No. I. 
 
 MODERN STANDARD DRAMA. 
 
 IN FIVE 
 BY THOxMAS NOOK TALFOURD. 
 
 WITH THE STAGE BUSINESS, CAST OF CHARAC- 
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MODERN STANDARD DRAMA. 
 
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 TOl. I. 
 
 L Ton 
 
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 Memoir of Mrs. A. C. 
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 14. A Cure for the Heart- 
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 Memoir of Mr. CHA8. 
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 vol m. 
 
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 vol Tin. 
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 VOL II. 
 
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 77 Guy Mannering 
 
 78 Sweethearts & Wives 
 
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 80 She Stoops to Conquer 
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 Memoir of Miss CHAR- 
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 VOL II 
 
 81 Julius Caesar 
 
 82 Vicar of Wakefield 
 
 83 Leap Year 
 
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 85 The Passing CloucL- 
 
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 87 Rod Roy 
 
 8S George Barnwell 
 
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 VOL XII 
 
 89 Ingomar 
 
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 94 Mind your own Busi- 
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 95 Writing on the Wall 
 
 96 Heir at Law 
 
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 vol nn 
 
 97 The Soldier's Daughter 
 
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 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 „ BY THOMAS XOOX TALFOURD. 
 
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 No. I. 
 
Jojf\TL 
 
 EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 lVi£ Tragedy of Ion was first publicly produced at ths 
 Coven* Garden Theatre, on the night of Mr. Macready's 
 benefit, 26th of May, 1836. It had been printed, and 
 privately circulated, some months before, but it was not 
 until a London audience had given it the stamp of their 
 approbation, that an edition, large enough to supply the 
 demand of the public, was issued. 
 
 The success of this piece in the representation was as 
 decided as it was remarkable and unexpected. That a 
 play so strictly classical in its construction and language, 
 so pervaded by the spirit of the mythology of ancient 
 Greece, and so destitute of those melo-dramatic coups de 
 theatre, which are usually considered necessary in order 
 to "bring down the house" — that such a play should not 
 only charm the scholar and the man of letters in the 
 closet, but attract, night after night, large popular audi- 
 ences, in the representation, might well have been a mat- 
 .er of surprise to the author and his friends 
 
 Not only in England but in the United States, " Ion" 
 continues to be one of the most attractive c<f stock plays. 
 It was feared by those, who read the piece previous to its 
 performance, that the character and missio 1 of the " de- 
 
vi 
 
 voted" hero were such as to place him out of the pale of 
 
 the sympathies of a modern popular audience • but it is a 
 great triumph of the author's genius, that notwithstanding 
 the formidable obstacles with which he has to contend, he 
 has placed his tragedy prosperously upon the modern 
 stage, so that it ranks not only among the most beautiful 
 closet dramas, but the most successful acting plays in the 
 English language. 
 
 " The title of Ion," says Mr. Talfourd, " is borrowed 
 from the Tragedy of Euripides, which gave the first hint 
 of the situation in which its hero is introduced — that of 
 a foundling youth educated in a temple and assisting in 
 its services ; but otherwise there is no resemblance be- 
 tween this imperfect sketch and that exquisite picture." 
 
 Of Macready's impersonation of the hero, the author 
 says: "It 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 anima- 
 ted, to the difficulties which he subdued, and to the pre- 
 conceptions 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 
 familiarising 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 
 
vii 
 
 lo approve it, even when the power which first ga^te it 
 sanction was wanting." 
 
 In regard to Miss Ellen Tree, who, in this country, 
 " illustrated the hero, and made the stoiy of his sufferings 
 and his virtues familiar to transatlantic cars," Mr. Talfourd 
 says : " 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 particular 
 friend or relation of his own V 9 
 
 The moral tone of this exquisite play is throughout 
 vigourous and healthy. The strong anti-monarchical prin- 
 ciples, which it inculcates, are manifest on every page ; 
 and should contribute largely to its popularity in republi- 
 can America. The characters of Ion and Adrastus are 
 pourtrayed and contrasted with a master hand ; and the 
 subordinate persons of the drama are all skilfully indivi- 
 dualized. Indeed, the play promises long to retain its 
 high place among the most admired and perfect specimens 
 of the British drama. 
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 Original Cost at Co 
 
 vent Garden. Hat/market, 1*32. 1 erfr, 1815. 
 
 Ton, a Foundling 1 ... Mr. Macready. Miss Ellon Tree. Mr*, digs. Rean. 
 
 Adrastus u Dale. Mr. Vandeiihoff. Mr. Charles Keai. 
 
 Medon, High Priest, " " Selby. " Barry. 
 
 Cttsiphon " H. Wallack. " Bennett. " Dyott. 
 
 Cassander " Howard. •' Russell. " S. Pearson. 
 
 Agenor J " Prilcliard. " Haines. M Bland. 
 
 Cleon " Tilbury. " Gough. " Vachc. 
 
 Phocion " G. Bennett. " James Vining. " Crocker. 
 
 Timocles " Harris. " Gallot. " M- Douall. 
 
 Crythes .... " C.Hill. " Worrell. " Gourlay. 
 
 Soldier " Gallot. 
 
 First Priest " King. 
 
 Second Priest " Heath. 
 
 Irus Miss Lane. Miss E. Phillips. 31 rs. Knight. 
 
 Clemantlie . . " Ellen Tree. " Miss Taylor. Miss Crocker. 
 
 Abra " Lacy. Mrs. Burrows 
 
 COSTUMES. 
 
 ION. — Grecian shirt and toga edged with Grecian border, fleshiugs and sandals 
 Second dress: Same as Adrastus. 
 
 ADRASTUS.— Grecian shirt, gold breast-plate aad lamberkins, fleshings, sandals, 
 regal robes, and crown. 
 
 MEDON. — White surplice, white robes of toga form, gold bauds, vitta round head 
 with white ribbons, fleshings and sandals. 
 
 CTESITHON. — Grecian shirt, lamberkins, breast-plate, helmet, fleshings and san- 
 dals. 
 
 CRYTHES.— Same as Ctesiphon. f 
 PHOCION. — Grecian shirt, white toga, fleshings, and sandals. 
 CASSANDER. — Same as Phocion. 
 
 AGENOR. — White surplice, white robes, fleshings, and sandals — like a Priest ci 
 Apollo. 
 
 CLEON and TIMOCLES. — Same as Agenor. 
 IRUS. — Grecian white shirt, fleshings and sandals. 
 
 SOLDIERS. — Grecian shirts, breast-plates, lamberkins, helmets, fleshings, and aan 
 dais. 
 
 CLEMANTHE. — White and gold Grecian head-dress, white dress and ribands. 
 ABRA. — Plain Grecian dress. 
 
 Priests, Soldiers, fyc. 
 
 Scene, Akgos — The time of the Action is comprised ; n one day and night, 
 and the following morning. 
 
 EXITS AND ENTRANCES. 
 R. means Right ; L. Left: R. D. Right Door; L. D. Left Door , 
 S. E. Second Entrance; U. E. Upper Entrance ; M. D. Middle Door 
 
 1 RELATIVE POSITIONS. 
 
 R., means Right; L., Left; C, Centre ; R. C, Right of Centre; 
 L. C, Left of Centre. 
 
 \JL Passages marked with Inverted Comma*, are usually omitted in the 
 
 representation. 
 
ION. 
 
 21 Srageirg 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The Interior of the Templt of Apollo, which 
 is supposed to be placed on a rocky eminence - —Early morn- 
 ing. — The interior lighted by a single lamp suspended from 
 the roof. — Agenor resting against a column, R. — Irus seated 
 on a bench at the side of the scene, l. 
 
 Agenor comes forward and speaks, c. 
 
 Agenor. Will the dawn never visit us ! These hoirrg 
 Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear 
 To do the work of desolating years ! 
 All distant sounds are hush'd ; — the shriek of death 
 And the survivors' wail are now unheard, 
 As grief had worn itself to patience. Irus ! 
 I'm loth so soon to break thy scanty rest, 
 But my heart sickens for the tardy morn ; 
 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 ] 
 
 Irus. Know it 1 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. 
 
12 
 
 ON. 
 
 (ACT I. 
 
 Agen. Well, 
 Thou art not then afraid 1o tread it ; theie 
 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, L. 
 
 Agen. 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 forever numb'd, 
 And, by a gush of household memories, breaks 
 The icy casing of that thick despair 
 Which day by day hath gather'd o'er my heart, 
 While, basely safe, within this column'd circle, 
 Uplifted far into the purer air, 
 And by Apollo's partial love secured, 
 I have, in spirit, glided with the Plague, 
 As in foul darkness or in sickliest light 
 It wafted death through Argos : and mine ears* 
 Listening athirst for any human sound, 
 Have caught the dismal cry of confused pain, 
 Which to this dizzy height the fitful wind 
 Hath borne from each sad quarter of the vale 
 Where life was. 
 
 Re-enter Irus, l. 
 
 Are there signs of day-break 1 
 
 Irus. None ; 
 The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom. 
 
 Agen. It cannot surely be. Thine eyes aie dioi 
 (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 1 
 
 Irus. Pardon me ; 
 
 never thought at such a mournful time 
 To plead my humble sorrow in excuse 
 
SCEITC I.j 
 
 ION. 
 
 13 
 
 Of poorly-rendered service : but my brother — 
 
 Thou may'st 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. 
 
 Agen. Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep, 
 Or, if thou wilt, go weep. [Exit Irus, l. 
 
 I envy thee 
 The privilege, but Jupiter forefend 
 That I should rob thee of it ! 
 
 Enter Cleon, l. 
 
 Cleon. Hail, Agenor ! 
 Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet 
 To find thy age unstricken. 
 
 Agen. B ather mourn 
 That I am destined still to linger here, 
 In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me, 
 I chide these sinews that are framed so tough 
 Grief cannot palsy them ; I chide the air 
 Which round this citadel of nature breathes 
 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 endeared are failing with me, 
 Rather than shiver on in life behind them. 
 < r or should these walls detain me from the paths 
 vVhere 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. 
 
14 
 
 ION 
 
 f Act I 
 
 Cleon. Do not chid 3 me, 
 If I rejoice to find the generous Piiest 
 Means, with Apollo's blessing, to preserve 
 The treasure of try wisdom ; — nay, he trusts not 
 To promises alone ; his gates are barr'd 
 Against thy egress : — none, indeed, may pass thein, 
 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. 
 
 Agen. 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 aloud, 
 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 ^s he trained 
 For such hard duty ; no emotions rude 
 Have 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 passior hive been made to live 
 In pictured speeca and others have wjixM loud 
 
6CEITE I I 
 
 ION. 
 
 15 
 
 In righteous h.dignation, he hath heard 
 With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein 
 Of goodness, which surrounding gloom conceal'd 
 Struck sunlight o'er it : so his life hath flow'd 
 From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, 
 In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure 
 Alone are mirror'd ; which, though shapes of ill 
 May hover round its surface, glides in light, 
 And takes no shadow from them. 
 
 Cleon. Yet, methinks. 
 Thou hast not lately met him, or a change 
 Pass'd strangely on him had not miss'd thy wonder. 
 His form appears dilated ; in those eyes, 
 Where pleasure danced, a 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 strong 
 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. 
 
 Agen Hope is in thy tale. 
 This is no freak of Nature's wayward course, 
 But work of pitying Heaven; for not in vain 
 The gods have pour'd into that guileless heart 
 The strengths that nerve the hero ; — they are ours. 
 
 Cleon. How can he aid us 1 Can he stay the pulse 
 Of ebbing life, — arrest the infected winds, 
 Or smite the hungry spectre of the grave 1 
 
 Agen. 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, 
 <V that the death they bear is casual] No! 
 'Tis human guilt that blackens in the cloud, 
 Flashes athwart its mass in jagged fire, 
 Whiils in the hurricane, pollutes the air, 
 Turns all the joyous melodies of earth 
 To murmurings of doom. There is a foe, 
 
16 
 
 ION 
 
 (Act i 
 
 Who in the glorious summit of tl e sttte 
 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 Arffos breathes again ! 
 
