Thomas Noon Talfourd

“ AGENOR.
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. ”

“ 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 his stores
And end all with him. When we dared disturb
His dreadful feastings 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.
AGENOR.
I am prepared to brave it. ”

“ That he will seek have shed their paleness on him.
Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow?
ION.
I pass'd 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?
TIMOCLES.
And canst thou pity him? ”

“ 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. ”

“ AGENOR.
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 cloud
To make the happy happier! ”

“ Of him who thought to die unmourn'd 'twill fall
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 honor'd death-bed of the rich,
To him who else were lonely, that another
Of the great family is near and feels.
CLEMANTHE.
Oh, thou canst never bear these mournful offices! ”

“ 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; ”

“ 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. ”

“ The eastern gates unfold, the Priest approaches;
[As Agenor speaks, the great gates at the back of the scene open; the sea is discovered far beneath,—the dawn breaking over it; Medon, the Priest, enters attended.] ”