd, 
 
 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 ; — Fve recall 'd 
 
 From Memory's never-failing book of pain, 
 
 My own neglects of dutiful regard 
 
 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 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 67 
 
 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 lov'd together. 
 Dost thou know all ? 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Yes, all. — Alas ! Creusa, 
 He died 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. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 I fear thou must no longer link the thoughts 
 Of nobleness and Thoas. 
 
 f 2 
 
t)8 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 Then my soul 
 Must cease all thinkings ; for I've blended them 
 Till they have grown inseparate. What is this ? 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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 
 Preserv'd at liberal hazard of his own ? 
 Against the love which I was proud to bear 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 69 
 
 For him, and that with which he more than paid me ? 
 He in some frenzy utter' d aimless words, 
 And thou at once believ'd him guilty. Go ! 
 Haste and accuse him. Henceforth we are twain. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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. [Exit. 
 
70 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 Enter IsMene and Guards. 
 
 1SMENE. 
 
 Wherefore art thou here, 
 Despite the sentence which the king pronounc'd 
 Of exile ? 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Thine ! — win it if thou canst 
 
 Enter Calchas. 
 How stands the battle ? 
 
 CALCHAS. 
 
 Corinth's soldiers fly, 
 Routed in wild disorder. Thoas leads 
 The troops of Athens, and will soon appear 
 In triumph at our gates. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Leads, say'st thou ? — leads ? 
 Let Corinth's gates stand open to admit 
 The hero, — give him conduct to the hall, 
 Where sculptured glories of Corinthian kings 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 71 
 
 Shall circle him who sham'd them, — there, alone, 
 
 I would crave speech with him. [Exit Calchas. 
 
 hyllus. [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 ? 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Their swords shall curb 
 Thy idle ravings. Athens triumphs now ! — 
 Attend him to his chamber, and beware 
 He leaves it not. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 For this I ought to thank thee : 
 I would not see my country's foul disgrace ; 
 But thou shalt tremble yet. [Exit, guarded. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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. 
 
THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act it. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Before the Gates of Corinth. 
 Shouts tcithout. 
 Enter Thoas in armour, with his sword drawn, and 
 Athenian Soldiers, as in pursuit. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Here we may breathe awhile from conquest ; 'twas 
 A noble chase, we scarce may call it battle ; 
 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. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Not a drop. 
 My heart's too light — too jocund, to allow 
 Another touch of ecstacy, deriv'd 
 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 ! 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 73 
 
 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. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 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 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 wert call'd to lead us, 
 Flashed on thy spirit, and in lines of fire 
 From thine was manifest to ours I Art wounded ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 A very scratch ; I blush to think no more : 
 Some frolic blood let in the strife had serv'd 
 To moderate my fervours. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 See ; our comrades 
 Have snatched a branch from the Corinthian laurels 
 (Which now I fear must wither) for a wreath 
 To grace thy brow ! Soldiers, 'tis much I ask ; 
 But when 1 tell ye I have watch'd your chief 
 
74 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 From the first flash that dazzled in his eye 
 
 At tale of glory, ye may yield to me 
 
 The proud delight of offering him this honor. 
 
 [Soldier gives the wreath to Pentheus, who gives it to 
 Thoas. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 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 mus'd fondly — proudly — on the fate 
 Which waits upon my country ; when the brow 
 Which thou wouldst deck, was barM to mist and storm ; 
 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 / should stand thus crown'd, 
 Her laurelTd soldier ! Friends, the sun-light wanes, 
 And we must sup in Corinth ! 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 See, the gates 
 Open to welcome us ! \_The gates open. 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 75 
 
 THOAS. • 
 
 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. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 A herald from the city. 
 Enter Calchas. 
 
 CALCHAS. 
 
 I am commission^ by the queen to speak 
 With Thoas. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 I am here. 
 
 [ Trembles ■, and supports himself \ as paralysed, on 
 Pentheus. 
 
 Thou art commission'd 
 
 From the infernal powers to cross my path 
 
76 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 Of glorious triumph, with a shape that brings 
 Before me terrible remembrance, which 
 Had strangely vanish'd from me. 
 
 pe nth E u s . [ To the Soldiers. 
 
 He is ill,— 
 Retire. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 No — should the herald fade in air 
 He would not leave his office unfulfill'd, 
 One look hath smit my soul. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 Is this a dream ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 No — "'tis a dreadful waking — I have dreamt 
 
 Of honour, and have struggled in my dream 
 
 For Athens, as if I deserved to fight 
 
 Unsullied in her cause. The joy of battle 
 
 In eddies as a whirlpool had engulf 'd 
 
 The thought of one sad moment, when my soul 
 
 Was blasted ; but it rises in the calm, 
 
 Like to a slaughter 'd seaman, who 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. 
 
scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 77 
 
 So vanish all 
 My hopes; they are gone — I'm fit to answer thee 
 Who sent thee here ? \_To Calchas. 
 
 calchas. 
 The queen. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 A worthy mistress 
 Of such a slave— thy errand ? 
 
 CALCHAS. 
 
 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. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 The troops attend 
 The order of their general. 
 
 thoas. \_To Calchas. 
 
 Why dost wait ? 
 Thou see'st that I obey thy call. 
 
78 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 SOLDIER. [To PENTHEUS. 
 
 My lord, we wait for orders ; this strange man, 
 Half warrior and half rhapsodist, may bring 
 Our army into peril. 
 
 PENTHEUS. 
 
 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 them mortal. 'Tis a cloud 
 Which speedily will pass, and thou shalt see 
 The hero shine as clearly forth in council 
 As he has done in victory. Meanwhile 
 He leaves us pleasant duty — form your lines — 
 Sound trumpets— march triumphant into Corinth! 
 
 \The Athenians enter Corinth. 
 
scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 79 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Hall of Statues in 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. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Noble soldier, 
 I 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, 
 
80 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 And will requite thee with a joy as great 
 As that thou hast conferr'd. Thy life was hid 
 Beneath inglorious accident, till force 
 Of its strong current urged it forth to day, 
 To glisten and expand in sun-light. Know 
 That it has issu'd from a fountain great 
 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 believ'd the gods 
 Would ever lay on mortal ; I have stood 
 Unwittingly upon a skiey height, 
 By ponderous gloom encircled, — thou hast shown 
 The mountain-summit mournfully revers'd 
 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. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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, 
 
scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 81 
 
 But a faint speck, an atom, which no eye 
 But thine would dwell on ? 
 
 THOA.S. 
 
 It infests 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 snar'd my soul 
 Here — in this very hall ! — May the strong curse 
 Which breathes from out the ruins of a nature 
 Blasted by guilt — 
 
 1SMENE. 
 
 Hold ! Parricide — forbear ! 
 She whom thou hast aveng'd, she whom the death 
 Of Creon hath set free, whom thou wouldst curse, 
 Is she who bore thee ! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Thou! 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Dost doubt my word ? 
 Is there no witness in thy mantling blood 
 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 
 
 G 
 
82 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act tv. 
 
 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-stone where she 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. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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 arrWd ; and when it came, 
 The furies, in repayment, sent an arm, 
 
scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 83 
 
 Moulded from mine, to strike the oppressor dead. 
 I triumph'd, — and I sent thee! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Dost confess 
 That, conscious who I was, thou urgM my knife 
 Against the king ? 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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 suffering, which young soldiers 
 Have not a word to body forth ; for all, — 
 By filling for a moment these fond arms, 
 Which held thee first. 
 
 THOAS. [Shrinking 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. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Ha ! Beware, unfeeling man : — 
 I had oppos'd, had crush'd all human loves, 
 And they were wither'd ; thou hast call'd them forth, 
 
 g2 
 
84 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 iphitus. 
 The people cry 
 That solemn inquisition should be held 
 For Creon's blood ; — else do they fear the gods 
 Will visit it on them. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 They need not fear. 
 It will be well aveng'd. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 To thee, Ismene, 
 That which I next must speak, is of dear import ; — 
 Wilt hear it in this noble stranger's presence ? 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Say on, old man. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 From the old crumbling altar, 
 Just as the gates were open'd, breath'd a voice 
 In whisper low, yet heard through each recess 
 Of Jove's vast temple, bidding us to seek 
 
scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 85 
 
 Of thee, Ismene, who the murderer is, 
 And summon thee to the same fearful spot, 
 To speak it there. 
 
 ISMENE. [To THOAS. 
 
 Athenian ! dost thou hear ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 I hear. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 The hostile nations lay aside 
 Their quarrel, till this justice to the dead 
 Is 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 
 Hath burst long silence, I command thee, queen, 
 Thou presently be there. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 I shall obey — 
 Beside the altar place the regal seat ; 
 And there, in state befitting Corinth's queen, 
 Til take my place. \_To Thoas. 
 