 Clcon. A footstep ! — hush ! 
 Thy wishes, falling on a slavish ear, 
 Would tempt another outrage : 'tis a friend — 
 An honest though a crabbed one — Ximocles : 
 Something hath ruffled him. Good day, Timocles ! 
 
 [Timocles passes in front. 
 
 He will not speak to us. 
 
 Agen. But he shall speak. 
 Timocles — nay then, thus I must enforce thee ! [Stayinghim 
 Sure thou wilt not refuse a comrade's hand, 
 That may be cold ere sunset. 
 
 Tim. ( 'giving his hand.) Thou may'st school me; 
 Thy years and love have license ; but I own not 
 A stripling's mastery; is't fit, Agenor 1 
 
 Agen. 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 forever nigh 
 To frown upon Estrangement. What has moved thee? 
 
 Tim. I blush to tell it. Weary of the night 
 And of my life, I sought the western portal : 
 It 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, 
 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 
 L inpatient onward : he, with honey'd phrase 
 
Scene I.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 His daring act excusing, grasped 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. 
 
 Agcn. And thou wilt thank him for it soon : he cor ea — 
 Now hold thy angry purpose, if thou can'st ! 
 
 Enter Ion, l. 
 
 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 cliildish 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. 
 
 Tim,. Leave thy care. 
 If I am weary of the flutterer life, 
 Is mortal bidding thus to cage it in % 
 
 Ion ( crosses c J. And art thou tired of being? Has the grave 
 No terrors for thee % Hast thou sunder'd quite 
 Those thousand meshes which old custom weaves 
 To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films 
 With airy lustre various % Hast subdued 
 Those cleavings of the spirit to its prison, 
 Those nice regards, dear habits, pensive memories, 
 That change the valour of the thoughtful breast 
 To brave dissimulation of its fears ] 
 Is Hope quench'd in thy bosom % Thou art free, 
 And in the simple dignity of man 
 Standest apart untempted ;— do not lose 
 The great occasion thou hast pluck'd from misery. 
 Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair, 
 But use it nobly ! 
 
 Tim. What, to strike ] to slay 
 
 Ion. No ! — not unless the audible voice of Hestfen 
 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 expirs, — 
 
 B* 
 
J8 
 
 ION. 
 
 Nor such as the rapt orator imbues 
 
 With warmth of facile sympathy, and mouhb 
 
 To mirrors radiant with fair images, 
 
 To grace the noble fervour of an hour ; — 
 
 But words which bear the spirits of great deeds 
 
 Wing'd for the Future ; which the dying breath 
 
 Of Freedom's martyr shapes as it exhales, 
 
 And to the most enduring' forms of earth 
 
 Commits — to linger in the craggy shade 
 
 Of the huge valley, 'neath the eagle's home, 
 
 Or in the sea-cave where the tempest sleeps, 
 
 Till some heroic leader bid them wake 
 
 To thrill the world with echoes ! — But I talk 
 
 Of things above my grasp, which strangely press 
 
 Upon my soul, and tempt me to forget 
 
 The duties of my youth ; pray you forgive me. 
 
 Tim. Have I not said so ] 
 
 Agen. Welcome to the morn ! 
 The eastern gates unfold, the Priest approaches ; 
 
 [As Agenor speaks, the great gates at the back of the Scsne 
 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. 
 
 Ion. Say'st thou in blood 1 
 
 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 t 
 
 Ion. I pass'd the palace where the frantic king 
 Yet holds his crimson revel, when ;e the roar 
 Of desperate mirth came, mingling with the sigh 
 Of death-subdued robustness, and the gleam 
 
8cm IJ 
 
 ION. 
 
 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 1 
 
 Tim. And canst thou pity him 1 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 1 
 
 Meclon. Yes ; I believe he felt our sufferings once ; 
 When, at my strong entreaty, he despatched 
 Phocion, my son, to Delphos, there to seek 
 Our cause of sorrow; but, as time dragg'd on 
 Without his messenger's return, he grew 
 Impatient of all counsel, — to his palace 
 In awful mood retiring, wildly call'd 
 The reckless of his court to share its stores, 
 And end all with him. When we dared disturb 
 His dreadful feasting 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. 
 
 Agen. I am prepared to brave it. 
 
 Clean. So am L 
 
 Tim. 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 Phcebus ; — 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 rosyi, nor leave a sigh in breaking. 
 
 Medon. Ion, no sigh ! 
 
 lor. FfTgiveme, if I seem'd 
 
20 lot. 
 
 To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if 1 fall; 
 N jr 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 calPd 
 To this great peril, and I will not stay thee. 
 When wilt thou be prepared to seek it 1 
 
 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, oh, my more than father ! let me look 
 Up to thy face, as if indeed a father's, 
 And give Hit? « 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 for me ; 
 And, for Clemanthe — may I speak one wore, 
 One parting word, with my fair playfellow ] 
 
 Medon. I f 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, l. 
 
 Medon. O grant it be in life ! Let's to the sacrifice. 
 
 [Exeunt, B. 
 
 SCENE II. — An Apartment of the Temple. 
 Enter Clemaxtiie, followed by Abra, r. 
 
 Clem. 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. 
 
 Clem. He will go 
 To some high fortune, and forget us a ll, 
 Reclaim'd (be sure of it) by noble parents; 
 Me, he forgets already ; for five days, 
 Five melancholy days, I have not seen him. 
 
SCKWXlI.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 21 
 
 Abra, Thou knowest that he hag privilege to range 
 
 The infected city ; and, 'tis said, he spends 
 The hours of needful rest in squalid hovels 
 Where death is most forsaken. 
 
 Clem, Why is this 1 
 Why should my father, niggard of the lives 
 Of aged men, be prodigal of youth 
 So rich in glorious prophecy as his 1 
 
 Abra. He comes to answer for himself. Pi leave you. 
 
 [Exit t r, 
 
 Clem. Stay ! Well my heart may guard its secret best 
 By its own strength. 
 
 Enter Ion, l. 
 
 Ton. How fares my pensive sister 1 
 
 Clem. How should I fare but ill, when the pale hand 
 Draws the black foldings of the eternal curtain 
 Closer and closer round us — Phocion absent — 
 And thou, forsaking all within thy home, 
 Wilt risk thy life with strangers, in whose aid 
 Even thou canst do but little ? 
 
 Ion. It is little : 
 But in these sharp extremities of fortune, 
 The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter 
 Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing 
 To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 
 Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever' d lips, 
 May give a shock of pleasure to the frame 
 More exquisite than when nectarean juice 
 Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. 
 It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
 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 "all 
 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 honoured death-bed of the rich, 
 To him who else were lonely, that another 
 Of the great family is near and feels. 
 
22 
 
 ION. 
 
 Clem. Oh, thou canst never bear these mournful o* 
 fices ! 
 
 So blithe, so merry once ! Will not the sight 
 Of frenzied agonies unfix thy reason. 
 Or the dumb woe congeal thee 1 
 
 Ion. No, Clemanthe : 
 They are the patient sorrows that touch nearest ! 
 If thou hadst seen the warrior, when he writhed 
 In the last grapple of his sinewy frame 
 With conquering anguish, strive to cast a smile 
 (And not in vain) upon his fragile wife, 
 Waning beside him, — and, his limbs compered, 
 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 could'st endure the sight of selfish grief 
 In sullenness or frenzy ; — but to-day 
 Another lot falls on me. 
 
 Clem. Thou wilt leave us ! 
 I read it plainly in thy altered mien. 
 Is it for ever ] 
 
 Ion. That is with the gods ! 
 I go but to the palace, urged by hope, 
 Which from afar hath darted on my soul, 
 That to the humbleness of one like me 
 / The haughty king may listen. 
 
 Clem. To the palace ! 
 Knowest thou the peril — nay, the certain { 
 That waits thee % Death ! — The tyrant has 
 Confirmed it with an oath ; and he has po> 
 To keep that oath ; for, hated as he is, 
 The reckless soldiers who partake his not 
 Are swift to do his bidding. 
 
 Ion. I know all ! 
 But they who call me to the work can stiel 
 Or make me strong to suffer. 
 
 Clem. Then the sword 
 
SCEWE II.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 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, shalt 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. 
 
 Clem. And can he 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. 
 
 Clem. Never! 
 What will to me be father, brother, friends, 
 When thou art gone — the light of our life quench'd— 
 Haunting like spectres of departed joy 
 The home where thou wert dearest ] 
 
 Ion. Thrill me not 
 With words that, in their agony, suggest 
 A hope too ravishing, — or my head will swim, 
 And my heart faint within me. 
 
 Clem. Has my speech 
 Such blessed power 1 I will not mourn it then, 
 T/^ough it had told a secret I had borne 
 Till death in silence : how affection grew 
 To this, I know not : — day succeeded day, 
 Eacn 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 reveal'd it to my soul, 
 And thy great peril makes me bold to tell it. 
 Do not despise it in me ! 
 
 Ion With deep joy 
 Thus I receive it. Trust me, it is long 
 Since I have learn'd to tremble 'mid 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, — 
 
24 
 
 ION'. 
 
 [Act 1 
 
 Which here must, end. I came to say farewelJ, 
 
 And th.3 word must be said. 
 
 Clem. Thou can'st not mean it ! 
 Have I disclaimed all maiden bashfulness, 
 To tell the cherished secret of my soul 
 To my soul's master, and in rich return 
 Obtained the dear assurance of his love, 
 To hear him speak that miserable word 
 I cannot — will not echo 1 » 
 
 Ion. Heaven has called me, 
 And I have pledged my honour. "When thy heart 
 Bestowed its preference on a friendless boy, 
 Thou didst not image him a recreant ; nor 
 Must he prove so, by thy election crown'd. 
 Thou hast endow'd me with a right to claim 
 Thy help through this our journey, be its coursa 
 Lengthen'd to age, or in an hour to end ; 
 And now 1 ask it ! — Bid my courage hold, 
 And with thy free approval send me forth 
 In soul apparelled for my office ! 
 
 "Clem. Go! 
 I would not have thee other than thou art, 
 Living or dying ; and if thou shouldst fall — 
 
 Ion. Be sure I shall return. 
 
 Clem. If thou shouldst fall, 
 I shall be happier as the affianced bride 
 Of thy cold ashes, than in proudest fortunes — 
 Thine — ever thine — [She faints in his arms 
 
 Ion (calls.) Abra ! — So best to part — 
 
 Enter Abra, with attendant, it. 
 
 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 hears Clemanthe out, &, 
 Ye gods, that have enriched the life ye claim 
 With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it ! 
 
 \Exit t U 
 
 WND OF ACT I. 
 
SoKirv i 1 
 
 ION 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A terrace of the Palace. 
 Adrastus, Crythes, and Guards, from the Terrace, c, 
 
 Adras. The air breathes freshly after our long night 
 Of glorious revelry. I'll walk awhile. 
 
 Cry. It blows across the town : dost thou not fear 
 It bear infection with it % 
 
 Adras. Fear ! dost talk 
 Of fear to me ] I deem'd even thy poor thoughts 
 Had better scarm'd their master. Prithee tell me, 
 In what act, word, or look, since I have borne 
 Thy converse here, hast thou discern'd such baseness 
 As makes thee bold to prate to me of fear % 
 
 Cry. My liege, of human might all know thee fearless 
 But may not heroes shun the elements 
 When sickness taints them 1 
 
 Adras. Let them blast me now ! — 
 I stir not — tremble not ! These massive walls 
 Whose date o'erawes tradition, gird the home 
 Of a great race of kings, along whose line 
 The eager mind lives aching, through the 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 heritor 
 Of all their glories, feel our doom is nigh ; 
 And I will meet it as befits their fame : 
 Nor will I vary my selected path 
 The breadth of my sword's edge, nor check a wish 
 If such unkingly yielding might avert it. 
 
 Cry. Thou art ever royal in thy thoughts. 
 
 Adras. No more — 
 I would be private. [Exit Crythes, with guards, & 
 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 
 
26 
 
 ION. 
 
 , Act a 
 
 Required l he pale reflections cast by slaves 
 
 In mirror' d mockery round my throne, or lack'd 
 
 The aid of reptile sympathies to stream 
 
 Through fate's black pageantry ? Let weakness seek 
 
 Companionship : I'll henceforth feast alone. 
 
