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Scene from Ion.

To parents who could doubt me? To the ring
Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons,
Who should have studied to prevent my wish
Before it grew to language; hail'd my
choice
To service as a prize to wrestle for;
And whose reluctant courtesy I bore,

Pale with proud anger, till from lips compress'd
The blood has started? To the common herd,
The vassals of our ancient house, the mass
Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil
A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it;
Or, deck'd for slaughter at their master's call,
To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd
In heaps to swell his glory or his shame?

Answer to them? No! though my heart had burst
As it was nigh to bursting! To the mountains
I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow
Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool
My spirit's fever—struggled with the oak
In search of weariness, and learn'd to rive

Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung
Might mate in cordage with its infant stems;
Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest
Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air
Headlong committed, clove the water's depth
Which plummet never sounded;—but in vain.
Ion. Yet succour came to thee?

Ad.
A blessed one!
Which the strange magic of thy voice revives,
And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps
Were in a wood-encircled valley stay'd
By the bright vision of a maid, whose face
Most lovely, more than loveliness reveal'd
In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd
Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine.
With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth
The body of her aged sire, whose death
Left her alone. I aided her sad work;
And soon, two lonely ones by holy rites

Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months,

In streamlike unity flow'd silent by us

In our delightful nest. My father's spies

Slaves, whom my nod should have consign'd to stripes,

Or the swift falchion-track'd our sylvan home,

Just as my bosom knew its second joy,

And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son.

Ion. Urged by thy trembling parents to avert That dreadful prophecy.

Ad.

Fools! did they deem

389

!

Its worst accomplishment could match the ill
Which they wrought on me? It had left unharm'd
A thousand ecstasies of passion'd years,
Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain
Fate's iron grapple! Could I now behold
That son with knife uplifted at my heart,
A moment ere my life-blood followed it,
I would embrace him with my dying eyes,
And pardon destiny! While jocund smiles
Wreathed on the infant's face, as if sweet spirits
Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul,

The ruffians broke upon us-seized the child-
Dash'd through the thicket to the beetling rock
'Neath which the deep sea eddies; I stood still,
As stricken into stone: I heard him cry,
Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe,
Severer ill unfearing-then the splash

Of waters that shall cover him for ever;
And could not stir to save him!

Ion.

And the mother ?—

Ad. She spake no word; but clasp'd me in her arms,
And lay her down to die! A lingering gaze
Of love she fix'd on me-none other loved-

And so pass'd from hence. By Jupiter! her look-
Her dying patience glimmers in thy face!

She lives again! She looks upon me now!

There's magic in't. Bear with me-I am childish.

Enter CRYTHES and GUARDS.

Why art thou here?

Cry.

Ad. Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd? Hast thou no heart-no sense?

Cry.

The dial points the hour.

Scarce half an hour

Hath flown since the command on which I wait.

Ad. Scarce half an hour! Years, years have roll'd since then. Begone! Remove that pageantry of death;

It blasts my sight: and hearken! Touch a hair
Of this brave youth, or look on him as now—
With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band
Shall not expect a fearful show in vain.
Hence! without a word.

[Exit CRYTHES.

What wouldst thou have me do?

Ion. Let thy awaken'd heart speak its own language!
Convene thy sages ;-frankly, nobly, meet them;
Explore with them the pleasure of the gods,
And whatsoe'er the sacrifice perform it.

Ad. Well! I will seek their presence in an hour:

Scene from Ion.

391

Go summon them, young hero! Hold! no word
Of the strange passion thou hast witnessed here.
Ion. Distrust me not. Benignant powers! I thank ye!
[Exit.
Ad. Yet stay! He's gone-his spell is on me yet,
What have I promised him? To meet the men
Who from my living head would strip the crown,
And sit in judgment on me? I must do it.
Yet shall my band be ready to o'erawe
The cause of liberal speech, and if it rise
So as too loudly to offend my ear,

Strike the rash brawler dead!

What idle dream

Of long-past days had melted me? It fades

It vanishes-I am again a king!

(By permission of Messrs. Moxon and Co.)

SPEECHES AND SOLILOQUIES.

DRAMATIC.

1.-HAMLET'S ADVICE TO THE PLAYERS.
SHAKSPEARE.

[See page 314.]

SPEAK the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. O! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows, and noise; I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it outherods Herod; pray you avoid it.

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor : suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O! there be players, that I have seen play-and heard others praise, and that highly-not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted, and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made them, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

Ŏ! reform it altogether. And let those, that play your clowns, speak no more than is set down for them for there be of them, that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too; though in the meantime some necessary question of the play be then to be considered: that's villanous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it.

2.-OTHELLO'S ADDRESS TO THE SENATE.

SHAKSPEARE.

[See page 314.]

MOST potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approved good masters,-
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;

The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round unvarnished tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic

(For such proceeding I am charged withal),

I won his daughter.

I do beseech you,

Send for the lady to the Sagittary,

And let her speak of me before her father:

If

you do find me foul in her report,

The trust, the office, I do hold of you,

Not only take away, but let your sentence

Even fall upon my life.

Ancient, conduct them: you best know the place.

And, till she come, as truly as to heaven

I do confess the vices of my blood,

So justly to your grave ears I'll present
How I did thrive in this fair lady's love,
And she in mine.

Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortune,
That I have passed,

I

ran it through, even from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it.

Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances:

Of moving accidents by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

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