 Farewell ! Thou wilt be there ! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Be sure I will not fail. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 'Tis well ! Tis well ! {Exit, 
 
86 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Thou saidst thou shouldst attend ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 I shall. What more 
 Would'st thou have with me ? 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 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'd, 
 And line the path of death. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 All that can make 
 The wretch accursM, 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 C reus a. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 For a moment hear me— 
 I would not break on thy triumphant hours, 
 But for my brother's sake. Do not refuse, 
 
scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 87 
 
 For, if he wrong" d thee by a frantic thought, 
 There was one ready to defend thy honour 
 From slightest taint I 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 What taint ? the breath of infamy 
 Spreads o'er my name already ! 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 Do not ask — 
 'Twas a wild thought ; — but there are tongues which make 
 As false a charge ; tongues which have power to crush 
 The guiltless ! — They have murmur'd that this crime 
 Is that of Hyllus ! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Hyllus the unsullied ! 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 I knew that thou would'st say so — that no force 
 Of circumstance would weigh in thy pure thought 
 Against the beauty of his life. They found him 
 Just after day-break, suddenly returned 
 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 ! 
 
88 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 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 one 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, 
 Debas'd 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. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 My general, Pentheus, asks 
 If, by thy sanction, Iphitus requires 
 His presence in the temple ? 
 
scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 89 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Pentheus ? — Yes. 
 
 creusa. [Thoas turns away. 
 
 Why in the temple ? wilt not speak ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 There summons all to some high trial. 
 
 The priest 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 I see it !— 
 They meet to judge my brother. I will fly — 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Thou must not, lady — in that fearful place, 
 Horrors unguess'd at by thy gentle nature 
 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 charg'd with love 
 And anguish. Now I feel that I could point 
 The murderer out 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 
 
90 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 
 
 The vows which, when in slavery, thou offer' d 
 
 And I was proud to answer — if not, Thoas, 
 
 Once press my hand ; O 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. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 One glance. [Looks at her and shudders. 
 O that the beauty I have lov'd and worshipp'd 
 Should be a thing to shiver me ! — 'Tis just. [Exit. 
 
 END OF ACT IV. 
 
icbnb i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 91 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Interior of the Temple of Jupiter the Avenger — Ismene 
 seated in the midst, in a Chair of State — Corinthians 
 on the right, and Athenians on the left, side of the Tem- 
 ple — At the extremity on the right side, Hyllus stand- 
 ing — At the extremity of the left, Thoas seated. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 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 
 
 Both nations to unite in dealing death 
 
 Upon the slayer, who, unslain, will draw 
 
 Its withering curse on both. In yonder shrine 
 
 Which dim tradition's fearful whispers made 
 
92 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 
 
 A terror to my infancy, a voice, 
 
 Which breath'd fell murmurs to ancestral ears, 
 
 Breaks centuries of silence to pronounce 
 
 The Queen as gifted to direct the shaft 
 
 To the curs'd 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 ! 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Priest 
 Of Jove, I am attendant to thy summons ; — 
 What is thy wish ? 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Sad widow of a king 
 Whose feeble life some cruel hand hath stopp'd, 
 I do adjure thee, by these hoary hairs, 
 That chang'd their hue from raven whilst thou shar'd 
 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 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 93 
 
 The solemn strain which shall attune our souls 
 To hearken and to execute ! 
 
 [Solemn music. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Ismene, 
 Speak : Dost thou know the slayer ? 
 
 JSMENE. 
 
 Yes! 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Dost thou 
 
 Behold him now ? 
 
 ismene. [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 ? 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 The youth with head erect and cloudless brow ? 
 That is the orphan^ Hyllus. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Who is he 
 That sits upon the 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? 
 
94 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Death ! 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 And soon performed ? 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 The Fates require that he thou shalt denounce 
 
 As guilty, must be led in silence hence, 
 
 And 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 ? 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Gods ! He is. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Name him ! 
 
 CALCHAS. 
 
 She shudders ! See, — 
 
 1 think she cannot speak ! 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 If quivering tongue 
 Refuse its office, point the victim out. 
 
 [Ismene rises; turns towards Thoas, who rises, and 
 
 confronts her ; she trembles, pauses, and resumes her seat- 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Thou hast confessM the guilty one is here ; 
 Where stands he ? 
 
 QIsmene rises; points to Hyllus, shrieks " There ! " and 
 falls back senseless in her chair. 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 95 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 'Tis false ! 
 
 [Creusa rushes forward and embraces Hyllus. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 Most false ! O murderess ! 
 Protect him, noble Thoas ! 
 
 HYLLCJS. 
 
 Peace, my sister: — 
 Implore no mortal aid ; let us be patient, 
 And suffer calmly what the gods decree. 
 My life may satisfy. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 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 
 Of innocence, outspeaking thousand voices, 
 Which shining in the presence of the gods 
 Still shows him guiltless. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Prove it. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 With my life-blood ! 
 O could ye place me in some dizzy cleft 
 
96 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 
 
 Of inmost Thracian hills, when ribb'd with ice, 
 To hear from every rocky shelf a howl 
 Of wolves arous'd to famine, — I would stand — 
 Calm, — O far calmer than I stand, — to wait 
 Their fangs, and let my tortur'd sinews' strength 
 Attest his cause ; — 'twere nothing — 'twere no pain — 
 To what the spirit feels. Thou tallest 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. 
 
 hyllus. 
 
 \_To Thoas, aside. 
 
 Thou wilt tell 
 
 Thy secret ; — keep it. Leave me to my doom. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Never ! Corinthians, hear me 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 [Recovering. 
 What is this ? 
 Why waits the parricide still there? Who dares 
 Dispute my sentence ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 I! 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Be silent. She 
 Who most in all the world should have command 
 O'er thee, requires thy silence- 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 97 
 
 pentheus. [Stepping forward from 
 the Athenian rank. 
 By what right 
 Dost thou — Queen of the vanquish'd — dare command 
 The leader of the conquerors ? 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 By a mother's. 
 £Thoas sinks into his seat — Ismene descends and 
 stands beside him. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Athenians — victors ! — 'tis your fitting name, 
 By which I joy to greet 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 J 
 I have a suit I would prefer alone, 
 Which may save guilt and sorrow. 
 
 tphitus, \_To Hyllus. 
 
 Lean on me. 
 To Thoas.] Be brief. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 I have no need ; yet I will take 
 This thy last kindness; for I can accept it 
 Without a blush or shudder. 
 
 H 
 
98 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 
 
 [All retire, leaving Thoas and Ismene in front. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Why hast heap'd 
 Foul crime on crime ? 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Son ! there has been no crime 
 Except for thee. The love that thou hastscorn\l 
 From the heart's long-closed shrine, outwhisper'd fate, 
 And saved thee. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Saved me ! Thou mayest save me yet ; 
 Recall thy sentence. Give me truth and death ! 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 And own my falsehood ? No ! Let us go hence 
 Together. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 And permit this youth to die ! 
 O that some god would mirror to my 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 ! 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 99. 
 
 1SMENE. 
 
 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. 
 
 Thou art brave, 
 As fits a matron of heroic line ; 
 Be great in penitence^ and we shall meet 
 Absolv'd, where I may join my hand to thine, 
 And walk in duteous silence by thy side. 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 And couldst thou love me then ? 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Love thee ! My mother, 
 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 ! 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 Never ! 
 THOAS. [Rising. 
 
100 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ISMENE. 
 
 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. 
 O ! mother, stay ! She's gone. 
 
 [Sinks into his chair. 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 IPH1TUS. 
 
 Hold! 
 No mortal passion can have utterance here, 
 When Fate is audible. To yield is ours ; 
 Be calm as Hyllus, or forego his hand. 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 101 
 
 [Creusa sinks on her knees beside Hyllus; Iphitus lays 
 one hand on the head of Hyllus, and raises the other towards 
 
 IPHITUS. 
 
 Dread Power, that bade us to this fane, accept 
 The expiation that we offer now, 
 And let this blood poured forth atone. 
 
 QThoas suddenly falls from, his seat to the ground. 
 Creusa rushes to him, and all surround him. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 Gods ! what is this new horror ? 
 
 \_Opening the vest o/Thoas, the dagger falls from it. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 There! *'Tis done ! 
 J Tis well accomplish'd. 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 Hyllus, go ! 
 Brother, no more — for thee he perishes. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 I will not purchase a last taste of sweetness 
 
 By such estrangement. That steel bears the blood 
 
 Of Creon and his slayer; — how excus'd 
 
 I leave you, generous king, to witness for me. 
 
102 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 
 
 Enter Calchas. 
 
 CALCHAS. 
 
 The queen ! 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Hold life a moment — what of her ? 
 
 CALCHAS. 
 
 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. 
 
 THOAS. 
 
 Peace be with her ! Pentheus, 
 Thy hand ; — let Hyllus 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. O Athens ! Athens ! [Dies. 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 
 Sister ! 
 
 CREUSA. 
 
 Forgive me, brother. 
 
 \_Falls on the neck of Hyllus, 
 
scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 103 
 
 HYLLUS. 
 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. 
 
 THE END. 
 
BRADBURY AND EVANS, 
 UNTERS-EXTRAORDINARY TO THE QUEEN, 
 WHITEFRIARS. 
 

 ■'£L4-' 
 
 
 GLENCOE; 
 
 THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 a ^tagrtig, in $ibe acts. 
 
 BY 
 V 
 
 T. N. TALFOURD. 
 
 FIRST REPRESENTED, 23d MAY, 1840. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXL. 
 
