'Tis this![Stabs her, and draws out the knife. She falls and dies.] Lo, Appius! with this innocent blood,

I do devote thee to th' infernal gods!

Make way there!

App.
Vir.

Stop him! Seize him!

If they dare

To tempt the desperate weapon that is madden'd
With drinking my daughter's blood, why, let them: thus
It rushes in amongst them. — Way there! Way!

[Exit through the soldiers.

ION; A TRAGEDY.

SIR T. N. TALFOURD.

ACT I. SCENE I.

CHARACTERS: AGENOR, CLEON, and TIMOCLES, Sages of Argos; MEDON, High-Priest of Apollo; CLEMANTHE, his daughter; HABRA, her attendant. IoN, the hero, was stolen from his nursery while an infant, by two villains, with the intent of putting him to death; but, just as they were in the act of doing this, one of the men perished through a sudden accident; which so struck the other with fear and remorse that he left the child in the Grove of Apollo, where he was found by MEDON, and brought up as his foster-son. In the course of the play, ION is discovered to have been the firstborn of ADRASTUS, the tyrant king of Argos.

SCENE: The interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is supposed to be built on a rocky eminence. Early morning.

Present, AGENOR: To him enter CLEON.

Cleon. Agenor, hail!

Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet
To find thy age unstricken.

Age.

Rather mourn

That I am destined still to linger here

In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me.

I chide these sinews that are framed so tough

Grief cannot palsy them; I chide the air

Which round this citadel of Nature breathes

With sweetness not of this world; I would share
The common grave of my dear countrymen,
And sink to rest while all familiar things

Old custom has endear'd are failing with me,
Rather than shiver on in life behind them :

Nor should these walls detain me from the paths
Where death may be embraced, but that my word,
In a rash moment plighted to our host,

Forbids me to depart without his license,
Which firmly he refuses.

Cleon.

Do not chide me

If I rejoice to find the generous Priest

Means, with Apollo's blessing, to preserve

The treasure of thy wisdom: nay, he trusts not
To promises alone; his gates are barr'd

Against thy egress: none, indeed, may pass them
Save the youth Ion, to whose earnest prayer
His foster-father grants reluctant leave

To visit the sad city at his will:

And freely does he use the dangerous boon,
Which, in my thought, the love that cherish'd him,
Since he was found within the sacred grove

Smiling amidst the storm, a most rare infant,
Should have had sternness to deny.

Age.

The only inmate of this fane allow'd

What, Ion

To seek the mournful walks where death is busy!
Ion, our sometime darling, whom we prized

As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismiss'd

From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud, To make the happy happier! Is he sent

To grapple with the miseries of this time,
Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears
As it would perish at the touch of wrong?
By no internal contest is he train’d

For such hard duty; no emotion rude

Hath his clear spirit vanquish'd: Love, the germ
Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth,
Expanding with its progress, as the store
Of rainbow colours which the seed conceals
Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury,
To flush and circle in the flower. No tear
Hath fill'd his eye save that of thoughtful joy
When, in the evening stillness, lovely things
Press'd on his soul too busily: his voice,
If, in the earnestness of childish sports,
Raised to the tone of anger, check'd its force,
As if it fear'd to break its being's law,
And falter'd into music: when the forms
Of guilty passion have been made to live
In pictured speech, and others have wax'd loud
In righteous indignation, he hath heard
With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein
Of goodness, which surrounding gloom conceal'd,
Struck sunlight o'er it: so his life hath flow'd
From its mysterious urn a sacred stream,
In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure
Alone are mirror'd; which, though shapes of ill
May hover round its surface, glides in light,
And takes no shadow from them.

Cleon.

Yet, methinks,

Thou hast not lately met him, or a change

Pass'd strangely on him had not miss'd thy wonder. His form appears dilated; in those eyes

Where pleasure danced, a thoughtful sadness dwells; Stern purpose knits the forehead, which till now Knew not the passing wrinkle of a care:

Those limbs which in their heedless motion own'd

A stripling's playful happiness are strung
As if the iron hardships of the camp

Had given them sturdy nurture; and his step,
Its airiness of yesterday forgotten,

Awakes the echoes of these desolate courts,
As if a hero of gigantic mould

Paced them in armour.

Age.

Hope is in thy tale.

This is no freak of Nature's wayward course,
But work of pitying Heaven; for not in vain
The gods have pour'd into that guileless heart
The strengths that nerve the hero; they are ours.
Cleon. How can he aid us? Can he stay the pulse

Of ebbing life, arrest th' infected winds,

Or smite the hungry spectre of the grave?

Age. And dost thou think these breezes are our foes, The innocent airs that used to dance around us, As if they felt the blessings they convey'd, Or that the death they bear is casual? No! 'Tis human guilt that blackens in the cloud, Flashes athwart its mass in jagged fire, Whirls in the hurricane, pollutes the air, Turns all the joyous melodies of Earth To murmurings of doom. There is a foe Who in the glorious summit of the State Draws down the great resentment of the gods, Whom he defies to strike us; yet his power Partakes that just infirmity which Nature Blends in the empire of her proudest sons, That it is cased within a single breast, And may be pluck'd thence by a single arm. Let but that arm, selected by the gods, Do its great office on the tyrant's life, And Argos breathes again!

Cleon.

A footstep! hush!

Thy wishes, falling on a slavish ear,

Would tempt another outrage: 'tis a friend,

Timocles!—nay then, thus I must enforce thee: [Staying him.

Thou wilt not cast from thee a comrade's hand

That may be cold ere sunset.

Tim. [Giving his hand.] Thou mayst school me; Thy years and love have license: but I own not

A stripling's mastery: is't fit, Agenor?

Age. Nay, thou must tell thy wrong: whate'er it prove,

I hail thy anger as a hopeful sign,

For it revives the thought of household days,
When the small bickerings of friends had space

To fret, and Death was not for ever nigh

To frown upon Estrangement. What has moved thee?
Tim. I blush to tell it. Weary of the night

And of my life, I sought the western portal :

It open'd, when, ascending from the stair

That through the rock winds spiral from the town,
Ion, the foundling cherish'd by the Priest,

Stood in the entrance: with such mild command
As he has often smilingly obey'd,

I bade him stand aside and let me pass;

When, wouldst thou think it? — in determined speech,
He gave me counsel to return: I press'd

Impatient onward; he, with honied phrase
His daring act excusing, grasp'd my arm
With strength resistless; led me from the gate;
Replaced its ponderous bars; and, with a look

As modest as he wore in childhood, left me.

Age. And thou wilt thank him for it soon: he comes ; Now hold thy angry purpose if thou canst!

Enter ION.

Ion. I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore

Again thy pardon. I am young in trust,