Ad. Yes, slave, alone: He is no assassin! [Exit Crythes. Tell me who thou art. What generous source owns that heroic blood, Which holds its course thus bravely? What great wars Have nursed the courage that can look on death— Certain and speedy death—with placid eye?
Ion. I am a simple youth who never bore The weight of armor; one who may not boast Of noble birth, or valor of his own. Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak In thy great presence, and have made my heart, Upon the verge of bloody death, as calm, As equal in its beatings, as when sleep Approached me nestling from the sportive toils Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial forms Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows Of soft oblivion,—to belong to me! These are the strengths of Heaven; to thee they speak, Bid thee to hearken to thy people’s cry, Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come!
Ad. I know it must; so mayst thou spare thy warnings. The envious gods in me have doomed a race, Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts Whence their own dawn upon the infant world; And I shall sit on my ancestral throne To meet their vengeance; but till then I rule As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel.
Ion. I will not further urge thy safety to thee; It may be, as thou sayest, too late; nor seek To make thee tremble at the gathering curse Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall; But thou art gifted with a nobler sense,— I know thou art my sovereign!—sense of pain Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls, And in whose fathers’ souls, thou and thy fathers Have kept their cherished state; whose heart-strings, still The living fibres of thy rooted power, Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn From heavenly justice on them.
Ad. How! my crimes?
Ion. Yes; ’tis the eternal law, that where guilt is, Sorrow shall answer it; and thou hast not A poor man’s privilege to bear alone, Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen, The penalties of evil; for in thine, A nation’s fate lies circled. King Adrastus! Steeled as thy heart is with the usages Of pomp and power, a few short summers since Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless. Oh, if maternal love embraced thee then, Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet Glare o’er their perishing children; hast thou shared The glow of a first friendship which is born ’Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth Smitten amidst its playthings; let the spirit Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity!
Ad. In every word thou dost but steel my soul. My youth was blasted: parents, brother, kin— All that should people infancy with joy— Conspired to poison mine; despoiled my life Of innocence and hope,—all but the sword And sceptre. Dost thou wonder at me now?
Ion. I know that we should pity—
Ad. Pity! Dare To speak that word again, and torture waits thee! I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on; The time is short, and I am pledged to hear.
Ion. If thou hast ever loved—