46577 
 
 LONDON : 
 BRAUKURY AND EVANS, PRfNTKRS, WHITBFRIARS. 
 
TO 
 
 LORD JEFFREY. 
 
 WITH GRATEFUL SENSE OF HIS KINDNESS, AND PRIDE IN HIS ESTEEM, 
 
 ®U% ^ragtfcp, 
 
 EMBODYING THE FEELINGS OF HAPPY DAYS 
 
 SPENT IN THAT ROMANTIC LAND WHICH HIS DELIGHTFUL SOCIETY 
 HAS ENDEARED, 
 
 IS (WITH HIS PERMISSION) RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 
 
 T. N. TALFOURD. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 Since this Play was prepared for the press, it has under- 
 gone the ordeal of representation ; and, having avowed 
 myself its author, I feel it right to state the circumstances 
 under which it was written and " commended to the stage.'" 
 It was composed in the last vacation 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 imper- 
 fect conceptions. After my return to London the Play was 
 printed, merely 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 immediately suppressed the edition. I found that my 
 
vi ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 friend, Mr. Charles Dickens, — whose generous devotion 
 to my interests amidst his own triumphant labors 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 recom- 
 mend its production as the first novelty of the present Hay- 
 market season. Having 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 distribution, I had not the 
 slightest idea that it would ever be acted,) I resolved wholly 
 to abstain from a course which might justly involve me in 
 such a censure ; and the only use made of any of 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 my 
 name to aid it, so I 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 ex- 
 ception of two or three friends who happened to have received 
 copies before the occasion for secrecy arose, my most intimate 
 friends and relations were wholly unacquainted with my con- 
 nexion of the announcement of Saturday 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 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. vii 
 
 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 delights 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 during 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 representation 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 terras 
 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 affec- 
 tions 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 
 
viu ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 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 many of the essentials of that 
 species of composition have recently 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 reasonably 
 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 dramatic authors within narrow limits — 
 the dearth of competent actors to represent their works, 
 and the monopoly which restricts the number of theatres 
 entitled to give them scope. Whether the removal 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 
 development of its rich resources ; and they cannot long be 
 so advanced and so supported in vain. 
 
 T. N. T. 
 
 London, 25th May y 1840. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 It is singular 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 mas- 
 sacre 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 presented 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 seventeenth 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 civilisation which enables 
 the novelist to blend the familiar with the fearful — u new 
 manners" with "the pomp of elder days" — the fading 
 superstition of dim antiquity with the realities which his- 
 tory 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 
 
x PREFACE. 
 
 purpose of the guests marking out their hosts for slaughter 
 — present opportunities for the most picturesque contrasts, 
 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 were abo- 
 lished, it may well represent their general extinction, and 
 the transfer of the virtues and the violence they sheltered 
 from action to memory. It occurred in a scene, too, 
 which, for gloomy grandeur, is not only unequalled, but 
 unapproached — perhaps, unresembled — by any other pass 
 in Britain ; and its solemn features, especially when con- 
 templated 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 traditions, it is difficult to 
 account for his abstinence from a theme which, if adopted 
 by him, would have been for ever 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 ' T but they show how 
 intensely 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 
 his 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 ! 
 
PREFACE, xi 
 
 In endeavouring to present, in a dramatic form, the feel- 
 ings which the scene and its history have engendered, it has 
 been found necessary to place in the foreground domestic 
 incidents and fictitious 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 fortunes of an individual family, 
 than exhibited in its extended horrors. The subject presents 
 strong temptations to mere melo-dramatic effect : it has been 
 the wish of the author to resist these as much as possible; 
 but he can scarcely hope with entire success. 
 
 The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand, 
 At midnight arm'd it with the hrand 
 That hade destruction's flames expand 
 Their red and fearful blazonry. 
 " Then woman's shriek was heard in vain ; 
 Nor infancy's unpitied pain, 
 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 ! Yes," she again exclaimed with a wilder and 
 shriller scream, " I was then unborn, but my mother has told me; and I 
 attended to the voice of my mother ; — well I remember her words '.—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 drop of the blood of Glencoe on the noble 
 hand of Barcaldine ; — with the unhappy house of Glenlyon the curse remains, 
 and on them God hath avenged it." 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 In the outline of those incidents, which are historical, 
 the Author has not ventured on any material deviation from 
 the story, as related in the Fifty-eighth Chapter of Sir 
 Walter Scott's " History of Scotland," where it will be 
 found developed with all the vividness 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- 
 son ; and the partial execution of the murderous orders ; are 
 all real features of " an ower true tale." The only devia- 
 tions of which the Author is conscious are, the represent- 
 ing blaster 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 Macdonalds, 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 con- 
 duct, are entirely fictitious. 
 
PREFACE. xiii 
 
 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 state, that the spot where 
 the tower and chapel of Halbert are supposed to be placed, 
 is beneath the mountain summit called the Pap of Glencoe; 
 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 pro- 
 fusion, about two miles to the south east of Loch Leven. In 
 other respects, as far as vivid 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 description 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 young 
 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 J 
 
 John Macdonald, 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 . . . S 
 
 Henry Macdonald, Younger Brother of} 
 Halbert . . . . . . . S 
 
 Angus, } Old Men of the Clan of the C 
 
 Donald, ) Macdonalds of Glencoe . . C 
 
 Capt. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, com- -\ 
 monly called Glenlyon, Captain of a de- > 
 tachment of the Earl of ArgyWs Regiment J 
 
 Lindsay, an Officer under Glenlyon! $ command . 
 
 Drummond, a Serjeant in the Regiment . 
 
 Kenneth, an Old Servant of Mac Ian 
 
 A Catholic Priest 
 
 Mr. Webster. 
 Mr. J. Webster. 
 
 Miss P. Horton. 
 Mr. Macready. 
 
 Mr. Howe. 
 
 Mr. Santer. 
 Mr. Gallot. 
 
 Mr. Phelps. 
 
 Mr. W. Lacy. 
 
 Mr. Worrell. 
 Mr. Waldron. 
 Mr. Gotjgh. 
 
 Lady Macdonald, Mother of Halbert and ) 
 
 (• Mrs. W t arner. 
 Henry ) 
 
 Helen Campbell, an Orphan protected by} „„ TT „ 
 
 r , ™ , ,,\r- y,,"-, ( Miss Helen Faucit. 
 
 Lady Macdonald, Niece to Glenlyon . ) 
 
 Clansmen, Officers, Soldiers, &c. 
 
 Scene — Glencoe, and the neighbouring banks of Loch Leven. 
 
 Time — January, 16S9. 
 
 The first Two Acts occupy one night and the following morning. 
 There is an interval of a fortnight between the action of the Second and 
 Third Acts ; — the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Acts comprise the action of 
 the three succeeding days. 
 
GLENCOE; 
 
 THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Hall in the House of Mac Ian in Glencoe. 
 
 Midnight. — A turf fire burning. — Storm heard without. — 
 John Macdonald discovered sitting pensively at a table; 
 Al aster 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 ; 
 
 B 
 
2 GLENCOE; OR, [act 
 
 In deepest slumber it will stir your heart, 
 And rouse you to his arms. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 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 with our sires ; and still the fear 
 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 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 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 jour father. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 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 distinguish'd only by that charm 
 
 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 gibe or withering silence, which he bears 
 
 In gentlest mood ; — yet once his soul was passion 'd 
 
 With wilder rage than even 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. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 Manhood ! 
 
 b 2 
 
4 GLENCOE ; OR, [act i. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 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 deferrM. 
 Sit, then, and listen. Halbert's father long 
 With ours contested who might claim descent 
 From eldest line of ancestry, and right 
 To chieftainship and lands. Fierce conflicts held 
 The claim in doubt, till 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 Loch 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 my father stood 
 Awed by the weakness of the foe so late 
 His equal ; the expiring warrior raised 
 His head, and catching from the eager looks 
 Of the wan lady who had wiped the dew 
 Of anguish from his forehead, argument 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 To quell all scruple, solemnly rehearsed 
 
 The terms, and, as his dying prayer, implored 
 
 Halbert to keep them. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 So he yielded ? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 No; 
 One flush of crimson from the hair which curPd 
 Crisply around his brows, suffused his face 
 And throat outspread with rage; — he slowly raised 
 His dirk ; and, though the agony which swelFd 
 His heaving breast prevented speech, we read 
 In his dilated nostril, eyes that flash'd 
 With fire that answer'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 voice, 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 stretch'd 
 Her withered finger towards the youth, and spoke — 
 " Halbert, obey ! The hour which sees thee rule 
 O'er the Macdonalds of Glencoe shall briny 
 7 error 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, 
 
6 GLENCOE; OR, I act i. 
 
 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 murmurM it. The youth arose 
 Sedate, and turning to his mother, said, 
 " I live for you." Since then he has remain'd 
 What you have known him. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 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 reckon'd old. Her age alone 
 Would make the obscurest thread of human life 
 Drawn out, though 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 shrivelFd Queen 
 Of England foully shattered 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 foreshadow'd 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 
 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 7 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 Her strange words 
 Fell lightly on the younger 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 brook 
 The dulness of his home, though not uncheer'd 
 By female grace ; for there the lovely child 
 Of brave Hugh Campbell, whom Macdonald loved, 
 Spite of the hatred that he bore his clan, 
 Has, from the opening of her youth's first blossom 
 Found shelter ; — and no fairer Scotland boasts 
 Than Helen Campbell. If young Henry lives, 
 Be sure you '11 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. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 '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 
 
8 GLENCOE ; OR, --{act i. 
 
 Enter Kenneth. 
 Swift to the bridge, it may be yours to save 
 Your chief. [Exit 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 Ian'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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 Are you assured 'twas he ? 
 Did he address you ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Alaster, you know 
 How rarely he will grace me with a word; 
 But this is not a season for a thought, 
 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 
 
scene i.J THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 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 hVd upon me ; waved his arm aloft, 
 
 In action that forbade pursuit, and took 
 
 The pathway to Loch Etive. I believed 
 
 He wish'd but to avoid me, and that done, 
 
 He would turn homeward. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 
 111 search each cavern'd nook within our glen, 
 Nor leave a crevice which the smallest rill 
 Has hollow'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 ! — hush ! 
 
