A moment with her nurse; perhaps she'll give me And knotted round my heart, that, if you break it, No, my Virginia: come along with me. Virg. Will you not leave me? Will you take me with you? bless you, O, Art thou not bless you! [VIRGINIUS, perfectly at a loss what to do, looks anxiously around the Forum; at length his eye falls on a butcher's stall, with a knife upon it. Vir. This way, my child. No, no! I am not going To leave thee, my Virginia! I'll not leave thee. [VIRGINIUS Secures the knife in the folds of his toga. Well, have you done? Vir. Short time for converse, Appius; but [VIRGINIA shrieks, and falls half dead upon her father's I am App. Vir. Another moment, pray you. shoulder. Bear with me A little; 'tis my last embrace: 'twon't try Your patience beyond bearing, if you're a man! Long. My dear child! my dear Virginia! There is one only way to save thine honour, [Kissing her. "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 [Exit through the soldiers. ION; A TRAGEDY. SIR T. N. TALFOURD. Аст І. 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 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 Nor should these walls detain me from the paths Forbids me to depart without his license, 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 Against thy egress: none, indeed, may pass them 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, Smiling amidst the storm, a most rare infant, Age. The only inmate of this fane allow'd What, Ion To seek the mournful walks where death is busy! 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, For such hard duty; no emotion rude Hath his clear spirit vanquish'd: Love, the germ 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 Had given them sturdy nurture; and his step, Awakes the echoes of these desolate courts, Paced them in armour. Age. Hope is in thy tale. This is no freak of Nature's wayward course, 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, |