 Enter a Soldier, r. 
 
 Sd. My liege, forgive me. 
 
 Adras. Well ! speak out at once 
 Thy business and retire. 
 
 Sol. I have no part 
 In the presumptuous message that I bear. 
 
 Adras. Tell it, or go. There is no time to waste 
 On idle terrors. 
 
 Sol. 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 whieh the sages 
 Had charged him to deliver. 
 
 Adras. Ha! the greybeards, 
 Who, 'mid the altars of the gods, conspire 
 To cast the image of supernal power 
 From earth, its shadow consecrates. What sage 
 Is so resolved to play the orator 
 That he would die for't ] 
 
 Sol. He is but a youth, 
 Yet urged his prayer with a sad constancy 
 Which could not be denied. 
 
 Adras. Most bravely plann'd ! 
 Sedition worthy of the reverent host 
 Of sophist traitors ; brave to scatter fancies 
 Of discontent 'midst sturdy artizans, 
 Whose honest sinews they direct unseen, 
 And make their proxies in the work of peril ! 
 'Tis fit, when burning to insult their king, 
 And warn'd the pleasure must be bought with life, 
 
Scot I.J VDN. 27 
 
 Their valour send a boy to speak their wisdom ! 
 Thou kncw'st my last decree ; tell this rash youtn 
 The danger he incurs ; then let him pass. 
 And own the king more gentle than his masters. 
 
 Sol. We have already told him of the fate, 
 Winch waits his daring ; courteously he thank'd us, 
 But still with solemn aspect urged his suit. 
 
 Adras. Tell him once more, if he persists, he dies- 
 Then, if he will, admit him. Should he hold 
 His purpose, order Crythes to conduct him, 
 And see the headsman instantly prepare 
 To do his office. [Exit Solpier 
 
 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, r. 
 Cry. The king! 
 
 Adras. Stranger, I bid thee welcome •, 
 We are about to tread the same dark passage, 
 Thou almost on the instant. Is the sword [ To Crythki 
 Of justice sharpen'd, and the headsman ready] 
 
 Cry. 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. - 
 
 Adras. {to Ion.) Dost thou see them 1 
 
 Ion. I do. 
 
 Adras. By Heaven, he does not change ! 
 If, even n ow, thou wilt depart, and leave 
 Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free. 
 
 Ion. I thank thee for thy offer ; but I stand 
 
28 ion. [act n 
 
 Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich 
 
 In all that makes life precious to the brave ; 
 
 Who perish not alone, but in their fall 
 
 Break the far spreading tendrils that they feed, 
 
 And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me 
 
 For them, I am content to speak no more. 
 
 Adras. Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes ! till yon diftt 
 Casts 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. % 
 
 Cry. What, alone 1 
 
 Adras. Yes, slave ! alone. 
 He is no assassin ! [Exit Crythes, 
 
 Tell me who thou art. 
 
 What generous source owns that heroic blood, 
 Which holds its course thus bravely ] What great wars 
 Have nursed the courage that can look on death, 
 Certain and speedy death, with placid eye 1 
 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 ! 
 
 Adras. I know it must ; so mayst thou spare thy war» 
 ings. 
 
 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 ehall sit on my ancestral throi.e 
 
 To meet their vengeance; but, till then. I rule 
 
 As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel. 
 
8cm J.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 Ion. I >/ill not further urge thy safety to thee j 
 It may be, as thou sayst, too late ; nor seek 
 To make thee tremble at the gathering curse 
 Which shall burst foith in mockery at thy fall : 
 But thou art gifted with a nobler sense — 
 I know thou art, my sovereign ! — sense of pain 
 Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls, 
 And in whose fathers' souls, thou and thy fathers 
 Have kept their cherish'd state ; whose heartstrii gs, si. 
 The living fibres of thy rooted power, 
 Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn 
 From heavenly justice on them. 
 
 Adras. How ! my crimes 1 
 
 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 tbe narrow circle of his kinsmen, 
 The penalties of evil, for in thine 
 A nation 'n fate lies circled. — King Adrastus ! 
 Steel'd a«« thy heart is with the usages 
 Of pomp * j»d power, a few short summers since 
 Thou wert ? child, and canst not be relentless. 
 Oh, if maternal love embraced thee then, 
 Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet 
 G-lare o'er their perishing children : hast thou shared 
 The glow of a first friendship, which is bora 
 'Midst the /ude sports of boyhood, think of youth 
 Smitte» r/r .^st its playthings ; let the spirit 
 Of thy r,p p mnocent childhood whisper pity ! 
 
 Adrcs 7 n every word thou dost but steel my sou I. 
 7l[y youih was blasted : parents, brother, kin — 
 Jul that should people infancy with joy — 
 fJonspired to poison mine ; despoil'd my life 
 ')f innocence and hope — all but the sword 
 hud sceptre — dost thou wcnder at me now ] 
 
 Ion. I knew that we should pity — 
 
 Adras. Pity ! dare 
 To speak that word again, and torture waits thee ! 
 s am yet king of Argos. Well, go on — 
 Thy time is short, and I am pledged to hear. 
 
 tm> If thou hast ever loved — 
 
30 
 
 ION. 
 
 [Act n. 
 
 Auras. Beware! beware! 
 
 Ion. Thou hast ' T see thou hast ! Thcu art n )t marble 
 Aiid thou shalt hear me ! — Think upon the time 
 When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul 
 Were rulfled with the troublings of strange joy, 
 As if some unseen visitant from heaven 
 Touch'd the calm lake, and wreathed 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 
 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 ! 
 
 Adras. That tone ! that tone ! 
 Whence came it ] from thy lips ! it cannot be — 
 The long-hush'd music of the only voice 
 That ever spake unbought affection to me, 
 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 m& 
 To speak of things unbreathed by lip of mine 
 To human ear : wilt listen ] 
 
 Ion. As a child. 
 
 Adras. Again ! that voice again ! thou hast seen me 
 
 moved 
 
 As never mortal saw me, by a tone 
 Which some light breeze, enamour'd of the sound, 
 ■Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice 
 Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth 
 This city, which, expectant of its Prince, 
 Lay hush'd, broke out in clamorous ecstacies ; 
 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. 
 
&CTWT. I.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 31 
 
 My -doom was seal'd. From the hearth's vacart Rpa<.<5, 
 
 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 whit* 1 now begins, shall life, 
 
 " Lighted from thence, be arm'd, and, both soon queucb'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 Decame 
 
 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 — looked freezingly upon me ! 
 
 Ion. But thy brother — 
 
 Adras. Died. Thou hast heard the lie, 
 The common lie that every peasant tells 
 Of me his master, — that I slew the boy. 
 'Tis false ! One summer's eve, below a c ag 
 Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb, 
 He lay a mangled corpse : the very slaves, 
 Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart, 
 Now coined their own injustice into proofs 
 To brand me as his murderer. 
 
 Ion. Did they dare 
 Accuse thee 1 
 
 Adras. Not in open speech : they felt 
 T should have seized the miscreant by the throat, 
 And crushed the lie, half-spoken, with the life 
 Of the base speaker ; but the lie look'd out 
 From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank 
 When mine have met them ; murmur'd throug 1 the srowd 
 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 \ 
 
 Adras. To whom % 
 To parents who could doubt me ? To the ring 
 
32 
 
 ION. 
 
 I Ac* |i 
 
 Of* grave impostors, or their shallow sons, 
 
 Who shoul have studied to prevent my wish, 
 
 Before it grew to language ; hailed my choice 
 
 T<> 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 1 To the common herd. 
 
 The vassals of our ancient house, the mass 
 
 Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil 
 
 A few brief years, ^hen rot unnamed beneath it, 
 
 Or, deck'd for slaughter at their master's call, 
 
 To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd 
 
 hi heaps to swell his glory or his shame ] 
 
 A nswer to them ] No! though my heart had burst. 
 
 As it was nigh to bursting ! — To the mountains 
 
 l tied, 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 linrbs, 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 1 
 
 Adras. A blessed one ! 
 Which the strange magic of thy voice revives, 
 And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps 
 Were, in a wood-encircled valley, stayed 
 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 ea:th 
 The body of her aged sire, whose death 
 Left her alone. 1 aided her sad work, 
 And soon two lonely ones, by holy rites, 
 Became one happy being. Days, weeks, monthly 
 In stream-like unity flow'd silent by us 
 In our delightful nest. My father's spies— 
 
t 
 
 0CEHE I.] ion. 33 
 
 Slaves, wnom my nod should have consignM to stn'pes 
 Or the swift falchion — tracked 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 
 
 Adras. Fools ! did they deem 
 Its worst accomplishment could match the ill • 
 Which they wrought on me ? It had left unharm'd 
 A thousand ecstacies of passion'd years, 
 Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain 
 Fate's iron grapple ! Could I now behold 
 That son, with knife uplifted at my heart, 
 A moment ere my life-blood followed 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 j 
 Dash'd through the thicket to the beetling rock 
 'Neath which the deep wave eddies : I stood still 
 As stricken into stone ; I heard him cry, 
 Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe, 
 Severer ill unfearing — then the splash 
 Of waters that shall cover him for ever; 
 And could not stir to save him ! 
 
 Ion. And the mother — 
 
 Adras. She spake no word, but clasped me in her arrni, 
 And lay her down to die. A lingering gaze 
 Of love she fix'd 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 Crytiies, and Guards, it. 
 
 Adras. Why art thou here 1 
 Cry. The dial points the hour. 
 
 Adras. Dost thou not see that norrid purpose pass'd X 
 Hast thou no heart — no sense 1 
 Gry. Scarce half an hour 
 
34 
 
 Act II 
 
 Hath flown since the command on which I wait. 
 
 Adras. Scarce half an hour ! — years — years have roll'd 
 since then. 
 
 Begone! remove that pageantry of death — 
 
 It blasts my sight — and hearken ! Touch a hair 
 
 Of this brave youth, or look on him as now 
 
 With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band 
 
 Shall not expect a fearful show in vain. 
 
 Hence, without word ! [Exit Crythe3, r. 
 
 What wouldst thou have me d<> ? 
 
 Ion. Let thy awakened 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. 
 
 Adras. Well ! I will seek their presence in an hour ; 
 Go summon them, young hero : hold ! no word 
 Of the strange passion thou hast witness'd here. 
 
 Ion. Distrust me not ! — Benignant powers, I thank ye ! 
 
 [Exit, r. 
 
 Adras. 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 1 it fades — 
 It vanishes — I am again a king ! 
 
 SCENE II.— The Interior of the Temple 
 
 [Same as Act I. Scene I] 
 
 Clemanthe seated — Abra attending her. 
 
 Ahra. Look, dearest lady ! — the thin smoke aspirea 
 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 1 
 She answers not — she hearkens not — with jo} 
 
I 
 
 Sewn: II.] ION. 85 
 
 Could I believe her, for the first time, sullen ! 
 Still she is rapt. 
 
 Enter Agenor, l. 
 Oh, speak to my sweet mistress ; 
 Haply thy voice may rouse her. 
 
 Agen. Dear Clemanthe, 
 Hope dawns in every omen ; we shall hail 
 Our tranquil hours again. 
 
 Enter Medon, Cleon, Timocles, and Others, u. 
 
 Medon. Clemanthe here ! 
 How sad ! how pale ! 
 
 Ahra. Her eye is kindling — hush 
 
 Clem. Hark ! hear ye not a distant footstep ] 
 
 Medon. No. 
 
 Look round, my fairest child ; thy friends are near thee. 
 
 Clem. Yes! now 'tis lost — 'tis on that endless stair ! 
 Nearer and more distinct — 'tis his — 'tis his — 
 He lives ! he comes ! [Rises and rushes to back of the stage, 
 
 at which Ion appears, c. and returns with her, c. 
 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 1 
 Why shout ye not his welcome ? 
 
 Medon. Dearest girl, 
 This is no scene for thee ; go to thy chamber, 
 I'll come to thee ere long. [Exeunt Clemanthe and Abba* 
 She is o'erwrought 
 
 By fear and joy for one whose infant hopes 
 Were mingled with her own, even as a brother's. 
 