10 GLENCOE; OR, [act 
 
 Enter Angus. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Angus at such an hour ! 
 
 ANGUS. 
 
 A fearful summons 
 From a shrill voice, between the tempest's gusts, 
 CalPd me to meet my chief. 
 
 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 ; 
 Roused 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 ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Heaven fit us to endure! 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 11 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Another step ; I know it well ! — 'tis his ! 
 Pray you withdraw awhile ; but go not hence. 
 
 [Halbert and the Clansmen retire to the end 
 of the Room. 
 
 Enter Mac Ian. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 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 IAN. 
 
 No ; it would choke me. I must drain no more 
 The goblet to assuage the patriot glow 
 Of love and pride ; I may not drink to Him 
 Whose ancestry my own revered ; and wine 
 Were poison to me now. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 Is all then past ? 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 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 to record it : thence 
 
 I was compelPd to struggle through the storm 
 
 To Inverary, where the Sheriff deign'd, 
 
 Although beyond the appointed time, to seal 
 
12 GLENCOE; OR, [act 
 
 The degradation of our race. I pass'd 
 Within two miles of this beloved home, 
 And dared not turn to it. 
 
 halbert — (speaking to Angus behind). 
 
 'Twas there I met him. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 Who spoke ? Is he who track'd me in the storm 
 
 Come as a spy, upon my sad return, 
 
 To gaze upon my sorrow ? Let him face me ! 
 
 halbert — {coming forward). 
 I came not to offend you. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 No ; — he came 
 In terror for your safety. 
 
 mac ian. 
 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. 
 
 halbert. 
 
 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 wear the glory yet 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 13 
 
 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 IAN. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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, 
 A shapeless rock, 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. 
 
 Believe it, father ; 
 Indeed 'tis true. 
 
14 GLENCOE; OR, [act i. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 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 IAN. 
 
 Here ? — I must face them ; — tell them to approach. 
 
 [Mac Ian takes his seat ; — John beckons the 
 old Clansmen, who surround it. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 I have cold welcome for you, friends ; you come 
 To share the wreck of the Macdonalds. I, 
 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 perilPd his ; — and yesternight, 
 At Inverary, pledged our faith to William. 
 
 Enter Kenneth wildly. 
 
 KENNETH. 
 
 Too late ! too late ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 What mean those awful words ? 
 Is all his anguish vain ? 
 
 kenneth (seeing mac ian). 
 No, he is safe ! 
 Why start ye ? — though the bridge is swept away, 
 Our chief's unharm'd. 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 15 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 And thus you welcome him, 
 With words which freeze the soul ! You meant no ill ; 
 Yet death is in your words. 
 
 kenneth (kneeling to mac ian). 
 
 Forgive me. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 Rise; 
 
 I'm arm'd for any ill, unless it fall 
 
 On these, my life's last comforts. 
 
 \_Looking on John and Alaster. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Sir, farewell ! 
 When peril comes — as come it will — regard 
 The meanest clansman's life less cheap than his 
 Whose loyalty you wrong. [Exit Halbert. 
 
 mac ian {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 IAN. 
 
 There; — we are knotted now to live or die. 
 
 [The Drop Scene falls. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
1(» GLENCOE; OR, [act n. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Hall of Halbert's Tower. 
 
 Time — Daybreak . 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald with a Letter, followed by Drum- 
 mo nd, in the uniform of the Earl of Ar gyles Regiment, 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Thanks for your pains. Let me devour 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 
 
 To read ; — they are dazzled now. \_To the Soldier.] Pray 
 
 you go in : 
 We have poor entertainment to bestow, 
 But our best cheer is yours. 
 
 DRUMMOND. 
 
 I must return 
 Upon the instant ; shall I bear your answer ? 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 There is no need ; he speeds ; his eager wish, 
 If I may judge it by my own, will add 
 Wings to his swiftness. Yet a moment stay ; 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 17 
 
 Know you the writer of these lines, my son, — 
 Is he of gallant port ? 
 
 SOLDIER. 
 
 Our regiment's pride, 
 And first in favour of Glenlyon. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 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 
 
 c 
 
18 GLENCOE; OR, [act n. 
 
 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, 
 
 While it invests some marble heap with gleams 
 
 Of palaced visions. If the tufts of broom 
 
 Whence 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 
 
 W r astes 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'd in a solitude like this, — is bless'd, 
 
 Instead of sharing with a million flowers 
 
 One radiant flush, — in offering its faint bloom 
 
 To fondest eyes. Say not again, dear lady, 
 
 That joy but seldom visits these old walls. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 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. 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 19 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Pardon in him, 
 As I do, young ambition's upward gaze, 
 Which, nVd upon the future, cannot turn 
 To glance upon the distant and the past. 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Is it indeed so, madam ? 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 He comes to-day, upraised 
 In Argyle's regiment to command, and graced 
 With favour of Glenlyon, 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Of my uncle ? 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 His troop is quarter'd with us, 
 To taste in peace our simple Highland fare, 
 
 c 2 
 
20 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 
 
 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 returnM 
 Since, yestere'en, he left us to inquire 
 The issue of Mac Ian 's journey. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 You 
 Alarm me; — not returnM ? 
 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 My son, 
 What ails you ? Speak ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 I will — soon — presently ; 
 Ha! Mother! Helen! safe; — thank Heaven ! Has nothing 
 To-night appalVd you ? 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 That is strange. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 What has befall'n us ? Is Mac Ian dead ? 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 21 
 
 H ALBERT. 
 
 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. 
 
 JADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Her voice who spake when death — 
 halbert (laying his hand on her arm). 
 
 Mother ! 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 He shivers as with ague. Speak, my son ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Yes — it is over now I'll tell you all, 
 
 As far as words can tell it. As I left 
 
 Mac Ian'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. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 You have mused, my son, 
 In dismal solitudes on our old tales 
 Till each wild pass is haunted, and the wind, 
 Struggling within a mountain gully, moans 
 Or shrieks with prophecy. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 No ! — It transfix 1 d me 
 As with an arrrow,— when it sunk, still night 
 
22 GLENCOE; OR, [act u. 
 
 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 giant's sigh : 
 Then, from their feet the mists arising, grew 
 To shapes resembling human, till I saw, 
 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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. 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Sure there's one 
 Who owns that clan you would not spurn ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Sweet girl ! 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 23 
 
 Your beauty, early sever'd from its stem, 
 And planted in an honest soil, retains 
 No vestige of its origin. 
 
 E The music is heard approaching. 
 
 Yet nearer ! 
 Look not. on me with those beseeching eyes ; [ To Helen. 
 I will enjoy it ; — 'tis 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Of my brother? 
 Shall we embrace him soon ? 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 We hope to-day. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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^r 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 ArgyWs Regiment; Halbert starts and stands 
 apart; Lady Macdonald eagerly embraces Henry. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 O, most welcome ! 
 
21 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 
 
 h albert (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 imploringly on H Albert's). 
 Halbert, speak to him. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Yes; — I '11 not dash that bonnet from his brow ; 
 Right, right — I '11 speak to him. My brother ! 
 
 [Henry embraces Halbert, ivho receives him coldly. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 Stiff 
 And melancholy grown ! These rugged walls 
 Have shed their sullen gloom into your nature, 
 And made my welcome cold. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 These walls are sacred — 
 Fit home for honest poverty ; 'twere well 
 If you had never left them. 
 
 henry (approaching Helen). 
 
 They contain 
 One form of radiant loveliness ; — is this 
 My some-time playmate Helen? You are silent; 
 You do not bid me welcome. 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Welcome, Henry? 
 It is because my heart's too full of welcome 
 To vent its joy in words. 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 25 
 
 h albert (apart). 
 
 So fond ! so free ! 
 
 This stripling will engage the care of all 
 
 Within my little world ; — for shame ! the thought 
 
 Is selfish and most base ; I must suppress it. — 
 
 [Aloud, 
 
 You 11 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 '11 deign to share 
 A soldier's purse. 
 
