Ad. To whom? 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; hailed my choice To service as a prize to wrestle for; And whose reluctant courtesy I bore, Pale with proud anger, till from lips compressed 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, decked for slaughter at their master’s call, To smite, and to be smitten, and lie crushed 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 learned 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 succor 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 stayed By the bright vision of a maid, whose face Most lovely, more than loveliness revealed In touch of patient grief, which dearer seemed Than happiness to spirit seared 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 flowed silent by us In our delightful nest. My father’s spies— Slaves, whom my nod should have consigned to stripes Or the swift falchion—tracked 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 Its worst accomplishment could match the ill Which they wrought on me? It had left unharmed A thousand ecstasies of passioned 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— Dashed through the thicket to the beetling rock ’Neath which the deep sea eddies; I stood still, As stricken into stone: I heard him cry, Pressed by the rudeness of the murderer’s grip, Severer ill unfearing—then the splash Of waters that shall cover him forever; And could not stir to save him!
Ion. And the mother?
Ad. She spake no word; but clasped me in her arms, And laid her down to die! A lingering gaze Of love she fixed on me,—none other loved,— And so passed 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. The dial points the hour.