Ex. CCXXXIV.-S CENE FROM ION.

ION, TIMOCLES, AGENOR, MEDON.

TALFOURD.

[ION nobly resolves to meet ADRASTUS, notwithstanding the king's decree forbidding entrance to his person.]

Enter ION to TIMOCLES and AGENOR.

Ion. I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore
Again thy pardon. I am young in trust,
And fear, lest, in the earnestness of love,
I stayed thy course too rudely. Thou hast borne
My childish folly often,-do not frown

If I have ventured with unmannered zeal
To guard the ripe experience of years
From one rash moment's danger.
Tim. Leave thy care.

If I am weary of the flutterer life,
Is mortal bidding thus to cage it in?
Ion. And art thou tired of being?

Has the grave

No terrors for thee? Hast thou sundered quite
Those thousand meshes which old custom weaves
To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films
With airy luster various? Hast subdued
Those cleavings of the spirit to its prison,

Those nice regards, dear habits, pensive memories,
That change the valor of the thoughtful breast
To brave dissimulation of its fears?

Is hope quenched in thy bosom?
And in the simple dignity of man

Thou art free,

Standest apart untempted;-do not lose

The great occasion thou hast plucked from misery,
Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair,

But use it nobly!

Tim. What, to strike? to slay?

Ion. No!-not unless the audible voice of Heaven

Call thee to that dire office; but to shed

On ears abused by falsehood, truths of power
In words immortal,-not such words as flash
From the fierce demagogue's unthinking rage
To madden for a moment and expire.-
Nor such as the rapt orator imbues
With warmth of facile sympathy, and molds
To mirrors radiant with fair images,

To grace the noble fervor of an hour;—
But words which bear the spirits of great deeds
Winged 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;
[MEDON, the priest, enters.]
And lo! the sun is struggling with the gloom,
Whose masses fill the evening sky, and tints
Its edges with dull red;-but he will triumph;
Blessed 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?

Medon. Yes, Ion !—why, he sickens at the word,
Spite of his new-born strength: the sights of woe
That he will seek have shed their paleness on him.
Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow?
Ion. I passed the palace where the frantic king

Yet holds his crimson revel, whence the roar
Of desperate mirth came, mingling with the sigh
Of death-subdued robustness, and the gleam
Of festal lamps 'mid spectral columns hung

Flaunting o'er shapes of anguish, made them ghastlier.
How can I cease to tremble for the sad ones

He mocks and him, the wretchedest of all?

Tim. And canst thou pity him? Dost thou discern, Amidst his impious darings, plea for him?

Ion. Is he not childless, friendless, and a king? He's human; and some pulse of good must live Within his nature-have ye tried to wake it?

Medon. 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 dragged on
Without his messenger's return, he grew
Impatient of all counsel,-to his palace
In awful mood retiring, wildly called

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 muttered a decree that he, who next
Unbidden met the tyrant's glance, should die.
Agen. I am prepared to brave it.

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 lips of Phoebus ;-ye are wise;
And needed by your country; ye are fathers!
I am a lone stray thing, whose little life
By strangers' bounty cherished, like a wave,
That from the summer sea a wanton breeze
Lifts for a moment's sparkle, will subside
Light as it rose, nor leave a sigh in breaking.
Medon. Ion, no sigh?

Ion. Forgive me, if I seemed

To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if I fall;
Nor would I tax thy love with such a fear,

But that high promptings, which could never rise
Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead

Thus boldly for the mission.

Medon. My brave boy!

It shall be as thou wilt. I see thou art called
To this great peril, and I will not stay thee.
When wilt thou be prepared to seek it?

Ion. Now.

Medon. If thou wouldst have it so, thou shalt.
Ion. Farewell, then!

Your prayers wait on my steps. The arm of Heaven
I feel, in life or death, will be around me.
Medon. O grant it be in life!

[Excit.] [Exeunt.]

Ex. CCXXXV.—SCENE FROM VIRGINIUS.

LUCIUS, VIRGINIUS.

KNOWLES.

[Lucius comes to inform VIRGINIUS that his daughter is claimed as a slave by CLAUDIUS.]

Enter LUCIUS to VIRGINIUS.

Luc. 'Tis well you 're found, Virginius!
Vir. What makes you from the city?
Hast thou a message for me, Lucius? Well!
I'll stay and hear it--but be brief; my heart
Follows poor Dentatus.

Luc. You are wanted

In Rome.

Vir. On what account? Luc. On your arrival You'll learn.

Vir. How! is it something can't be told

At once? Speak out, boy! Ha! your looks are loaded
With matter-Is 't so heavy that your tongue

Can not unburden them? Your brother left
The camp on duty yesterday-hath ought
Happened to him? Did he arrive in safety?
Is he safe? Is he well?

Luc. He is both safe and well.

Vir. What then? What then? Tell me the matter, Lucius.

Luc. I have said

It shall be told you.

Vir. Shall! I stay not for

That shall, unless it be so close at hand

It stop me not a moment-'Tis too long
A coming. Fare you well, my Lucius.
Luc. Stay,

Virginius.-hear me then with patience.
Vir. [Returns.] Well,

I am patient.

Lic. Your Virginia

[Going.]

Vir. Stop, my Lucius!

I am cold in every member of my

frame!

If 'tis prophetic, Lucius, of thy news,

Give me such token as her tomb would, Lucius—

I'll bear it better.-Silence.

Luc. You are still

Vir. I thank thee, Jupiter! I am still a father!
Luc. You are, Virginius, yet.

Vir. What, is she sick?

Luc. No.

Vir. Neither dead nor sick! All well! No harm! Nothing amiss! Each guarded quarter safe, That fear may lay him down and sleep, and yet This sounding the alarm! I swear thou tell 'st A story strangely.-Out with 't! I have patience For any thing, since my Virginia lives,

And lives in health!

Luc. You are required in Rome,

To answer a most novel suit.

Vir. Whose suit?

Luc. The suit of Claudius.

Vir. Claudius!

Luc. Him that 's client

To Appius Claudius, the Decemvir.

Vir. What!

That pander! Ha! Virginia! you appear
To couple them. What makes my fair Virginia
In company with Claudius? Innocence

Beside lasciviousness! His suit! What suit ?
Answer me quickly!-Quickly! lest suspense
Beyond what patience can endure, coercing,
Drive reason from his seat!

Luc. He has claimed Virginia.

Vir. Claimed her! Claimed her!

On what pretence?

Luc. He says she is the child

Of a slave of his, who sold her to thy wife.

Vir. Go on;-you see I'm calm.

Luc. He seized her in

The school, and dragged her to the Forum, where Appius was giving judgment.

Vir. Dragged her to

The Forum! Well?—I told you, Lucius,

I would be patient.