Thomas Noon Talfourd

“ Touch'd ye with softer, homelier look, now fades
In dismal blackness; and yon twisted roots
Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms
My thoughts grew humorous, look terrible,
As if about to start to serpent life,
And hiss around me;—whither shall I turn?—
Where fly?—I see the myrtle-cradled spot
Where human love instructed by divine
Found and embraced me first; I'll cast me down
Upon that earth as on a mother's breast,
In hope to feel myself again a child.
[Ion goes into the wood.]
[Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and other Argive youths.] ”

“ And by the wise scarce heeded, for they deem'd it
One of a thousand guilty histories,
Which, if the walls of palaces could speak,
Would show that, nursed by prideful luxury,
To pamper which the virtuous peasant toils,
Crimes grow unpunish'd which the pirates' nest,
Or want's foul hovel, or the cell which justice
Keeps for unlicensed guilt, would startle at!
We must root out the stock, that no stray scion
Renew the tree, whose branches, stifling virtue,
Shed poison-dews on joy.
[Ion approaches the altar, and, lifting up the knife, speaks.] ”

“ Not without thee.
Indeed thou art not well; thy hands are marble;
Thine eyes are fix'd; let me support thee, love:—
Ha! what is that gleaming within thy vest?
A knife! Tell me its purpose, Ion!
ION.
No;
My oath forbids.
CLEMANTHE.
An oath! O gentle Ion,
What can have link'd thee to a cause which needs
A stronger cement than a good man's word?
There's danger in it. Wilt thou keep it from me?
ION.
Alas, I must. Thou wilt know all full soon—
[Voices call "Ion!"]
Hark! I am call'd.
CLEMANTHE.
Nay, do not leave me thus. ”