 [Henry offers a purse to Halbert, who is about to dash 
 it on the ground, but restrains his passion ; pauses and 
 returns it. They speak apart from Lady Macdonald 
 and Helen. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 
 
26 GLENCOE; OR, [act 11. 
 
 Disgraceful to the officers I serve, 
 
 And though my brother, you shall answer it. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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^ orders. Helen, soon 
 I shall reclaim old friendship. 
 
 [Apart to Halbert.] In an hour, 
 Upon Loch Leven's margin, 'neath the shade 
 Of the first rock, expect me. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Do not fail. 
 
 [Exit Henry. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Come, Helen, let us see the tower prepared 
 To feast our noble soldier and his friends. 
 Is he not all a mothers 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. 
 
 HALBERT (alone). 
 
 Down, wild rage ! 
 These rebel passions ought to fright me more 
 Than night's grim phantoms. I had deem'd my temper 
 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 27 
 
 Proof gainst all griefs, all injuries, all scorns ; 
 But this — my brother self-sold to our foes ! — 
 1 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 cerulean distance can impart 
 To thoughts of earth's brief struggles ? Linger yet ! 
 It sinks ; 'tis gone ; its peace is in my soul. 
 
 [Exit Halbert. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in a Highland House. 
 
 Sentinels seen pacing before the Windows. — Glenlyon. 
 Lindsay, and other Officers of Ar gyle's Regiment. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 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. 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 Is nothing more intended here than feasting ? 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Lindsay, I fain 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. 
 
28 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 You know this glen, Macdonald : to your charge 
 I leave disposal of the soldiers ; place them 
 Where frankest entertainment will be given. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 The entertainment may be coarse, but given 
 With heartiest welcome. I shall grant a boon 
 To every clansmen in whose hut I place 
 One of my gallant comrades. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 See all lodged, 
 And then report to me. This hut be mine. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 May I retire? I must redeem a pledge 
 Within this hour. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 An old acquaintance found ? 
 You have my leave, sir. {Exit Henry. 
 
 Some one knocks ; attend ; 
 Who waits ? 
 
 Enter Drummond. 
 
 DRUMMOND. 
 
 Mac lan^ sons are at the door, 
 And ask to see you. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Ha ! — of course admit them. 
 
 [Exit Drummond. 
 The children of the stubborn chief who dared 
 Accuse our loftiest nobles that they filch 'd 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 29 
 
 The money sent to buy the peace of Scotland ! 
 
 I'd thank him for a brawl. Your pleasure with me ? 
 
 Enter John and Al aster. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 We bear Mac Ian's greeting to Glenlyon ; 
 He trusts you come in friendship, now his oath 
 To William is recorded. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 How ! recorded ? 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 Yes; by the Sheriff of Argyle. We tell 
 The fact, not boast it. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 You speak boldly, sir ; 
 A spirited young Highlander, i'faith : 
 Let me enlist you in our troop ; we teach 
 Some manners that you lack. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 And let me lack them, 
 Ere I endure your teaching. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Alaster ! 
 Forbear. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 O, 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. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Well! 
 Your father acted prudently at last : 
 
30 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 
 
 Within you'll taste some wine, and tell me how 
 His journey prosper'd. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Sir, you have not made 
 Reply to my sole question ; — do you come 
 To visit us in friendship ? 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 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. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Your hand. \_To Alaster] And yours; — you'll be a 
 soldier yet. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Banks of Loch I^even. 
 
 Enter Henry. 
 
 henry. 
 First at the place ! — the morning's chill ; — I wish 
 The quarrel were with other than the man 
 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. 
 
scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 31 
 
 Enter H albert. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 I have but little time to spend, 
 And the air freezes. Let's to work at once. 
 Select your ground, sir. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Do you mock me, Henry, 
 With this vain show of courage? 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 I came hither 
 Upon 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Did I not feel that I have words 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 ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 tahVd 
 Of noble daring, till you paused in sport 
 To hear and weep. Its sight should wound you now 
 
32 GLENCOE ; OR, [act ii. 
 
 More than its edge could. What would be his grief 
 Could he behold you in that hated dress, 
 Linked to the foes of Scotland ! O, 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, 
 And makes the loser glorious. Not for me 
 The sullen pride of mouldering battlements, 
 Or rites of tottering chapel. 
 
 H ALBERT. 
 
 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 
 
scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 33 
 
 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 
 Thus slander'd. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 make the soul 
 Effeminate with richness, like the scenes 
 In which the baffled Campbells hid their shame, 
 And scorn'd 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 
 Their hoard 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, 
 
 D 
 
34 GLENCOE ; OR, [act it. 
 
 In their brief fleecy loveliness grow proud 
 To wait upon The Lasting. — And the right 
 To walk this glen with head erect, you sold 
 For bounties which Argyle could offer ! 
 
 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 ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 
 W T ith 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, 
 Unriveted 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, undisturbM 
 By change or death :— they are eternal, Henry ! 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 If we were now the lords of this domain 
 
 
scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 35 
 
 You love so well, I might 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 ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 The power to bear 
 That bitter taunt— which yet I feel!— O Henry ! 
 Was that well said ? 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 You should not have provoked it 
 By slanders on my officers and friends. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 szvord, and rushes on Halbert, 
 who dashes it from his hand. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Take up your sword ; 
 See how a bad cause makes a brave arm weak ! 
 Blush not ; 'twas but in pastime. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 Kill me now, 
 And walk the hills in pride ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 
 
 d 2 
 
36 GLENCOE; OR, [act n. 
 
 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 T traced the crags 
 By which with lightest footstep you approach'd 
 The eaglets' 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 vanished from your soul. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 No— Halbert— no ! 
 Graceless I shook them from it, but they crowd 
 Here at your voice. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 And you will not forget us ? 
 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 recals 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 
 
scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 37 
 
 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 I will not let you pour 
 On Helen's ear one word of self-reproach ; 
 You'll not believe him shamed I 
 
 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. 
 
 halbeet (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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Nothing else? 
 
38 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Y es ; 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Those strains again ! Forgive me, Let us home. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 39 
 
 ACT III.* 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Quarters of Glenlyon. 
 
 Enter Glenlyon and Lindsay. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Are you not weary of your quarters, Lindsay ? 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 Not I ; — I care but little where I lodge. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 These fifteen days among the snows will nerve 
 
 Our soldiers to encounter a campaign 
 
 In coldest winter. Do they bear it bravely ? 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 Bear it ? 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 openM 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 ? 
 
 * A Fortnight is supposed to elapse between the Second and Third Acts. 
 
40 GLENCOE; OR, [act in. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 I know not, Lindsay ; what our mission was 
 Y^ou 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 
 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 Ian's oath 
 Accepted by the Sheriff, though so late, 
 May save him. There's a mournful courtesy 
 In this old chief, crest-falFn but self-sustain'd, 
 Which softens me to wish it. 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 He is crafty, 
 But yet most daring : never will the Highlands 
 Know peace while he infests them. 
 
 glenlyon (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 ? 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 No: but I am sure 
 He"^ pleasantly engaged ; for I have met him 
 Often, since we have lodged here, with a lady 
 Gracing his arm, whom a slight glance approves 
 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 41 
 
 Of rarest beauty. But he comes to make 
 His own report. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 'Tis well, 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 who 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. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Nay, no evasion ; 
 Tell me at once to whom I ow^e your absence, 
 Or hope no favour. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 If I had not fear'd 
 
 The old estrangement which the father caused 
 Might touch the daughter, I had long ere this 
 Sought for her your protection. She is the child 
 Of your slain brother, from your love so long 
 Unhappily divided. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 I knew not 
 That he had left a daughter. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 When he died, 
 
42 GLENCOE; OR, [act hi. 
 
 You were abroad ; and she, an infant, found 
 A sire in mine. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Poor girl, to find her here 
 At such a moment !— but she shall be cared for. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 Cared for ! 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Yes — cared for ; — said I something strange ? 
 1st strange that I should care for her? To business : — 
 You are swift of foot, and know the jagged paths 
 Among these hills. [Gives a letter. 
 
 Bear this to Duncanson, 
 And bring his answer with your best despatch : 
 When you return, we'll 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 Halberfs Tower. 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 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 been unvaried gloom. Now that our snows 
 Glitter with dancing feathers and bright plaids, 
 Our echoes learn to laugh, and our rough paths 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 43 
 
 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 gentle 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 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 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^ 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 recal old times, 
 
44 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 
 
 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 
 
 Unsofteu'd by reflexion, — 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 MAC DONALD. 
 
 My dear Halbert, 
 How will you bear this ! 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Can it be, you fear 
 My joy in Henry's presence should afflict 
 A soul so great as Halbert's ? 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 I do fear it ; — 
 I know it; shudder at it : can you doubt 
 That Halbert loves you ? 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Do not think it, madam, 
 For mercy's sake, if you intend by love 
 Something beyond a brother's fondest care 
 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 ! 
 
 [Helen throws herself on Lady Macdonald's neck. 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 45 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Rest there, beloved fair one ; I will 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 macdonald {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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Was not that Helen ? Wherefore should she fly 
 Upon my coming ? But her absence serves 
 My purpose now. I came to talk of her. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Of her ? Sit down ; you look fatigued and ill : 
 Til fetch a draught of wine. 
 
 halbert. 
 
 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" MACDONALD. 
 
 My son ! 
 
 halbert. 
 