 Tim. Ion! 
 How shall we do thee honour ] 
 
 Jon. 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 
 
I 
 
 36 TON. [Act n. 
 
 Of due observance, which to furious power 
 Plead with the silent emphasis of years. 
 
 \Excunt all but Medon and Ion, l 
 Ton, draw near me ; this eventful day 
 Hath shown thy nature's graces circled round 
 A V i tii 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; 
 hut 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 imao:e 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 birth-} lace, 
 Triou wilt not spurn the maid who prized them .'owly. 
 
 vm. Spurn her ! My father ! 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon, e. 
 
 Medvn. Ctesiphon! — and breathless- 
 Art come to chide me to the council ? \Cro$su to c. 
 Ctes. No; 
 
 To bring *jl wonted joy ; thy son approaches, 
 
SOETTE II.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 37 
 
 Mcdon. Thank Hearen ! Hast spoken with hi:ja 1 is ho 
 well? 
 
 Ctcs. 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 ! 
 I>ut, 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 without.) 
 See! 
 
 The throng is tending this way — now it parts 
 And yields him to thy arms. 
 
 Enter Phocion, l. 
 
 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 1 
 
 Pho. I have : 
 Now let Adrastus tremble ! 
 
 Medon. May we hear it? 
 
 Pho. T am sworn first to utter it to him. 
 
 Ctes. But it is fatal to him ! — say but that ! 
 
 Pho. Ha, Ctesiphon ! — I mark'd thee not before; 
 How fares thy father] 
 
 Ion {to Phocion). Do not speak of him. 
 
 Ctes. (overhearing Ion). Not speak of him ! Dost tk'jik 
 there is a moment 
 When common things eclipse the burning thought 
 Of him and vengeance 1 
 
 Pho. Has the tyrant's sword — 
 
 Ctes. No, Phocion ; that were merciful and brave 
 Compared to his base deed ; yet will I teil it [crosses to C, 
 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 fathei , 
 * ielding to nature's mild decay, had left 
 i ll worldly toil and hope, he gathered strength, 
 [n his old seat *o speak one word of warning. 
 Thou know'st now bland with years his wisdom gTOW, 
 And with what phrases, steep'd in love, he sheath'J 
 The sharpness of rebuke ; yet, ere his speech 
 
38 
 
 ION. 
 
 [Act II 
 
 Was closed, the tyrant started from his th *one, 
 
 And with his base hand smote him ;— 'twas his deah 'Stroke ! 
 
 The old man tottered home, and only once 
 
 Raised his head after. 
 
 Plw. Thou wert absent 1 Yes! 
 The royal miscreant lives. 
 
 Cles. 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 ftril, 
 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 join'd 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 
 From the proud gates which shelter him. He lives^— 
 And I am here to babble of revenge ! 
 
 PLo. 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, 
 OJi, give allowance to his softened nature ! 
 
 Ctes. Show grace to him ! — Dost dare 1 — I had forgot. 
 
8CEOTC II.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 39 
 
 Thou dost not know how a son loves a f uthei ! 
 
 Ian. I know enough to feel for thee; I know 
 Thou hast endured the vilest wrongs that tyranny 
 In its worst frenzy can inflict ; — yet think, 
 O think ! before the irrevocable deed 
 Shuts out all thought, how much of power's excess 
 Is theirs who raise the idol : — do we groan 
 Beneath the personal force of this rash man, 
 Who forty summers since hung at the breast 
 A playful weakling ; whom the heat unnerves ; 
 The north- wind pierces ;»and the hand of death 
 May, in a moment, change, to clay as vile 
 As that of the scourged slave whose chains it severs 1 
 No ! 'tis our weakness gasping, or the shows 
 Of outward strength that builds up tyranny, 
 And makes it look so glorious : — If we shrink 
 Faint-hearted from the reckoning of our span 
 Of mortal days, we pamper the fond wish 
 For long duration in a line of kings : 
 If the rich pageantry of thoughts must fade, 
 All unsubstantial as the regal hues 
 Of eve which purpled them, our cunning frailtv 
 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 ! 
 
 Ctes Go, talk to others, if thou wilt; — to me 
 All argument, save that of steel, is idle. 
 
 Medon. No more ; — let's tc the council — there, my sea. 
 Tell thy great message nobly ; and for thee, 
 Poor orphan'd youth, be sure the gods are just ! \Exeunt u 
 
40 
 
 ION 
 
 [Act II 
 
 Scene III. — The great Square of the City. Adrastus 
 seated on a throne ; Agenor, Tihiocles, Cleon, and others, 
 seated as Councillors — Sdldiers line the Stage at a distance. 
 
 Adras. Upon your summons, Sages, I am here ; 
 Your king attends to know your pleasure; speak it. 
 
 Agen. 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-pfeinted shriek 
 Pass them unheard to Heaven 1 Or are thine eyes 
 So conversant with prodigies of grief, 
 They cease to dazzle at them 1 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 
 Abroad, a tearless and 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 
 Clare through the realm thou shouldst be parent to, 
 And canst thou find the voice to ask "out pleasure V* 
 Adras. Cease, babbler ; — wherefore would ye stun my 
 ears 
 
 With vain lecitalof the griefs I know, 
 And cannot heal 1 — will treason turn aside 
 The shafts of fate, or medicine Nature-'s ills 1 
 
Bern III.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 I have no skill in pharmacy, nor uower 
 To sway the elements. 
 
 Agcn. 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. 
 
 Adras. I have yet power to punish insult — look 
 I use it not, Agenor ' — Fate may dash 
 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 v/ith a sterner pride, 
 And peopled with more lustrous joys, than flush* d 
 In the serene procession of its greatness, 
 Which look'd perpetual, as the flowing course 
 Of human things. Have ye beheld a pine 
 That clasp'd the mountain-summit with a root 
 As firm as its rough marble, and, apart 
 From the huge shade of undistinguish'd trees, 
 Lifted its head as in delisrht to share 
 
 o 
 
 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 1 How it stood 
 
 One glorious moment, fringed and wreathed with firs 
 
 Which show'd the inward graces of its shape, 
 
 (Jncumber'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 dep&s 
 
 Of forests that afar might share its doom ! 
 
 So shall the royalty of Argcs pass 
 
 Ib festal blaze to darkness t Have ye spoken 
 
42 
 
 Agen. I speak no more to thee! — Great Jcve, look 
 
 down ! [Shouts without. 
 
 Adras. What factious brawl is this 1 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'? 
 
 Pho. King! 
 [ bear Apollo's answer to thy prayer. 
 
 Adras. Has not thy travel taught thy knee its duty 1 
 Here we had school'd thee better. 
 
 Pho. Kneel to thee ! •* 
 
 Medon. Patience, my son ! Do homage to the king. 
 
 Pho. 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, 
 Claims kindred with diviner things than power 
 Of kings can raise or stifle — in the school 
 Of mighty Nature — where I leam'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. 
 
 Adras. Peace ! speak thy message. 
 
 Pho. Shall I tell it here ! 
 Or shall I seek thy couch at dead of night, 
 And breathe it in low whispers ! — As thou wilt. 
 
 Adras. Here — and this instant ! 
 
 Pho. Hearken then, Adrastus, 
 And hearken, Argives — thus Apollo speaks : — 
 ( Reads a scroll) " Argos ne'er shall find release 
 
 Till her monarch's race shall cease." 
 
 Adras. 'Tis not God's will, but man's sedition speaks 
 Guards! tear that lying parchment from Irs hands, 
 Aiid bear him to the palace. 
 
 Medon. Touch him not, — 
 He is Apollo's messenger, whose lips 
 Were never stain'd with falsehood. 
 
 Pho Come on. all ! 
 
ficxmc HI.] 
 
 ON. 
 
 43 
 
 Agcn. Surround him, friends ! Die with him / 
 Adras. Soldiers, charge 
 TJpon these rebels- ; hew them down. On ! on ! 
 
 [The Soldiers advance and surround the people: they 
 teize Phocion. Ion rushes from the back of the stage, and 
 throws himself between Adras tus and Phocion. 
 
 Pho. (to Adrastus.) Yet I defy thee. 
 
 Ion. (to Phocion.) Friend ! fyr sake of all, 
 Enrage him not — wait while I speak a word — 
 My sovereign, I implore thee, do not stain [ To Adrastus 
 This sacred place with blood : in Heaven's great name 
 I do conjure thee — and in hers, whose spirit 
 Is mourning for thee now ! 
 
 Adras. Release the stripling — 
 Let him go spread his treason where he will. 
 He is not worth my anger. To the palace ! 
 
 Ion. Nay, yet an instant ! — let my speech have power 
 From Heaven to move thee further : thou hast heard 
 Tne sentence of the god, and thy heart owns it ; 
 If thou wilt cast aside this cumbrous pomp, 
 And in seclusion purify thy soul 
 Long fever'd and sophisticate, the gods 
 May give thee space for penitential thoughts ; 
 If not — as surely as thou standest here, 
 Wilt thou lie stiff and weltering in thy blood, — 
 The vision presses on me now. 
 
 Adras. Art mad ] 
 Resign my state 1 Sue to the gods for life, 
 The common life which every slave endures, 
 And meanly clings to ? No ; within yon walls 
 I shall resume the banquet, never more 
 Broken by man's intrusion. Councillors, 
 Farewell ! — go mutter treason till ye perish ! 
 
 [Exeunt Adrastus, Crythes and Soldiers, l. 
 
 Ian. ( stands apart leaning on a pedestal. J 'Tis seal'd ! 
 
 Medon. Let us withdraw, and strive 
 I3y sacrifice to pacify the gods ! [Medon, Agenc r, and 
 Couw ilhrs retire ; they leave Ctesiphon, Phocion and 
 [on. Ion still stands apart, as rapt in meditation. 
 
44 
 
 ION. 
 
 [Act II. 
 
 Ctes. 'Tis well ; the measure of his guilt is fiJL'd. 
 Where shall we meet at sunset 1 ? 
 
 Pho In the grove 
 Which with its matted shade imbrowns the vale : 
 Between those buttresses of rock that guard 
 The sacred mountain on its western side, 
 Stai.ds a rude altar — overgrown with moss, 
 And stain'd with drippings of a million showers, 
 So old, that no tradition«aames the power 
 That hallow'd it, — which we will consecrate 
 Anew to freedom and to justice. 
 
 Ctcs. Thither, 
 Will I bring friends to meet thee. Shall we speak 
 To yon rapt youth 1 \ Pointing to Ion 
 
 Pho. His nature is too gentle. 
 At sunset we will meet. — With arms % 
 
 Ctes. A knife — 
 One sacrificial knife will serve. 
 
 Pho. At sunset ! [Exeunt Ctesiphon r. Phocion c.l, 
 
 Jon (comes forward). 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 clcud 
 That hangs above my wretched country 1 — death— 
 A single death, the common lot of all. 
 Which it will not be mine to look upon, — 
 And yet its ghastly shape dilates before me ; 
 I cannot shut it out ; my thoughts grow rigid, 
 And as that grim and prostrato 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 W3apon swiftly clove it. No — 
 The falchion's course is silent as the grave 
 That yawns before its victim. Gracious powers ! 
 It the great duty of my life be near, 
 Grant it may be to suffer, not to strike ! f Exat, el 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
Son I.] 
 
 ION 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Terrace of tie Temple. 
 
 Enter Clemanthe and Ion. r. 
 
 Clem. 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, 
 And will not from me. 
 
 Clem. Then it is most groundless ! 
 Hast thou not won the blessing of the perishing 
 By constancy, the fame of which shall live 
 While a heart beats in Argos 1 — hast thou not 
 Upon one agitated bosom pour'd 
 The sweetest peace 1 and can thy generous nature* 
 While it thus sheds felicity around it, 
 Remain itself unbless'd 1 
 
 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 
 
V 
 
 46 ION. [Act I a 
 
 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 
 
 Of present empire sit, their eyes of stone 
 
 Bent on me instinct with a frightful life, 
 
 That drew me into fellowship with them, 
 
 As conscious marble ; while their ponderous lips- • 
 
 Fit organs of eternity — unclosed, 
 
 And, as I live to tell thee, murmur'd, " Hail ! 
 
