5. Soon rested those who fought; but thou, 6. A friendless warfare! lingering long 7. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 8. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn, 9. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; 10. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When those who helped thee flee in fear,- Like those who fell in battle here. 11. Another hand thy sword shall wield", 1 KINE. Cows. 2 WAIN. A wagon. 3 WIELD. Use with the hand; handle. 4 PEALED. Rung; sounded loudly. LXXXVIII. THE DEATH SCENE IN ION. TALFOURD. [Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd, an English writer, lawyer, and judge, was born in 1795, and died in 1854. He was made a judge of the Court of Common Pleas in 1849. He was the author of several dramatic poems, and of a biography of Charles Lamb. His plays are characterized by smooth versification, hightoned sentiment, and abundant imagery. The following is the closing scene of "Ion," the most popular of his dramas, the plot of which is taken from the mythology of ancient Greece. Ion is introduced in the beginning of the play. as a youth in attendance upon a temple of Apollo in Argos, of which Medon is high priest. Argos is wasted by a pestilence, which the oracle has declared will not cease till the line of the reigning king, Adrastus, shall have become extinct. Ion proves to be the son of Adrastus ; and having assumed the crown upon the death of the latter, devotes himself to self-destruction for his country's sake. Clemanthe is the daughter of Medon, and Phocion is his son. The other characters are sages and soldiers of Argos.] The Procession. Enter MEDON, AGENOR, PHOCION, TIMOCLES, CLEON, SAGES, and PEOPLE — ION, last, in royal robes. He advances amidst 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 Medon. Permit thy earliest friend, Who has so often propped thy tottering steps, Ion. Thou art still most kind Medon. Nay, do not think of me. My son! my son! What ails thee? When thou shouldst reflect the joy Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave Marbles thy face. Ion. Am I indeed so pale? It is a solemn office I assume; Yet thus, with Phoebus** blessing, I embrace it. Stand forth, Agenor!† [Sits on the throne' * PHOEBUS. Another name for Apollo, one of the ancient heathen deities. ↑ Pronounced A-ge'nor. Agenor. I await thy will. Ion. To thee I look as to the wisest friend Of this afflicted people. Thou must leave Awhile the quiet which thy life hath earned, To rule our councils; fill the seats of justice With good men, not so absolute in goodness, As to forget what human frailty is ; Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request: Thou never couldst deny me what I sought In boyish wantonness1, and shall not grudge Thy wisdom to me, till our state revive From its long anguish. It will not be long If Heaven approve me here. Thou hast all power, Whether I live or die. Ion. Death is not jealous of thy mild decay, Crythes. I kneel to crave Humbly the favor which thy sire bestowed On one who loved him well. Ion. I cannot thank thee, That wak'st the memory of my father's weakness; May glorious laurels wreath it! In our realm, Cry. Dost intend To banish the firm troops before whose valor Of reckless foes! Ion. No, Crythes! In ourselves, In our own honest hearts and chainless hands, To their young reason; while their sinews grow We shall not ask, to guard our country's peace, I would not grieve thee; but thy valiant troop — With luxury which suits a desperate camp, Infect us. Ere night. See that they embark, Agenor, Cry. My lord Ion. No more-my word hath passed. Medon, there is no office I can add To those thou hast grown old in. — Thou wilt guard The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home Thy too delightful home - befriend the stranger As thou didst me. There sometimes waste a thought On thy spoiled inmate ! Medon. Think of thee, my lord? Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign Ion. Prithee no more. Argives,* I have a boon To crave of you. Whene'er I shall rejoin * ÄR'ĢIVEŞ. Inhabitants of Argos. In death the father from whose heart in life 4 Our narrow space, And Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords. In times of quiet, with one bloom, and fill That ye will do this! Medon. Wherefore ask this now? Swear to me Thou shalt live long! The paleness of thy face Which late appalled me, is grown radiant now, 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 Medon and others. [Kneeling.] We swear it! |