 Why, you look pale ; I thought my wish 
 Was also yours. I know a common mother, 
 Who, having lost her husband in her prime, 
 
46 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 
 
 Seeks from a grateful son some slight return 
 For love that watclVd his infancy, may feel 
 Her fortune cruel, when a new regard, 
 With all the greediness of passion, fills 
 The bosom where till then affection reign'd, 
 Which answered, though it could not rival, hers : 
 But we have lived so long as equal friends 
 With love absorbing duty, that I thought, 
 And I still think, increase of joy to me 
 Must bring delight to you. I could have lived 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 You mean — Helen ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 My son. 
 Are you assured she loves you ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 As assured 
 As of my love for her. In both, one wish, 
 As she has glided into womanhood, 
 Has grown with equal progress. 
 
scene ii. J THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 47 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Have you sought 
 Of her, if she esteems it thus ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 By words? 
 No ; for I never doubted it : as soon 
 Should I have ask'd you if a mother's love 
 Watctfd 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 for 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 My Halbert, you have quelFd 
 Fierce passion by strong virtue ; use your 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 
 A colour they possess not, to an eye 
 Bent fondly over them. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 It cannot be ; 
 A thousand, and a thousand times, I've read 
 Her inmost soul; and you that rack me thus 
 
48 GLENCOE; OR, [act in, 
 
 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-sustained 
 
 Through years of solitary hope, or crownM 
 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 I have ; and then I fancied that she loved you. 
 
 II ALBERT. 
 
 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 God 
 
 By a celestial penman. Answer me, 
 
 Once more ! when hurricanes have rockM these walls, 
 
 And dash'd upon our wondering ears the roar 
 
 Of the far sea, exulting that its wastes 
 
 Were populous with agonies ; with loves 
 
 Strongest in death ; with memories of long years 
 
 Grey phantom of an instant ; — 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 ? 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 49 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 I have mark'd it. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Then wherefore do you torture me with doubt ? 
 What can you know, what guess, that you can weigh 
 Against these proofs ? 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Be firm ; she loves another. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 'Tis false ! — and yet, great Heaven ! your quivering lips 
 
 Attest it. And you knew this ? You partook 
 
 Her counsels — His ? — Yes, His ! — you know the name 
 
 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 macdonald [laying her hand on his arm). 
 H albert, pause, and look 
 Into your mother's face, and then reply 
 To her :— does she deserve this of her son ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 suffer. 
 
50 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Are you arm'd to bear it ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 For all things. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Henry — 
 
 halbert. [Starting up. 
 
 My own brother ! Now 
 I see it clear ; — remember how she gazed 
 With fondness on him, when lie came array \1 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 What fearful vision crosses you ? Slay Henry — 
 Him whom you moulded ! From unthinking youth 
 Strike him to bloody senselessness, and bid 
 Your twice-stabb'd mother gaze upon her sons — 
 The murder'd and the guilty ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Guilty ? — yes ! 
 I 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 I fear'd this outbreak 
 Of fire subdued, not quenchM. My noble son, 
 As you have wrestled with the fiends, and quell'd them, 
 Be victor now ! 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 51 
 
 halbert (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 MACDONALD. 
 
 Would that it were ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 I will awake her spirit from its trance ; 
 I '11 meet her face to face, and soul to soul, 
 And so be satisfied. 
 
 LADY MACPONALD. 
 
 You shall do so, 
 If you will rule your passion, 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 I am calm, 
 Docile as infancy ; I ll seek her now. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Rage — to her ? All weak 
 In passion as I am, you need not fear it. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 I'll trust you. [Exit Lady Macdonald. 
 
 e2 
 
52 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 
 
 HALBERT (alone). 
 
 She will 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 meditations. Is my mother near, 
 Or Helen ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Helen ! 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 I have scarce a word 
 To spend with either ; though I would not pass 
 Your tower unvisited, I 'm bound to speed, 
 For I am bearer of an urgent letter 
 To Duncanson. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 pass. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 There 's treachery in it — and in you. 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 53 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Your word ! 
 [Halbert, at sight of Helen, pauses and shrinks back. 
 
 HALBEUT (to HENRY). 
 
 Forgive me ; I am ill at ease, and scarce 
 Know what I utter. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 I shall think of this 
 But 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 reason's mood. 
 
 [Exit Henry. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 I leave you : recollect your word. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 I will. 
 [Exit Lady Macdonald. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 ? 
 
54 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 
 
 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 
 To transient sorrow which a thankless girl 
 Can hurl against it. 
 
 H ALBERT. 
 
 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 strengthen^ in its marble ; — if you 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 of mine ! 
 I, who would rather perish than requite 
 Long years of kindness with one throb of pain, 
 Must make that soul a wreck ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 No, Helen, no — 
 It is a dream ; your heart is mine ; mine only, — 
 I'll read it here : — you have not pledged its faith 
 To any other ? 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 No ; — not yet. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Thank God !— 
 Then you are mine ; we have been betrothed for years. 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Would it had been so ! 
 
 H ALBERT. 
 
 You desire it ? 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Yes; 
 I then had kept such watch upon my soul, 
 As had not let the shadow of a thought 
 Fall on your image there ; but not a word 
 Of courtship pass'd between us. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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'erarcrTd 
 By Time's deep shadows ; with the fate of kings, — 
 A glorious dynasty — for ever crushM 
 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. 
 
56 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 
 
 H ALBERT. 
 
 No ;— it shall cast off this cloud, 
 And retain no impression save of things 
 Which 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 rendered sweet 
 By crowding memories of delicious hours 
 SootrTd by its murmur, we have own'd and bless'd 
 The Presence of Eternity and Home ! 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 What shall I do? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 Iona, 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 'twould dissolve and win them ; — till a cave, 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 57 
 
 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 charnTd, 
 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 ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Yes ; and you are „ 
 With this sweet token I assure you mine, 
 
 {Places a ring on her finger. 
 
 In sight of angels. Bless you ! 
 
 help;n. 
 
 It is done 
 I dare not, cannot, tear this ring away. 
 
58 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 It but denotes what Heaven has registered ; 
 
 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 The next day, then ? 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Direct it as you please ; 
 Would I were worthy ! — pray you leave me now. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 I go to share my blessedness with her 
 
 Whose love you share with me; — our mother, Helen. 
 
 [Exit Hal bert. 
 
 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. O that I had met 
 All evil things — oppression — slander — hate — 
 How would I have defied them ! 
 
 Enter Lady Macdonald. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Is it true 
 You have consented to wed Halbert ? 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Yes. 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 59 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 My child, come to my heart. How's this ? You are pale 
 And cold as marble. 
 
 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 linger'd 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 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 MACDONALD 
 
 Weep there, child, 
 And may Heaven's arms encircle you as mine ! 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
60 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Tower of Halbert. 
 Time — Noon of the Sixteenth Dai/. 
 
 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 ; whereas my mother ? 
 
 KENNETH. 
 
 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 brother, 
 My solemn brother, all this time in love ! 
 He has not trusted me ; so I must ask 
 Of you, the fair one's name. 
 
 KENNETH. 
 
 Name .'—surely, sir, 
 It could be none but Helen Campbell. 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 61 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 Cease 
 Your jesting with that name, or with my sword 
 I'll try to teach you manners. 
 
 KENNETH. 
 
 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 loves her life. 
 
 KENNETH. 
 
 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 aside 
 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, 
 I'faith a merry one ! — her uncle, too, 
 My captain and my friend ! — Most generous brother, 
 Til mar your triumph yet. 
 
62 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv. 
 
 Enter Helen. 
 
 O you are here ! 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Yes ; on a summons couched in terms more harsh 
 Than needful : I had come on lightest word 
 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 question. 
 
 [Henry seizes Helen's arm ; she looks at him and 
 turns away in tears. 
 
 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^ innocent of all. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 O, doubtless ! Still 
 ""Twas churlish not to bid me to his bridal ; 
 What is the happy hour ? 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Sunrise. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 Until 
 That hour, farewell. 
 
scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. G3 
 
 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 unrecognised, which link'd 
 My destiny to Halberfs. He has shown 
 That, though I knew it not, my life is his, 
 And I have own'd his title to the hand 
 This ring enriches. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 And for dreams like this 
 You have repelPd 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 them ! 
 
 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 
 
64 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 
 
 Of glory, and upon them carve a name 
 
 Resplendent to all soldiers ; — yet 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. 
 
 glenlyon. 
 
 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 
 
 Than a safe means of justice, which rash force 
 
 Might frustrate. Would our messenger were here ! 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 Indeed time presses ; we shall bear the charge 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 65 
 
 Of weakness for the doubt which has delayed 
 The course prescribed. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 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. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 How 's this ? Your looks are wild ; have you met aught 
 Should shake a brave man's constancy ? 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 I crave 
 Your pardon ; 'tis 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. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Thanks ;— wait within ; — refresh yourself; — 
 I'll deal with your fair rebel. 
 
 [Exit 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 ? 
 
66 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 It 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. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Would that death 
 
 Had met me first ! 
 