 Hail! Ion the devoted!" 
 
 Clem. 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 theo, 
 And strive to be thyself. 
 
 Ion. I will do so ! 
 I'll gaze upon thy loveliness, and drink 
 Its quiet in ; — how beautiful thou art ! — 
 My pulse throbs now as it was wont ; — a being 
 Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it, 
 Cannot show darkly. 
 
 Clem. 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 ! 
 
 Clem. 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, 
 
iCKVE I.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 When, with unswerving hand and piteov.s eye, 
 He stops the brief life of the innocent kid 
 Bound with white fillets to the altar ; — so 
 En wreathed by fate the royal victim heaves, 
 And soon his breast shall shrink beneath the knife 
 Of the selected slayer ! 
 
 Clem. '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 ? 
 
 Clem. 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Clem. '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. 
 
 Clem. Let me 
 Go with thee. Oh, 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 pasa ; 
 I will oe merrier when we meet again, — 
 Trust me, my love, I will ; farewell ! f Exit, 
 
 Clem. Farewell, then ! 
 How fearful disproportion shows in one 
 Whose life hath been all harmony ! He bends 
 Toward that thick covert where in blessed hour 
 •My father found him, which has ever been 
 
48 
 
 ION. 
 
 His chosen place of musing. Shall I follow t 
 
 Am I already grown a selfish mistress, 
 
 To watch his solitude with jealous eye, 
 
 And claim him all 1 Tha'. let me never be — 
 
 Yet danger from within besets him now, 
 
 Known to me only — I will follow him ! [Extf, l 
 
 Scene II. — An opening in a deep Wood — in front ai» 2d 
 gray Altar. 
 
 Enter Ion. 
 
 Ion. O winding pathways, o'er whose scanty blades 
 Of unaspiring grass mine eyes have bent 
 So often when by musing fancy sway'd, 
 That craved alliance with no wider scene 
 Than your fair thickets border'd, but was pleased 
 To deem the toilsome years of manhood flown, 
 And, on the pictured mellowness of age 
 Idly reflective, image my return 
 From careful wanderings, to find ye gleam 
 With unchanged aspect on a heart unchanged, 
 And melt the busy past to a sweet dream 
 As then the future was ; — why should ye now 
 Echo my steps with melancholy sound, 
 As ye were conscious of a guilty presence ] 
 The lovely light of eve, that, as it waned, 
 Touch'd ye with softer, homelier look, now fades 
 In dismal blackness ; and yon twisted roots 
 Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms 
 My thoughts grew humourous, look terrible, 
 As if about to start to serpent life, 
 And hiss around me ; — whither shall I turn ] — 
 Where fly 1 — I see the myrtle-cradled spot 
 Where human love, instructed by divine, 
 Found and embraced me first ; I'll cast me down 
 Upon the eaith as on a mother's breast, 
 In hope to feel myself again a child. 
 
 [Retires into ih e wood, 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and other Argive Youths. 
 
 Ctes. Sure this must be the place that Phocion spoke of ;~ 
 Vhe twilight deepens, yet he does not come- 
 
Uem II] 
 
 ION. 
 
 Oh, if, insteal of idle dreams of freedom, 
 He knew the sharpness of a grief like mine, 
 He would not linger thus ! 
 
 Cass. The sun's broad disk 
 Of misty red, a few brief minutes since, 
 Sank 'neath the leaden wave ; but night steals )U 
 With rapid pace to veil us, and thy thoughts 
 Are eager as the favouring darkness. % 
 
 Enter Phocion. 
 
 Ctes. Welcome ! 
 Thou know'st all here. 
 
 Pho. Yes ; I rejoice, Cassander, 
 To find thee my companion in a deed 
 Worthy of all the dreamings of old days, 
 When we, two rebel youths, grew safely brave 
 In visionary perils. We'll not shame 
 Our young imaginations. Ctesiphon, 
 We look to thee for guidance in our aim. 
 
 Ctes. I bring you glorious news. There is a soldief, 
 Who, in his reckless boyhood, was my comrade, 
 And though by taste of luxury subdued 
 Even to brook the tyrant's service, burns 
 With generous anger to avenge that grief 
 I bear above all others. He has made 
 The retribution sure. From him I learnt, 
 That when Adrastus reached his palace court, 
 He paused, to struggle with some mighty throe 
 Of passion ; then call'd eagerly for wine, 
 And bade his soldiers share his choicest stores, 
 And snatch, like him, a day from Fortune. Soon, 
 As one worn out by watching and excess, 
 He stagger'd to his couch, where now he lies 
 Oppress'd with heavy sleep, while his loose soldiera, 
 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 o le blest hand within completes the dc om 
 
60 
 
 ION. 
 
 I ICTlI) 
 
 Which Heaven pronounces. Nothing now remains. 
 
 Hut 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 ! 
 
 P/io. Let the gods 
 By the old course of lot reveal the name 
 Of the predestined champion. For myself, 
 Here do I solemnly devote all powers 
 Of soul and body to that glorious purpose 
 We live but to fulfil. 
 
 Ctes. And 1 ! 
 
 Cass. And I ! 
 
 Ion. {who has advanced from the wood, rushes to t/ie altai 
 and, exclaims) And I ! 
 
 Pho. Most welcome ! The serenest powers of justice, 
 In prompting thy unspotted soul to join 
 Our bloody councils, sanctify and bless them ! 
 
 Ion. The gods have prompted me ; for they have given 
 One dreadful voice to all things which should be 
 Else dumb or musical ; and I rejoice 
 To step from the grim round of waking dreams 
 Into this fellowship which makes all clear. 
 Wilt trust me, Ctesiphon 1 
 
 Ctes. Yes ; but we waste 
 The precious minutes in vain talk ; if lots 
 Must guide us, have ye scrolls ] 
 
 Pho. Cassander has them ; 
 The flickering light of yonder glade will serve him 
 To inscribe them with our names. Be quick, Cassander ! 
 
 Ctes. I wear a casque, beneath whose iron circlet 
 My father's dark hairs whiten'd ; let it hold 
 The name* of his avengers ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon uJces off his hcmlet omd gives it to Cassandeh. 
 
 who retires with it u. 
 
 Pho (to Ctesiphon.) He whose name 
 
SCZKE I.J 
 
 ION. 
 
 Thou shalt draw first sliali 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 'eave 
 His work imperfect ] 
 
 Ctes. There can scarce oe need ; 
 Yet as thou wilt. May the first chance be mine ! 
 L will leave little for a second arm ! 
 
 [Cassander returns with the helmet 
 
 Ctes. Now, gods, decide ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon draws a lot from the helmet 
 
 Pho. The name ! Why dost thou pause 1 
 
 Ctes. 'Tis Ion! 
 
 Ion. Well I knew it would be mine ! 
 
 [Ctesiphon draws another lot. 
 
 Ctes. Phocion ! it will be thine to strike him dead 
 If he should prove faint-hearted. 
 
 Pho. With my life 
 I'll answer for his constancy. 
 
 Ctes. (to Ion.) Thy hand ! 
 Tis cold as death. 
 
 Ion. Yes. but it is as firm. 
 What ceremony next 1 
 
 [Ctesiphon leads Ion to the altar, and gives him a knife. 
 
 Ctes. Receive this steel, 
 For ages dedicate in my sad home 
 To sacrificial uses ; grasp it nobly, 
 And consecrate it to untrembling service 
 Against the king of Argos and his race. 
 
 Ion. Hi3 race ! Is he not left alone on earth ? 
 He hath no brother, and no child. 
 
 Ctes. Such words 
 The god hath used, who never speaks in vain. 
 
 Pho. There were old rumours of an infant born, 
 And strangely vanishing ; — a tale of guilt 
 H alf 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, 
 
62 
 
 ION. 
 
 [Act III 
 
 Crimes grow unpunished, which the pirate's nest, 
 Or want's foul hovel, or the cell which justice 
 Keeps for unlicensed guilt, would startle at ! 
 We must root out the stock, that no stray scion 
 Renew the tree, whose branches, stifling virtue, 
 Shed poison-dews on joy. 
 
 [Ion approaches the altar, and I if ting 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 watch 
 On falling nations, and on kingly lines 
 About to sink forever ; ye, who shed 
 Into the passions of earth's giant brood 
 And their fierce usages the sense of justice; 
 Who clothe the fated battlements of tyranny 
 With blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe 
 Through the proud halls of time-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 ! Oh ! keep me pitiless ; 
 Expel all human weakness from my frame, 
 That this keen weapon shake not when his heart 
 Should feel its point ; and if he has a child 
 Whose blood is needful to the sacrifice 
 My country asks, harden my soul to shed it ! — 
 Was not that thunder 1 ? 
 
 Ctes. 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 PlIOCION 
 
 PJw. I am to second Ion if he fail. 
 
 Ctes He cannot fail ; — I shall be nigh. What, Ion ! 
 
SCEICE II.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 53 
 
 Ion. Who spake to mel Where am I % Friends, your 
 pardon : 
 
 1 am prepared ; yet grant me for a moment, 
 One little moment, to be left alone. 
 
 Ctcs. Be brief then, or the season of revenge 
 Will pass. At yonder thicket we'll expect thee. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Ion, l. 
 
 Ian. Methinks I breathe more freely, now my lot 
 Is palpable, and mortals gird me round, 
 Though my soul owns no sympathy with theirs. 
 Some one approaches — I must hide this knife — 
 Hide ! I have ne'er till now had aught to hide 
 From any human eye. [He conceals the knife in his vvtt, 
 
 Enter Clemanthe, u. e. l. 
 
 Clemanthe here ! 
 
 Clem. 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, say'st thou 1 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. 
 
 Clem. Not without thee ! 
 Indeed, thou art not we'll ; thy hands are marble ; 
 Thine eyes are fixed ; 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. 
 
 Clem. An oath ! Oh, gentle Ion, 
 What can have link'd thee to a cause which needs 
 A stronger cement than a good man's word ? 
 There's danger in it. Wilt thou keep it from me ? 
 
 Ion. Alas I must. Thou wilt know all full soon — 
 
 f Voices without call " Ion ! n I* 
 
64 
 
 ION. 
 
 [Act III 
 
 Hark ! I am call'd. 
 
 Clem. Nay, tlo not leave me thus. 
 
 Ion 'Tis very sad [voices again) — I dare not stay — 
 
 farewell ! [Exit, 1st. I. L 
 
 Clem. 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, 
 Ami tinge its world of happy images 
 With hues of horror. Shall I to the palace, 
 And, as the price of my disclosure, claim 
 I lis 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 
 Hatli found its refuge in a hero's love, 
 Whatever de^'hiy his generous soul 
 Shape for him; — 'tis its duty to be still, 
 And trust him till it bound or break with his. [Exit, L, 
 
 Scene III. — A chamber in the Temple, 
 Enter Medon, followed by Abra, r. 
 
 Mcdon. My daughter not within the temple, sayst thr u 1 
 Abroad at such an hour ] Sure, not alone 
 She wandered : tell me truly, did not Phocion 
 Or Ion bear her company 1 '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. 
 
 Mcdon. It was to meet him. 
 I would they were returned : the night is growi. 
 Of an unusual blackness. Some one comes— 
 Look if it be my daughter. 
 
 Abra (looking out J. No : young Irus, 
 The little slave, whose pretty tale of grief 
 Age nor, with so gracious a respect, 
 
ACEKX III.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 66 
 
 This worning told us. 
 
 Aledon. Let him conic : he hears 
 Some message from his mast er 
 
 Enter Irus, l, 
 
 Medon (to Irus) Thou art pale : 
 Has any evil happened to Agenor 1 
 
 Irus. No, my good lord : I do not come from him : 
 I bear to thee a scroll from one who now 
 Is numbered with the dead; he was my kinsman, 
 But I had nevei seen him till he lay 
 Upon his death-bed ; for he left these shores 
 Long before I was born, and no one knew 
 His place of exile. On this mournful day 
 He landed, was plague-stricken, and expired. 
 My gentle master gave me leave to tend 
 His else unsolaced death-bed ; when he found 
 The clammy chillness of the grave steal on, 
 He called 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 vroll to Medon, 
 
 Aledon (reading the scroll). These are hi^h tidings. 
 Abra ! is not Clemanthe come % I long 
 To tell her all. 
 
