Comic Tragedies Part 18

Adrastus . . . . . . _A Priest._

Hafiz . . . . . . . _Turkish Envoy._

Ha.s.san . . . . . . . _A Slave._

Murad . . . . . . . _A Slave._

Abdallah . . . . . . _A Slave._

Iantha . . . . . . . _Wife of Cleon._

Zuleika . . . . . . _Daughter of Mohammed._

Medon . . . . . . . _A Slave._

Selim . . . . . . . _A Slave._

ION.

SCENE FIRST.

[_Room in the palace of_ Cleon.

Iantha _and_ Adrastus.]

Iantha. How wearily the days wear on, and the heavy hours so fraught with doubt press like death upon my aching heart. To the young, the fair, the happy, life is a blissful dream, filled with bright joys; for hope like a star beams on their pathway. But to the grief-worn heart, worn with weary watching, vexed with sad cares, whose hours are filled with fear, and ever thronging sorrows, whose star burns with a dim uncertain light,--oh, weary, weary is the pilgrimage; joyless the present, dark the future; and the sooner all is o'er, the better.

Adrastus. Daughter, thou hast forgot. The radiant star may pale and fade, but He who giveth it its light still liveth. Turn unto Him thy worn and bleeding heart, and comfortless thou shalt not be.

Iantha. Father, I cannot. When I would pray for resignation, words fail me, and my soul is filled with murmuring, while round me throng visions of battle-fields and death. Ever comes before me the form of Cleon,--no longer bright and beautiful as when, burning with hope and confidence in his high calling, he went forth to conquer or to die; but fallen, bleeding, perhaps dead, or a captive in the dungeon of the pagan, doomed to waste in hopeless misery the long years of his manhood. And my boy,--what will be his fate? Father, can I think on this and pray?

Adrastus. 'Tis hard, Iantha; but to His aid alone canst thou look up to save thy husband from the horrors of a b.l.o.o.d.y war. Call on Him, and He, the merciful, will in thy great need be near thee.

[_Enter_ Medon.

Medon. A stranger craveth audience.

Iantha [_rus.h.i.+ng forward_]. A stranger! Cometh he from my lord?

Medon. I know not, lady; but as a messenger is he clad, and with great haste demandeth speech of thee, saying he bore tidings of great import.

Iantha. Admit him instantly. [_Exit_ Medon.] Father, do thou follow, and speed him hither.

Adrastus. I hasten to obey thee. Bear a brave heart, my daughter. I feel that hope is near.

[_Exit_ Adrastus.

Iantha [_joyfully_]. Hope,--thrice blessed word!--wilt thou indeed visit this doubting heart once more, and sweeten the cup thou hast so long forsaken? [_Enter_ Hafiz.] Welcome! comest thou from my lord? Thy tidings speedily!

Hafiz. To the wife of Cleon, late commander of the rebel Greeks, am I sent to bear tidings of their defeat by Mohammed, now master of all Greece.

Adrastus. And my lord,--the n.o.ble Cleon?

Hafiz. Betrayed, defeated, and now lying under sentence of immediate death in the dungeon of the Sultan.

Iantha. Lost! lost! lost! [_Falls fainting on a couch._]

[_Enter_ Adrastus.

Adrastus. Daughter, look up!--there is yet hope. There is no time for rest. Up! rouse thy brave, till now, unconquered heart and cast off this spell. And thou, slave, hence,--away!

[_Exit_ Hafiz.

Iantha [_rousing_]. Defeated, imprisoned, condemned,--words unto one heart fraught with such dire despair. Tell me, Father, oh, tell me truly, do I dream?

[_Enter_ Ion, _who stands listening._

Adrastus. 'Tis no dream. The rough soldier did but tell thee in rude speech, what I was hastening in more guarded words to bear thee. 'Tis true; thy lord is in Mohammed's power, a victim to the perfidy of pagans, and doomed unto a speedy death. Nay, Iantha, shrink not, but as a soldier's wife, glory in the death of thy brave knight, dying for his country; and in his martyrdom take to thy soul sweet comfort.

Iantha. Comfort! Oh, man, thou little knowest woman's heart! What to her is glory, when him she loveth is torn from her forever? What to the orphan is the crown of martyrdom, the hero's fame, the praise of nations, the homage of the great? Will they give back the n.o.ble dead, heal the broken heart, tear bitter memories from the wounded soul to whom earth is desolate? Nay, Father, nay. Oh, Cleon, would I could die with thee!

Adrastus. This mighty sorrow o'erpowers her reason and will destroy all hope. Iantha, daughter, rouse thyself; let the love thou dost bear thy lord now aid in his deliverance. From the wealth of thy heart's true affection, devise thou some way to save him.

Iantha. Aid me, Father; I have no power of thought. I will trust all to _thee_.

[Ion _approaches._

Adrastus. I know not what to counsel thee; my life hath ill fitted me to deal with soldiers and with kings. But if some messenger--

Iantha. Nay, it will not serve. None will dare brave the anger of the pagan, and death were the doom of such as approach him other than as a slave. And yet,--perchance he might relent. Oh, were there some true heart, fearless and loving, to aid me now in mine hour of distress!

Where can I look for help?

Ion [_coming forward_]. Here, Mother,--_I_ will seek the camp of Mohammed.

Iantha. Thou!--my Ion, my only one. No, no; it may not be,--thy tender youth, thy gentle, untried spirit. 'Tis madness e'en to think on!

Ion. Mother, am I not a soldier's son, cradled 'mid warriors? Runs not the blood of heroes in these veins? Are not my father's deeds, his bright, untarnished name, my proud inheritance? What though this tender form is yet untried; what though these arms have never borne the knightly armor? No victor's laurels rest on this youthful brow, and I bear no honored name among the great and glorious of our land; yet, Mother, have I not a father, for whose dear sake I may yet purchase that knighthood for which this young heart glows? Am I not the son of Cleon?

Adrastus. Verily doth a spirit move the boy. Look on him now, Iantha, and let no weak, unworthy doubt of thine curb the proud spirit that proves him worthy of his sire.

Iantha. My son, my fair, young Ion, thou art all now left my widowed heart. How can I bid thee go! The barbarous pagan will doom thee to a cruel death. How canst thou, an unknown youth, move the fierce heart that hath slain thy sire?

Ion. Fear not, Mother; he who calls me to this glorious mission will protect me. Shall I stand weeping while my father still breathes the air of pagan dungeons; while the base fetters of the infidel rest on his limbs, and his brave followers lie unavenged in their cold, b.l.o.o.d.y graves; while my country's banner, torn, dishonored, is trampled in the dust,--and he the proud, the brave, till now unconquered defender of that country's honor, lies doomed to an ignominious death? Oh, Mother, bid me go!

Adrastus. Iantha, speak to the boy! Let him not say his _mother_ taught him fear.

Iantha. My Ion, go,--strong in thine innocence and faith, go forth upon thy holy mission; and surely He who looketh ever with a loving face on those who put their trust in Him, will in His mercy guard and guide thee [_girds on his sword_]. Farewell! Go,--with thy mother's blessing on thee!