 Obedience ? 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 Yet you will not withhold 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Never; — I am shaken now, 
 But you shall find me constant to obey 
 The simple law of duty : — none shall live. 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 Think of these clansmen as of rebels snared 
 In treason, whom a law, disdaining forms, 
 Has sentenced : it is hard to make brave soldiers 
 The executioners of civil judgment ; 
 Yet we must do our office. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Be it yours 
 To show the men their duty. 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 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. 
 
scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 62 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Call in Macdonald. [Exit Lindsay. 
 
 He shall plant the men : 
 His present passion moulds him to our will. 
 
 Re-enter Lindsay and Henry Macdonald. 
 
 GLENLYON (to HENRY). 
 
 There is a service I would claim of you, 
 Which, well achieved, shall humble to your feet 
 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. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 It lacks the peril you desire. This clan, 
 Though crouching now to William's power, retains 
 Its lion fierceness. We must tame its chiefs 
 By forcing them, in abject terms, to sue 
 For pardon — yield their hidden stores of arms — 
 And feel themselves subdued. At dawn to-morrow 
 We'll 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 
 
 f2 
 
68 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 
 
 Your daring rival suppliant, and my niece 
 Your wealthy bride. Will you do this? 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 I will. 
 Enter Drummond. 
 
 DRUMMOND. 
 
 I come to ask if I shall bid the band 
 Attend you at the feast. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 What feast? 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 The banquet 
 Mac Ian gives to-day : — the hour is near. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 A banquet ! that is terrible. 
 
 lindsay (apart to Glenlyon). 
 
 Be wary ; 
 Eyes are upon us. 
 
 (Aloud.) You will send the band ; 
 All we can do, should grace our visit. 
 
 GLENLYON (to DRUMMOND). 
 
 Yes: 
 
 You may retire. [Exit Drummond. 
 
 GLENLYON (to HENRY). 
 
 At dawn I will attend 
 Your 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 Ltndsay. 
 
scene in] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 69 
 
 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Is she so pensive still ! 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 If Henry broke 
 Upon her suddenly, his harsh demeanour 
 Might drive the colour from her cheeks, and scare 
 Her thoughts from their repose. 
 
70 GLENCOE; OR, [act 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 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 maddenM 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 defies 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 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 tossed, 
 But not perverted ; as the water keeps 
 Its crystal beauty in its bed of rock, 
 
scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 
 
 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Do you not believe 
 She will be happy soon ? 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 She will be tranquil ; 
 But if you ask me if she will enjoy 
 The happiness for which her nature 's framed, 
 I cannot veil my fears. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 What should I do? 
 I have known fearful heart-struggles ; but this 
 Makes all seem nothing. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 There is in your soul 
 A noble purpose. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 
 For love-lorn manhood ; thirst of fame in me 
 Is quench'd ; society's miscalPd delights 
 
72 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv 
 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 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 — 
 
 h albert (stopping her). 
 
 Speak no more. It shall not be; 
 I will make ready for the sacrifice. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 My noble son ! Let me embrace you, proud 
 
 As never Roman mother in the arms 
 
 Of her crown'd hero. Shall I speak to Helen ? 
 
 HALUERT. 
 
 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. 
 
 Enter Alaster Macdonald. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 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. 
 
scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 73 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Dear cousin, 
 I am most happy in Mac Ian'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. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 I know you hate, 
 As I do, this submission ; but 'tis done ; 
 No courtesies can make it deeper. Hark I 
 
 [Distant music heard. 
 The guests assemble now. 
 
 H ALBERT. 
 
 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. 
 
74 GLENCOE ; OR, [.act iv. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Hall in Mac Ians House. 
 
 A Banquet. 
 
 Mac Ian, Angus, Donald, John Macdonald, Glen- 
 lyon, Lindsay, Henry Macdonald, Officers of ArgyWs 
 Regiment, and Clansmen, seated. 
 
 mac ian (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 
 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 remainM ; but whom, 
 That hope extinguished, I will frankly serve. 
 Rise, clansmen ! Drink to William and his Queen, 
 To whom we owe our duty. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 We esteem 
 The pledge at its just value. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 I perceive 
 Your thoughts still wrong me. Stoutly have I fought 
 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, 
 
scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 71 
 
 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 sheathed 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. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 You wrong 
 Your gallant comrades; surely loss of one 
 Might be supplied. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 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. 
 
 Enter Alaster and Halbert. 
 
 Your leave 
 One moment. 
 
 (Mac Ian comes to Halbert, and takes his hand.) 
 
7(5 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 Halbert, I lack words to thank 
 This kindness as I ought, 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 It is a joy 
 For me to know I am at peace with all, 
 And, most of all, with you. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 'Tis 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 Al aster sit on the opposite side of the 
 hall to Glenlyon and Lindsay. 
 
 mac ian {resuming his seat). 
 Your pardon. Let us drain another cup 
 To our chief guest, Glenlyon ; frank in war, 
 And generous in alliance. 
 
 halbert (to Alaster). 
 
 Watch him now ; 
 He changes ; see — his very lips are pale ; — 
 I will unmask him. 
 
 alaster. 
 Pray forbear. 
 
 glenlyon. 
 
 Accept 
 
 A soldier's thanks. 
 
 halbert (to Alaster). 
 
 His voice is choked — look now — 
 Do you not see him shiver ? 
 
scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 77 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 It is but fancy ; 
 How can he hope to see us fall more low 
 Than he has sunk us ? 
 
 MAC IAN (to GLENLYON). 
 
 You must pledge me now ; — 
 Wine to Glenlyon. 
 
 [Glenlyon rises — takes the cup — puts it to his lips — 
 and hastily returns it. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 — - 
 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? 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 Who's this that dares 
 Insult Glenlyon ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Parasite, I speak not 
 To such as you ! Behold him now ! He's silent. 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 In scorn. 
 
78 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv. 
 
 [To Glenlyon. "J You will not deign to make reply 
 To this coarse brawler ? Let us hence. 
 
 glenlyon {addressing Mac Ian). 
 
 Farewell ! 
 You cannot curb the rudeness of your followers, 
 Nor I endure it. 
 
 [Glenlyon and Lindsay retiring. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 — your all. Glenlyon J turn, 
 If you have so much nature as to look 
 The thing you dare. 
 
 glenlyon {turning). 
 
 Be brief in your demand. 
 What is your pleasure ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 That you spend three minutes 
 With me in the cold moonlight ; — armM ; — alone. 
 
 glenlyon. 
 With you — a conquered rebel ? 
 
 mac tan (holding Halbert). 
 
 He's a guest 
 Beneath this roof's protection. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Let him claim 
 
scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 79 
 
 This shelter if he dare, and I will kneel, 
 And he shall trample on me. 
 
 LINDSAY {to GLENLYON). 
 
 Come away! 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 Dear Halbert, do not risk a life so dear 
 As yours is to my father. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Risk my 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 
 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 ? 
 
 LINDSAY. 
 
 Do not answer. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 It shall. 
 
80 GLENCOE; OR, Lact iv. 
 
 MAC IAN (fo HALBERT). 
 
 I thank your generous courage, but I look 
 With wonder on your passion. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 What ! does nothing 
 Whisper of peril to you ? 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 No — my heart 
 Is jocund ; — stripp'd of glory, power, and name, 
 We shall be all united and at peace. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Heaven grant it ! 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 I would rather die to-morrow, 
 If I might choose, than hold the sweetest home 
 At England's mercy. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 My brave cousin ! Blessings 
 In life and death be with you. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 Come away ; 
 This sadness will infect us. There's my hand 
 And my heart with it. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 And mine too. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 And mine. 
 
 MAC IAN. 
 
 Farewell ;— no strife shall separate us more. 
 
 [Exeunt Mac Ian, Alaster, and John. 
 
scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 81 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 That's well !— 
 
 [Sees Henry. 
 
 My brother here ? — he wakes my soul 
 
 To its own sufferings. Yet we must not part thus. 
 
 Brother ! 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 What would you with me ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 I would know 
 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 '11 make bold 
 To go unbidden. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Fail not ; — you may find 
 A blessing there you will be grateful for. 
 
 henry (aside). 
 Can he suspect my purpose ?— O, no doubt 
 You have deserved all gratitude; — and there 
 Will crown your favours. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 I will take your hand ; 
 It trembles. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 No ; — or if it shakes, — the night 
 Chills bitterly. It will be firm to-morrow. 
 
 [Exit Henry Macdonald. 
 g 
 
82 GLENCOE ; OR, Tact iv. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 To-morrow ! — 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. 
 
 END OF ACT IV. 
 
scene.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 83 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene — A Chapel adjoining Halberfs Tower, partly in ruins, 
 in which is seen the Tomb of Halberfs father. — Morning 
 just breaking. 
 
 Enter Halbert Macdonald. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 The hour approaches when my life's last hope 
 Will be extinguished ; — 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Mother, wish me joy. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 Joy, Halbert ?— 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 1 am not so arm'd 
 
 As I have boasted. 
 
 g 2 
 
Si GLENCOE; OR, [act v. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 No ; — she scarcely raised 
 Her head, until her work — a bridal robe — 
 Hung dazzling on her arm ; as then she sought 
 Her chamber, I impressM 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. 
 
 H ALBERT. 
 
 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 MACDONALD. 
 