 Enter Clemanthe. 
 
 Aledon. Sit down, my pensive child. 
 Abra, this boy is faint ■ see him refreshed 
 With food and wine before thou lett'st him pass. 
 
 Irus. I have been too long absent from Agenor, 
 Who needs my slender help. 
 
 Aledon. Nay, I will use 
 Thy master's firmness here, and use it so 
 As he would use it. Keep him prisoner, Ahra, 
 Till he has done my bidding. \Exeiutt Aim A aridliiug, a 
 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. 
 Clem. It is of Ion ! No, — I do not blush, 
 
56 
 
 ION 
 
 [Act Til 
 
 Rut tromWo. O my father, what of Ion? • 
 
 Mr, I {ow often have we guessed his lineage nobJe \ 
 A till ii6vv '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-«irt summit, where a rock 
 O'erhuftg a chasm, by the surge's force 
 Made terrible, rush'd with him. As the gods 
 In mercy ordered 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 ; 
 Watched till he saw the infant safe; then fled, 
 Fearful of question ; and returned to die. 
 That child is Ion. Whom dost guess his sire 1 
 The first in Argos ! 
 
 Clem. Dost thou mean Adrastus 1 
 He cannot — must not — be that tyrant's son! 
 
 Mcdon. 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 
 The suppliant of her bounty ; — thou art bless'd : 
 Thus, 1st me bid thee joy. 
 
 Clem. Joy, say st thou 1 — joy ! \ 
 Then I must, speak — he seeks Adrastus' life ! 
 And at th is moment, while we talk, may stain 
 His soul with parricide. 
 
 Mcdon,, Impossible ! 
 Ion, the gentlest — 
 
 Clem. It is true, my father ! 
 I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest ; 
 / heard him called ! 
 
 Mcdon. Shall I alarm the palace ? 
 
 Clem. No : m the fierce confusion, he would fall 
 Before our tale could be his safeguard. Gods ! 
 Is there no hope, no refuge ] 
 
« 
 
 fCERl.] ion. 67 
 
 Medon, Yes, if Heaven 
 Assist us. I bethink me of a passage, 
 Which, fashioned by a king in pious zeal. 
 That he might seek the altar of the god 
 m secret, from the temple's inmost shrine 
 Leads to the roya' chamber. I have tracked it 
 In youth for pastime. Could I tread it now, 
 I yet might save him. 
 
 CUm. Oh, make haste, my father ! 
 Shall I attend thee % 
 
 Medon. No : thou would'st impede 
 My steps : — thou 'rt fainting ! when I have lodged thee safe 
 In thy own chamber, I will light the torch 
 And instantly set forward. 
 
 Clem. 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 Medon l., Clemanthe r 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
 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 1 Am I not arm'd by Heaven 
 To execute its mandate on a king 
 Whom it hath doom'd 1 And shall I alter 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 mo on 1 
 Assure me, gods ! — Yes ; I have heard your voices; 
 For 1 dare pray ye .\ow t( nerve my arm 
 And see me strike ! [ He goes to the couch 
 
58 
 
 [Act 11 
 
 He's smiling in his slumber, 
 
 As if some happy thought of innocent days 
 
 Play'd at his heart-strings : must I scare it the/ice 
 
 With death's sharp agony ? He lies condemned 
 
 By the high judgment of supernal Powers, 
 
 And he shall know their sentence. Wake, Adrastui ! 
 
 Collect thy spirits, and be strong to die ! 
 
 Adras. Who dares disturb my rest 1 Guards ! Soldiers 1 
 Recreants ! 
 
 Where tarry ye ? Why smite ye not to earth 
 
 This bold intruder ? — Ha, no weapon here ! 
 
 What wouldst thou with me, ruffian ? f Rising 
 
 Ion. I am none, 
 But a sad instrument in Jove's great hand 
 To take thy life, long forfeited — Prepare ! 
 Thy hour is come ! 
 
 Adras. Villains ! does no one hear 1 
 
 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. 
 
 Adras. Thou ! — I know thee — 
 The youth I spared this morning, in whose ear 
 I pour'd the secrets of my bosom. Kill me, 
 If thou dar'st do it ; but bethink thee, first, 
 How the grim memory of thy thankless deed 
 Will haunt thee to the grave ! 
 
 Ion. It is most true ; 
 Thou sparedst my life, an 1 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. Mow — 
 Now, while I parley — Spirits that have left, 
 Within this hour, their plague-tormented flesh 
 To rot untombed, glide by, and frown on me, 
 Their slow avenger — and the chamber swarms 
 With looks of Furies — Yet a moment wait, 
 
ScEHE 1.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 59 
 
 Ye. dreadful prompters ! — If there is a friend, 
 Whom, dying, thou wouldst greet by word or tcken, 
 Speak thy last bidding. 
 
 Adras. I have none on earth. 
 If thou nast courage, end me ! 
 
 Ion. Not one friend ! 
 Most piteous doom ! 
 
 Adras. Art melted 1 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Adras. No ; strike at once ; my hour is come : in thee 
 I recognize the minister of Jove, 
 
 And, kneeling thus, submit me to his power. f Kneels 
 
 Ion. Avert thy face ! 
 
 Adras. No ; let me meet thy gaze ; 
 For breathing pity lights thy features up 
 Into more awful likeness of a form 
 Which once shone on me ; and which now my seme 
 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 
 Mouruful and calm ; 'tis surely there ; she waves 
 Her pallid hand in circle o'er thy head, 
 As if to bless thee — and I bless thee too, 
 Death's gracious angel ! — Do not turn away. 
 
 Ion. Gods ! to what office have ye doom'd me — Now! 
 
 [Ion raises Jus arm to stab Adrastus, who is kneeling, 
 and gazes steadfastly upon him. The voice of Medon u 
 heard ivithout, calling, " Ion !" " Ion !" Ion drops his arm. 
 
 Adras. Bo quick, or thou art lost ! 
 
 [As Ion has again raised his a^m to *trilce % 
 Medon rushes in behind him, c. 
 
 Medon. Ion, forbear. 
 Behold thy son, Adrastus ! 
 
 [Ion stands for a moment stupifed with horror, drops th* 
 knife, and falls senseless on tlie ground 
 
60 
 
 ION. 
 
 [Act Vt 
 
 Ad? as. What strange words 
 Are tliese, 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 fiDm thy sight 
 In wicked haste to slay; — I'll give thea proofs. 
 
 Adras. 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-sealed 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 guilebss 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 
 
 Medon. The clang of arms ! 
 
 Ion ( starting up). They come ! they come ! 
 They who are leagued with me against thy life. 
 Here let us fall ! 
 
 Adras. I will confront them yet. 
 Within I have a weapon which has drunk 
 A traitor's blood ere now ; — there will I wait them : 
 No power less strong than death shall part us now. 
 [Exeunt Adrastus and Ion, as into an inner chamber u. e. t 
 
 Medon. Have mercy on him, gods, for the dear sale 
 Of your most single-hearted worshipper! 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and others, L 
 Ctcs. What treachery is this 1 — 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; 
 
 Sparc him as Ion's father! 
 Ores. Father ! yes — 
 
 That is indeed a name to bid me spare : — 
 
 T*et me but fmd him, gods J [Rushes into an inner chamhc* 
 
ScTJTE I.J 
 
 ION. 
 
 6 
 
 Medon (To Cassander and others). Ha*., ye cut seen 
 What I have seen, ye would have mercy on him 
 
 Crythes enters with Soldiers, r. 
 
 Ha, soldiers ! hasten to defend your master; 
 .That way — 
 
 [As Crythes is about to enter the inner chamber u. E. t, 
 Ctesiphon rushes from it with a bloody dagger, and stop* 
 (he ?n. 
 
 Ctcs. It is accomplished : the foul blot 
 Is wiped away. Shade of my murdered father, 
 Look on thy son, and smile ! 
 
 Cry. Whose blood is that % 
 ft cannot be the king's ! 
 
 Ctes. It cannot be ! 
 Think'st thou, foul minion of a tyrant's will, 
 He was to crush, and thou to crawl for ever 1 
 Look there, and tremble ! 
 
 Cry. Wretch ! thy life shall pay 
 The forfeit of this deed. 
 
 [Crythes and soldiers seize Cte^iphojj, 
 Enter Adrastus mortally wounded, supported by I - v t u. E. L. 
 
 Adras. Here let me rest ; — 
 In this old chamber did my life begin, 
 And here I'll end it : Crythes ! thou hast timed 
 Thy visit well, to bring thy soldiers hither 
 To gaze upon my parting. 
 
 Cry. To avenge thee ; — 
 Here is the traitor! 
 
 Adras. Set him free at once : — 
 Why do ye not obey me ? Ctesiphon, 
 I gave thee cause for this ; — believe me now 
 That thy true steel has made thy vengeance sure ; 
 And as we now stand equal, I will sue 
 For a small boon — let me not see thee more. 
 
 Ctes Farewell ! [Exit, fc 
 
 Adras. ( To Crythes and soldiers.) Why do ye tarr* 
 here ? 
 
 Begone ! — still do ye hover round my couch ? 
 If the commandment of a dying king 
 
62 
 
 ION. 
 
 Is feeble, as a man who has embraced 
 
 His child for the first lime since infancy, 
 
 And presently must part with him for ever, 
 
 I do adjure ye leave us ! [Exeunt all but Ion and Adrastus 
 
 Ion. Oh, my father ! 
 How is it with thee now 1 
 
 Adras. Well ; very well ; — 
 Avenging Fate hath spent its utmost force 
 Against me ; and I gaze upon my s >r 
 With the sweet certainty that naught can part ua 
 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 passed with thee 1 
 
 Ion. But that my heart 
 Hatii sometimes ached for the sweet sense of kindn d, 
 I had enjoy'd a round of happy years 
 As cherish'd youth e'er knew. 
 
 Adras. 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 ! 
 
 Ionl 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 staunch thy wound ; thou art strong yet, 
 And yet may live to bless me. 
 
 Adras. Do not stir ; 
 My strength is ebbing fast; yet, as it leaves me, 
 The spirit of my stainless days of love 
 Awakens; and their images of joy, 
 Which at thy voice started from blank oblivion, 
 When thou wert strange to me, and then half-shown 
 Lo'jk'd sadly through the mist of guil::y years, 
 Now glimmer on me in the lovely lignt 
 Which at thy age they wore Thou art all thy mother's. 
 Her elements of gentlest virtue cast 
 In mould heroical. 
 
Sczhx I.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 63 
 
 Ion. Thy speech grows fainter ; 
 Can I do nothing for thee ? 
 
 Achas. Yes ; — my son 
 Thou art the best, the bravest, of a race 
 Df rightful monarchs; thou must mount the throne 
 Thy ancestors have fhTd, and by great deeds 
 Efface the memory of thy fated sire, 
 A nd 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. 
 
 Aclras. Rejoice, 
 Sufferers of Argos ! — I am growing weak, 
 And my eyes dazzle ; let me rest my hands, 
 Ere they have lost their feeling, on thy head. — 
 So ! — So ! — thy hair is glossy to the touch 
 As when I last enwreath'd its tiny curl 
 About my linger ; 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 \ r ain dream ! 
 
 This austere monitor hath bid thee vanish 
 
 Ere half-reveal'd. Come back, thou truant steel ; 
 
 Half of thy work the gods absolved thee from — 
 
 Th j rest remains ! Lie there ! [He conceals the kijfe in 
 
 his vest. Shouts heard icithout. 
 The voice of joy ! 
 
 Is this thy funeral wailing 1 Oh, my father ! 
 Mournful and brief will be the heritage 
 Thou leavest me ; yet I promised thee in death 
 To grasp it ; — and I will embrace it now. 
 
 Enter Agenor. 
 
 JLgen. Does the king live ? 
 Ian. Alas ! in me ! The son 
 Of him whow princely spirit is at root. 
 