 Your calmness frightens me; you think of death. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 But as a thing to sigh for, not to seek ; 
 I never will forsake you for the grave, 
 Till Heaven dismiss me thither. Has she slept ? 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 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. 
 
 IIAI.BERT. 
 
 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 sways it 
 Go lighter hence ! 
 
scene.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 85 
 
 Enter the Priest, leading Helen, in bridal attire. 
 
 halbert {meeting 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 
 
 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 ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 We wait my brother's presence. 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 O not his ! 
 I am quite ready ; let the rite proceed. 
 
 Enter Henry Macdonald. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 You are most welcome ; — we have waited for you. 
 
 hfnry {looking eagerly round). 
 Your pardon ; all are not assembled yet. 
 Where is Glenlyon ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Who? 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 The lady's uncle ; 
 He has, no doubt, approved her choice, and means 
 To grace the ceremonial. \ r ou will wait 
 His coming? 
 
86 GLENCOE ; OR, [act v 
 
 H ALBERT. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 I have a few momentous words to speak 
 Before the rites begin ; — to you, fair Helen, 
 I must address them ; but I pray my brother, 
 Whom they touch nearly, to attend. 
 
 henry. 
 
 I listen. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 dsserve 
 A love like yours. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Yet ere I grasp this dream, 
 And make its phantoms real ; — within these walls 
 By both revered ; — where side by side we knelt 
 
scene] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 87 
 
 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 
 
 Imagine 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 ! 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 You have seen me chafed 
 By passion worse than aimless in a soul 
 Whose destinies are fashion^ 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 soldiers child ; — your noble heart 
 May from most natural impulse turn to one 
 EndowM 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 bless you ! 
 
88 GLENCOE; OR, [act v. 
 
 halbert {raising Helen). 
 
 Tis enough ; 
 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. 
 
 H ALBERT. 
 
 You are cold — 
 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. 
 
 O never ! — do not gaze 
 Upon me ; — Helen, touch me not ; — fly all. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Wherefore ? From whom ? 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 O God ! I cannot tell it. 
 [A confused cry heard far in the Valley below. 
 
scene.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS, 89 
 
 HALBEBT. 
 
 What cry is that 
 
 Not death ! 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 The shrieks of death arise. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 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. 
 
 ANGUS. 
 
 False ! Hark ! Behold ! 
 
 [Another cry heard more distinctly from the 
 Valley ', and the ylare of distant fire seen» 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 O misery ! I meant not this. 
 
 H ALBERT. 
 
 You! 
 Enter Alaster Macdonald, wounded. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 Cousin — 
 H albert — 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Where is your Father 2 
 
90 GLENCOE ; OR, [act v. 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 Slain. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 And John ? 
 
 ALASTER. 
 
 Both murder'd in their sleep. I cry 
 For justice on the head of him who ranged 
 The assassins. Hear me ! I would kneel indeed 
 But my joints stiffen. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Where 's the traitor ? 
 
 Alaster (looking round, sees Henry and exclaims). 
 
 There ! 
 
 [Falls lifeless into the arms of the Priest, who bears him 
 out. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 My most unhappy brother ! 
 
 priest (returning). 
 
 He has passed. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 doomed man stand ? 
 
 henry. 
 Here ! Chief of the Macdonalds, let my blood 
 Atone my crime — it was not this — I meant 
 But your disgrace. How little did I know 
 The heart I meant to grieve ! Strike ! vindicate 
 The ancient power, which perishes while thus 
 
scene.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 91 
 
 I pray to be its victim. Do you hear ? 
 
 [Renewed cries from the Valley. 
 
 Release me from those cries ; give me one look 
 Of love, and end me. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Will none plead for him ? 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 It was for me. [_To Lady Macdonald. 
 
 Plead for your son. 
 
 LADY MACDONALD. 
 
 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. 
 
 Henry ! Henry ! could I die for you ! 
 
 [Lady MACDONALDya//s on his neck. Another cry heard. 
 She starts away. Helen sinks on her knees beside the 
 Tomb. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 1 'm ready. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 There ! — without. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 I '11 wait you there. 
 
 HALBERT, 
 
 Will Heaven vouchsafe no refuge? 
 
 [As he raises his arms in supplication, a shot strikes him; 
 he falls. 
 
02 GLENCOE ; OR, [act v. 
 
 That is well. 
 Mercy, Most Merciful ! — I am absolved. 
 
 Enter Glenlyon. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Am I too late ? My niece 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Away ! away ! 
 henry {rushing on Glenlyon). 
 Die, murderer! 
 
 LADY MACDONALD (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 ! 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 It is upon me, yet I will preserve you. 
 
 HALBEltT. 
 
 Leave us to die. 
 
 Enter Drummond. 
 
 DRUMMOND. 
 
 I seek Glenlyon here. 
 The eastern pass is open ; Duncanson 
 Has not arrived : that way the clansmen fly. 
 
 GLENLYON. 
 
 Heaven speed them ! [Exit Glenlyon* 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 Then will I oppose this breast 
 
scene.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 93 
 
 To the pursuing demons, till I win 
 
 The death I thirst for. [Exit Henry. 
 
 HELEN. 
 
 Henry ! 
 
 [Sinks on the ground. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 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 the 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. 
 
 HALBERT. 
 
 Bless you ! I mark 
 The face which gazed in pity on my rage 
 Beside my father's death-bed : — 'tis subdued — 
 Hush'd — conquerd — pardon'd — and I die in peace. 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 END OF THE PLAY. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 " Frank disdain 
 Of dull existence 2thich had faintly gleam d 
 Like yonder Serpent river, through dark rocks 
 Which bury it."— p. 32. 
 
 The Serpent River is a rapid mountain stream on the north side of 
 Loch Leven, which after a fall of about twenty feet, rushes through a 
 series of overhanging rocks, like natural arches, through which thp 
 rapid water below can be scarcely discerned. 
 
 " 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, ," — p. 33. 
 
 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 
 Awe, and defied their foes to follow 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. 
 
 " We were charm? d, 
 Not awe-struck; — for The Beautiful was there 
 Triumphant in its palace, ," — p. 57. 
 
9G NOTES. 
 
 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 hollow fa*r 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 diminutive as his 
 works will always be when compared with those of nature." Accord- 
 ing 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 some- 
 thing immeasurably greater than the cathedral itself ; and the actual 
 admeasurement of the cave will rather accord with this impression, than 
 with that which is more popular. The height of the top of the arch 
 above the water at mean tide is sixty-six feet ; the breadth at the en- 
 trance forty-two feet ; whence it contracts during its length of two 
 hundred and twenty-seven feet, until at the extremity it is only twenty- 
 two feet in width ; and the roof descends in nearly the same propor- 
 tion. When it is further recollected that even this width is narrowed 
 to the eye by the row of exquisite columns which continue on the 
 northern side, and along which the adventurer may step, and that a 
 slight bend about half way breaks its uniformity, perhaps he will be 
 pardoned for thinking that there has been much exaggeration in attri- 
 buting the grandeur which arises from space and gloom to this wonder- 
 ful cavern. On the 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. 
 
 " 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." — p. 66. 
 
 The following is the despatch which Duncanson sent, and on which 
 Glenlyon acted. It was addressed, 
 
NOTES. 97 
 
 " For their Majesties' Service, to Captain Robert Campbell, 
 of Glenlyon. 
 
 " You are hereby ordered to Fall upon the rebels, and put all to the 
 sword under 70 ; — you are to have special 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 
 you at four, you are not to tarry for me, but fall on. This is by the 
 king's special command, for the good and safety of the country, that 
 these miscreants be cut off root and branch. See that this is put 
 in execution without either fear or favour, else you may expect to be 
 treated as not true to the king or government, nor a fit man to carry a 
 commission in the king's service. Expecting that you will not fail in 
 the fulfilling hereof, as you love yourself, I subscribe these with 
 my hand. 
 
 " Robert Duncan son." 
 
 " Stoutly have [fought 
 Upon King James's side ; but with Dundee 
 His cause expired." — p. 74. 
 
 " Dundee himself," says Sir Walter Scott, " contrary to the advice of 
 the Highland chiefs, was in the front of the battle, and fatally con- 
 spicuous. Observing the stand made by two English regiments, he 
 galloped towards the clan of Macdonald, 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 bullet beneath the armpit, where he 
 was unprotected by the cuirass. He tried to ride on, but being unable 
 to keep the saddle, fell mortally wounded, and died in the course of 
 that night. Such was the general opinion of his talents and courage, 
 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 
 
93 NOTES. 
 
 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." — 
 Talcs of a Grandfather, chap. 56. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott says, — " Claverhouse's sword, a straight cut-and- 
 thrust blade, is [1802] in the possession of Lord Woodhouselee; and the 
 buff coat which he wore at the battle of Killicrankie, having the fatal 
 shot-hole under the armpit of it, is preserved in Pennycuick-house, the 
 seat of Sir George Clerk, Baronet." — Border Minstrelsy, vol. ii. p. 45; 
 Note to Tales of a Grandfather, vol. ii. 114. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 BRADI'URV AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITSFRIABS. 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
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 SONNETS, AND A NEW PREFACE. 
 
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