64 
 
 LA* I 
 
 Claims his ancestral honours. 
 
 Azen. That hisrh 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 1 
 
 Ion. Now ; — the city's state 
 Allows the past no sorrow. I attend them. [Ezcuni, L 
 
 Scene II. — Before the Gate of the City. 
 Phocion on guard. 
 
 Pho. 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 ! — 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon, l. 
 
 All hail, my brother freeman ! — art not so 1 — 
 Thy looks are haggard — is the tyrant slain? 
 Is liberty achieved ! 
 
 Ctts. The king is dead. 
 This arm — I bless the righteous Furies! — sle»v him. 
 
 Pho. Did Ion quail, then '? 
 
 Ctcs. Ion ! — clothe thy speech 
 In phrase more courtly ; he is king of Argos. 
 Accepted as the tyrant's son, and reigns. 
 
 Pho. It cannot be ; I can believe him born 
 Of such high lineage ; yet he will not change 
 I lis own rich treasury of unruffled thoughts 
 For all the frigid glories that invest 
 The loveless state in which the morarch dwells, 
 A terror and a slave. [Shou's. again 
 
 Ctes. Dost hear that shout? 
 'Tis raised for him ! — the craven-hearted wnrld 
 Is ever eager thus to hail a master, 
 
*-«TE II ] 
 
 ION. 
 
 65 
 
 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, 
 
 V ain of a royal sophist, mad 1 y join 
 
 In humble prayer that he would deign to tread 
 
 Upon their necks ; and he is pleased to grant it. 
 
 Pho. He shall not grant it ! If my life, my sense, 
 My heart's affections, and my tongue's free scope 
 Wait the dominion of a mortal will, 
 What is the sound to me, whether my soul 
 Bear " 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. 
 
 Ctcs. Go teach the eagle when in azure heaven 
 He upward darts to seize his madden'd prey, 
 Shivering through the death-circle of its fear, 
 To pause and let it 'scape, and thou mayst win 
 Man to forego the sparkling round of power, 
 When it floats airily within his grasp ! 
 
 Pho. Why thus severe 1 Our nature's common wrongj 
 Affect thee not ; and that which touch'd thee nearly 
 Is well avenged. 
 
 Ctcs. Not while the son of h ; ±m 
 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, 
 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, 
 A nd the prince dizzy with strange turns of fortune, 
 1 o do thy part. 
 
 Pho Have mercy on my weakness ! 
 If thou hadst known this comrade of my sports, 
 One of the same small household whom his mirth 
 Unfailing gladden'd ; — if a thousand times 
 Thou hadst, by strong prosperity made thoughtless; 
 Touched his unfathered nature in its nerve 
 
TON. 
 
 [Arr f. 
 
 Of agony, and felt no chiding glance ; — 
 Hadst thou beheld him overtax his strength 
 To serve the wish his genial instinct guessed, 
 Till his dim smile the weariness betrayed, 
 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 watched, and glided to my bed, 
 And soothed 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 
 And faintly listen. Canst thou bid me slay him 
 Ctcs. The deed be mine ! Thou'lt not betray me 1 
 
 [Going, 
 
 Pho. Hold! 
 If by our dreadful compact he must fall, 
 I will not smite him with my coward thought 
 Winging a distant arm ; I will confront him 
 Arm'd with delicious memories of our youth, 
 And pierce him through them all. 
 
 Ctcs. Be speedy, then ! 
 
 Pho. Fear not that I shall prove a laggard, chargeu 
 With weight of such a purpo.se. Fate commands, 
 And I live now but to perform her bidding. 
 
 [Exeunt Ctesiphon, r. Phocion j»i 
 
 Scene III. — A Terrace in the Garden of the Pclacc— 
 
 moonlight. 
 
 Enter Ion and Agenor, c. 
 
 Agcn. Wilt thou not in to rest 1 
 
 Ion. My rest is here — 
 Beneath the greatness of the heavens, which awea 
 My spirit, tossed by sudden change, and torn 
 By various passions, to repose. YV. age 
 
bean: III.] 
 
 JON. 
 
 67 
 
 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 % 
 
 Agen. No : the perishing 
 Lift up their painful heads to bless thy namt, 
 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. 
 
 Agen. 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 niffbt will chill thee else. 
 
 o 
 
 Agen. Farewell, my lord ! [Ecit, n 
 
 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, 
 DoJ lift up to thee undazzled eyes 
 For the last time 1 Shall I enjoy no more 
 Thy golden haziness, which seemed akin 
 To my young fortune's dim felicity 1 
 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 beam?. 
 Awake to tremble with them 1 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 1 
 
 Enter Phocion, u. e. l. iclw strikes at Ion with a dagger 
 
 PJio. This to the king of Argos ! [Ion struggles with 
 him, seizes the dagger, which he throws away. 
 
68 
 
 ION. 
 
 [Ac* IV 
 
 Ion I will not fall by thee, poor wavering novice 
 In the assassin's trade ! — thy arm is feeble. 
 
 [He confronts Phocion 
 Phocion ! — Was this well aim'd 1 thou didst not mean-— 
 
 P/io. I meant to take thy life, urged by remembrance 
 Of yesterday's great vow. 
 
 Ion. And couldst thou think 
 I had forgotten ] 
 
 Pho. 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! 
 
 Pho Thus let me fall 
 Low at thy feet, and kneeling, here receive 
 Forgiveness ! do not crush me with more love 
 Than lies in the word " pardon." 
 
 Ion. And that word 
 I will not speak ; — what have I to forgive 1 
 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 guessed of brotherhood, 
 Are in the rashness of a moment lost ? 
 
 Pho. I carnot 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 short minutes with me. Dost remerrber 
 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, 
 
Bern 1.1 
 
 ION. 
 
 69 
 
 And that the pleasant walk of yester-night 
 We are to-night retracing. Come, my friend! 
 What, drooping yet ! thou wert not wont to seem 
 So stubborn. Cheerily, my Phocion — come ! 
 
 [Exeunt, R 
 
 END OP ACT IF. 
 ♦ 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — The terrace of- the Palace. — Ti?ne, the morning 
 
 of the second day. 
 
 Two Soldiers on guard, 
 
 1 Sol. A stirring season, comrade ! our new prince 
 Has leap'd as eagerly into his seat, 
 
 As he had languished 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 Sol. '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 Sol. No more : he comes. 
 
 Enter Ion, c. 
 
 Ion. Why do ye loiter here ] 
 Are all the statues deck'd with festal wreaths 
 As I commanded ] 
 
 1 Sol. We have been on guard 
 Here, by Agenor's ordei, since the nightfall. 
 
 Ion. On guard ! Well, hasten now, and see it done. 
 I need no guards. . [Exeunt Soldiers 
 
 The awful hour draws near — 
 [ am composed to meet it. — Phocion comes : 
 He will unman me ; yet he must not go, 
 Thinking his presence painful. 
 
70 
 
 ION 
 
 f Act ▼ 
 
 Enter Piioci )n, l. 
 
 Friend, good morrow ! 
 
 Thou play'st the courtier early. 
 
 P/io. Canst thou speak 
 In that old tone of common cheerfulness 
 That blithely promises delightful ye?irs, 
 And held thy mournful purpose 1 
 
 Ion. I have drawn 
 From the selectest fountain of repose 
 A blessed calm : — when I lay down to rest, 
 I fear'd lest bright remembrances of childhood 
 Should with untimely visitation mock me ; 
 JSut deep and dreamless have my slumbers been. 
 If sight of thee renews the thoughts of life 
 Too busily — I prize the love that wakes them. 
 
 Pho. Oh ! cherish them, and let them plead w'th the* 
 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 understands me — 
 
 Enter Agenor, l. 
 
 Agen. 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, l. 
 
 (Ion resumes his address to Phocion, and continues it % bio- 
 ken by the interruptions which follow.) I would speak 
 A word of her who y ester-morning rose 
 Ts her light duties with as blithe a heart 
 As ever yet its equal beating ver'd 
 In moveless alabaster; — plighted now, 
 
ScEWE I. 
 
 ION. 
 
 7! 
 
 In liberal hour, to one whose dest ny 
 Shall freeze the sources of* enjoyment in it, 
 And make it heavy with the life-long pang 
 A widow'd spirit bears ! — 
 
 Enter Cleon, l. 
 
 Clcon. 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, l. 
 
 Could I recall 
 
 One hour, and bid thy sister think of me 
 With gentle sorrow, as a playmate lost, 
 I should escape the guilt of having stopp'd 
 The pulse of hope in the most innocent soul 
 That ever passion ruffled. Do not talk 
 Of me as I shall seem to thy kind thoughts, 
 But harshly as thou canst ; and if thou steal 
 From thy rich store of popular eloquence 
 Some bitter charge against the faith of kings, 
 'Twill be an honest treason. 
 
 Enter Cassander, r. 
 Cass. Pardon me, . 
 [f I entreat thee to permit a few 
 Of thy once cherished friends to bid thee joy 
 Of that which swells their pride. 
 
 Ion. They ? 11 madden me. — 
 Dust thou not see me circled round with care 't 
 (Jrge 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 c lr fortunes 
 
72 
 
 ION. 
 
 • \XCT 9 
 
 Grew separate ; and with thy gracious speech 
 
 Excuse me to our friends. [Exit Cassandeu, r 
 
 Pho. 'Tis time we seek 
 The temple. 
 
 Ion. Phocion ! mus* - I to the temple 1 
 
 Pho. There sacrificial rites must be perform/d 
 Before thou art enthroned. 
 
 Ion. Then I must sraze 
 On things which will arouse the struggling thoughts 
 1 had subdued — perchance may meet with her 
 Whose name I dare not utter. I am ready. [Exeunt. I 
 
 Scene II. — The Temple. 
 
 Clemanthe and Abra, discovered. 
 
 Abra. Be comforted, dear lady ; — he must come 
 To sacrifice. 
 
 Clem. Recall that churlish word, 
 That subborn " must" that bounds my living hopes, 
 As with an iron circle. He must come ! 
 How piteous is affection's state, that cleaves 
 To such a wretched prop ! I had flown to him 
 Long before this, but that I fear'd my presence 
 Might prove a burthen, — and he sends no word, 
 No token that he thinks of me 1 Art sure 
 That he must come 1 The hope has torture in it ; 
 Yet it is all my bankrupt heart hath left . 
 To feed upon. 
 
 Abra. I see him now with Phocion 
 Pass through the inner court. 
 
 Clem. He will not come 
 This way, then, to the place for sacrifice. 
 I can endure no more ; speed to him, Abia; 
 And bid him, if he holds Clemanthe's life 
 W orthy a minute's los? to seek me here. 
 
 Abra. Dear lady ! — 
 
 Clem. Do not answer me, but run, 
 Or I shall give yon crowd of sycophants 
 To gaze upon my sorrow. [Exit Abra L. 
 
 It is hard ; 
 
 Yet I must strive to bear it, and find solace 
 
SCIWE II.] 
 
 ION 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Enter Ion, l. 
 
 Ion. What wouldst thou with me, lady 1 
 
 Clem. Is it so 1 
 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 bol<* 
 To crave a word with thee ; — but all are fled — 
 And I have naught to seek. 
 
 Ion. A goodly dream ; 
 But thou art right to think it was no more, 
 And study to forget it. 
 
 Clem. 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 
 
 Clem. Dost thou yet 
 Esteem it rapture, then 1 My foolish heart, 
 Be still ! Ye^t wherefore should a crown divido us ? 
 Oh, 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 ban hie, 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 ! 
 
ION. 
 
 Clem. Thou dost accuse 
 Thy s'ate too hardly. It may give some room. 
 Some little space, amid its radiant folds. 
 For love to make its nest in ! 
 
 Ioji. 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 
 Stretches the path, which, when I wear the crown, 
 I needs must enter ; — the great gods forbid 
 That thou should'st follow in it ! 
 
 Clem. Oh, unkind ! 
 And shall we never see each other 1 
 
 Ion. ( after a pause.) Yes ! 
 I have asked 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, 
 [ feel the love that kindles through its beauty, 
 Can never wholly perish ; — we shall meet 
 Again, Clemanthe ! 
 
 Clem. Bless thee for that name ; 
 Call me that name again ! thy words sound strangelj 
 Yet they breathe kindness. Shall we meet indeed 1 
 Think not I would intrude upon thy cares, 
 Thy councils, or thy pomps ; — to sit at distance, 
 To w*?ave, with the nice labour which preserves 
 The rebel pulses even, from gay threads 
 Faint records of thy deeds, and sometimes catch 
 The falling music of a gracious word, 
 Or the stray sunshine of a smile, will be 
 Comfort enough ; — do not deny me this j 
 Or, if stern fate compel thee to deny, 
 Kill me at once ! 
 
 Ion. No ; thou must live, ny fair one; 
 
fiCEIfE III.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 7b 
 
 There are a thousand joyous things in life, 
 Which pass unheeded in a life of joy 
 As thine bath been, till breezy sorrow comes 
 To ruffle it ; and daily duties paid 
 Hardly at first, at length will bring reposo 
 To l he sad mind that studies to perform lliem. 
 Tin mi dost not mark me. 
 Clem. Oh, I do ! 1 do ! 
 
 Jon. If for thy brother's and thy father's sake 
 Thon art content to live, the healer Time 
 Will reconcile thee to the lovely tilings 
 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. 
 
 Clem. Thou art mine own, then, still ? 
 
 Ion. I am thine own ! thus let me clasp thee ; nsarer! 
 Oh, joy too thrilling and too short ! 
 
 Enter Auenor, R. 
 
 Agon. My lord, 
 The sacrificial rites await thy presence. 
 
 Ion. I come. — One more embrace — the last, the last 
 in this world ! Now farewell ! [Exeunt Aoenor and Ion. 
 
 Clem. The last embrace ! 
 Then he has cast me off'! — No, 'tis not so ; 
 'Some mournful secret of his fate divides us : 
 I'll struggle to bear that, and snatch a comfort 
 From seeing him uplifted. I will look 
 Upon him on his throne; Minerva's shrine 
 Will shelter me from vulgar gaze : I'll hasten, 
 Ani feast my sad eyes with his greatness there ! [Exit, R. 
 
 Scene III. — Tlie great Square of the city, — on the l. 
 « throne of state prepared, — on the r. an altar, — the statue* 
 decorated with garlands. 
 
 Enter Ctesiphon and Cassander, r 3. e. 
 Ctes. Vex me no more, by telling me, Cassander, 
 Of his fair speech ; I prize it at its worth : 
 Thou'lt see how he will act when seated firm 
 Upon the throne the craven tyrant fill'd, 
 
7 « ion [Km 
 
 Whose b ood he boasts, unless some honest arm 
 Should shed it first. 
 
 Oft*. Hast thou forgot the time 
 When thou thyself wert eager to foretell 
 His manhood's glory from his childish virtues ? 
 Let me not think thee one of those fond prophets, 
 Who are well pleased still to foretell success, 
 So it remain their dream. 
 
 Ctes. Thou dost forget 
 What has chilFd fancy and delight within me — 
 
 [Music at a distance 
 Hark ! — servile trumpets speak his coming — watch, 
 How power will change him. [ Tlicy stand aside. 
 
 The Procession. Enter u. e. r. Medon, Agenor, Pho- 
 cion, Timocles, Cleon, Sages and People — Ion last in 
 royal robes. He advances a/nidst shouts. 
 
 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 1 
 
 Medon. Permit thy earliest friend, 
 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 1 When thou should'st reflect the jcy 
 Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave 
 Marbles thy face. 
 
 Ion. Am I indeed so pale 1 
 It is a solemn office 1 assume ; 
 Yet thus, with Phoebus' blessing, I embrace it. 
 
 [Sits on tae throw 
 
 Stand forth, Agenor ! 
 
 Agen. 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 
 
8 xffz III.] 
 
 ION. 
 
 With good men — not s > absolute in goodness, * 
 
 As to forget what human frailty is ; — 
 And order my sad country. 
 A gen. Pardon mc — . 
 
 Ion.. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request: 
 Thou never eouldst deny me what, 1 sought 
 fn 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 powei 
 Whether I live or die. 
 
 Agcn. Die ! I am old — 
 
 Ion. Death is not jealous of thy mild decay, 
 Which gently wins thee his ; exulting Youth 
 Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride, 
 And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp 
 His shivering prey at noontide. Let me see 
 The captain of the guard. 
 
 Cry. I kneel to crave 
 Humbly the favour which thy sire bestow'd 
 On one who loved him well. 
 
 Ion. I cannot thank thee, , 
 That wakest the memory of my father's weakness ; 
 But I will not forget that thou hast shared 
 The light enjoyments of a noble spirit, 
 And learned the need of luxury. I grant 
 For thee and thy brave comrades, ample share 
 Of such rich treasures as my stores contain, 
 To grace thy passage to some distant land, 
 Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword, 
 May glorious laurels wreath it ! In our realm, 
 We shall not need it longer. 
 
 Cry. Dost intend 
 To banish the firm troops before whose valour 
 Caibarian millions shrink appall'd, and leave 
 Our city naked to One 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 arras we would not have our children blend 
 
78 
 
 rcri. 
 
 With their first innocent wishes; while the lcn?e 
 
 Of Argos and of justice- shall be one 
 
 To their youiig 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 Qry.' My lord— 
 
 Jon. No more — ray 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 though? 
 On thy spoil'd inmate ! 
 
 Medon. Think of thee, ray lord 1 
 Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign — 
 
 Ion p iithee no more. Argivcs ! I have a boon 
 To crave of you ; — whene'er I shall rejoin 
 [n 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 nevermore 
 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, 
 May tenderly be governed ; all degrees 
 Moulded together as a single form 
 Of nymph like loveliness, which finest chords 
 
SctJE III.] 
 
 79 
 
 Of sympatliy pervading shall suffuse 
 
 In times of quiet with one bloom, and fill 
 
 With one iesistless impulse, if tlio hosts 
 
 Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me 
 
 That ye will do this ! 
 
 Mednn. Wherefore ask this now? 
 Thou shall live long ! The paleness of thy face 
 Which late appalled me, is grown radiant iuw, 
 And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy 
 Of lustrous years. 
 
 Ion. The gods approve me, then ! 
 Yet will I 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 (kneeling). We swear it! 
 
 Ton. Hear and record the oath, immortal powers ! 
 Now give me leave a moment to approach 
 That altar, unattended. [He goes to l7ie altar. 
 
 (i racious gods ! 
 
 In whose mild service my glad youth was spent,, 
 Look on me now ; and if there is a Power, — 
 As at this solemn time I feel there is, — 
 Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes 
 The spirit of the beautiful that lives 
 In earth and heaven : — to ye I offer up 
 This conscious being, full of life and love, 
 For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow 
 End all her sorrows ! [Stubs himself and fcuVo. Ctesi* 
 
 phon rushes to sup\ art him. 
 
 Otesiphon, thou ait 
 Avenged, and wilt forgive me. 
 
 Ctes. Thou hast phick'd 
 TI*3 peer disguise of hatred, from my soul, 
 And made me IV. el how shallow is the w'jih 
 01 vengeance Coull I die; to sai'e thee ! 
 
 Ci.E»nrrniE lushes j Wward. 
 
 Clem, Hold! 
 iT*ist me support him • stand avvaj ! indeed 
 
8C 
 
 ION. 
 
 | Act V 
 
 T have beat right, although ye knew it rtft, 
 To ol in ^ to him in death. 
 
 Ion. This is a joy 
 I did not hope foi — this is sweet indeed ! 
 Bend thine eyes on me ! 
 
 Clem. And for this it was 
 Thou wouldst have weaned me from thee? Co ilist llici 
 think 
 
 I would he 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 I feign'd, I truly said — 
 Wilt thou not, sweet one 1 
 
 Clem. I will treasure all. 
 
 Enter Iitus, l. 
 
 Jrus. 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 kis feet ). Do ye not hear ? 
 Why shout ye not % — ye are strong — think not of me 
 Hearken ! the curse my ancestry had spread 
 O'er Argos, is dispelled — Agonor, give 
 This gentle youth his freedom, who hath brought 
 Sweet tidings that I shall not die in vain ! — 
 And Me don ! cherish him as thou hast one 
 Who, dying, blesses thee ; — -my oaui Clemantho! 
 Let this console thee nlso — Argos lives— 
 Tins ofl'eiuig i« accepted — all is well ! I IHs* 
 
 TU Obtain FM$. 
 
THE MINOE DEAMA. 
 
 VOL I. 
 
 1. The Irish Attorney. 
 
 2. Boots at the Swan. 
 
 3. How to Pay the Rent. 
 
 4. The Loan of a Lover. 
 
 5. The Dead Shot. 
 
 6. His Last Legs. 
 
 7. The Invisible Prince. 
 
 8. The Golden Farmer. 
 
 With a Portrait and Memoir of 
 MR. JOHN SEFTON. 
 
 VOL II. 
 
 9. The Pride of the Market. 
 
 10. Used Up. 
 
 11. The Irish Tutor. 
 
 12. The Barrack Boom. 
 
 13. Luke the Laborer. 
 
 14. Beauty and the Beast. 
 
 15. St. Patrick's Eve. 
 
 16. Captain of the Watch. 
 
 With a Portrait and Memoir of 
 MISS C WEMYSS. 
 
 VOL III. 
 
 17. The Secret. 
 
 18. White Horse of the Peppers. 
 
 19. The Jacobite. 
 
 20. The Bottle. 
 
 21. Box and Cox. 
 
 22. Bamboozling. 
 
 23. Widow's Victim. 
 
 24. Rrbert Macaire. 
 With a Portrait and Memoir of 
 
 MR. F. S. CHANFRAU 
 
 VOL. IV. 
 
 25. Secret Service. 
 
 26. Omnibus. 
 
 27. Irish Lion. 
 
 28. Maid of Croissey. 
 
 29. The Old Guard. 
 
 30. Raising the Wind. 
 
 31. Slasher and Crasi 
 
 32. Naval Engagemeu. 
 With a Portrait ana Memoir of 
 
 MISS ROSE TELBIN. 
 
 VOL V. 
 
 33. Cocknies in California. 
 
 34. Who Speaks First. 
 3.",. Bombastes Furioso. 
 36. Macbeth Travestie. 
 
 Price 12 1-2 Cents each.— Bound Volumes, $1.00. 
 
 On a remittance of One Dollar, free of postage, 
 
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 37. The Irish Ambassador. 
 
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 39. The Weathercock. 
 
 40. All that Glitters is not Gold. 
 With a Portrait and Memoir of 
 
 MR. W. A. GOODALL. 
 
 VOL VT. 
 
 41. Grimshaw, Bagshaw and Brad- 
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 42. Rough Diamond. 
 
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 47. 'Twould Puzzle a Conjuror. 
 
 48. Kill or Cure. 
 
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 VOL. VII. 
 
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 50. St. Cupid. 
 
 51. Go-to bed Tom. 
 
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 53. Jack Sheppard. 
 54 The Toodles. 
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AMERICAN DRAMA, 
 
 No. 2, 
 
 (A SERIES OF PLAYS BY AMERICAN AUTHOIi,) 
 
 Price 25 Cents. 
 
 THE OATH OF OFFICE; 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS, 
 
 B^ CHARLES JAMES CANNON, 
 
 AUTHOR Of' IHE POET'S QUEST," " THE CROWNING HOUB," 
 "POEMS, DRAMATIC AND MISCELLANEOUS," kC. 
 
 The scene is laid in Ireland, about the Fifteenth Century . 
 The characters that figure in the Play are : James Lynch 
 FrrzsTEPHEN, Mayor of Gal way ; Walter Lynch, his Son ; 
 Blake of the Hills, Brother-in-law of Lynch ; Arthur, 
 Son of Blake ; Tirlogh, Father-in-law of Walter ; Gomez, 
 a young Spaniard; Citizens, Officers, Gentlemen, Sailors, 
 &c, &c ; Dame Margaret, wife of Lyn r . ; Agnes, the 
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