Scene I
The Interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is supposed to be placed on a rocky eminence. Early morning. The interior lighted by a single lamp suspended from the roof. Agenor resting against a column;—Irus seated on a bench at the side of the scene.
[Agenor comes forward and speaks.]
AGENOR.
Will the dawn never visit us? These hours
Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear
To do the work of desolating years! All distant sounds are hush'd;—the shriek of death And the survivors' wail are now unheard, As grief had worn itself to patience. Irus! I'm loth so soon to break thy scanty rest, But my heart sickens for the tardy morn; Sure it is breaking;—speed and look—yet hold, Know'st thou the fearful shelf of rock that hangs Above the encroaching waves, the loftiest point That stretches eastward?
IRUS.
Know it? Yes, my Lord; There often have I bless'd the opening day, Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste In happy wandering through the forests.
AGENOR.
Well, Thou art not then afraid to tread it; there The earliest streak from the unrisen sun Is to be welcomed;—tell me how it gleams, In bloody portent or in saffron hope, And hasten back to slumber.
IRUS.
I shall hasten: Believe not that thy summons broke my rest; I was not sleeping. [Exit Irus.]
AGENOR.
Heaven be with thee, child! His grateful mention of delights bestow'd On that most piteous state of servile childhood By liberal words chance-dropp'd, hath touch'd a vein Of feeling which I deem'd for ever numb'd, And, by a gush of household memories, breaks The icy casing of that thick despair Which day by day hath gather'd o'er my heart, While, basely safe, within this column'd circle, Uplifted far into the purer air And by Apollo's partial love secured, I have, in spirit, glided with the Plague As in foul darkness or in sickliest light It wafted death through Argos; and mine ears, Listening athirst for any human sound, Have caught the dismal cry of confused pain, Which to this dizzy height the fitful wind Hath borne from each sad quarter of the vale Where life was.
[Re-enter Irus.]
Are there signs of day-break?
IRUS.
None; The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom.
AGENOR.
It cannot surely be. Thine eyes are dim
(No fault of thine) for want of rest, or now
I look upon them near, with scalding tears. Hath care alighted on a head so young! What grief hast thou been weeping?
IRUS.
Pardon me; I never thought at such a mournful time To plead my humble sorrow in excuse Of poorly-render'd service: but my brother — Thou mayst have noted him,—a sturdy lad, With eye so merry and with foot so light That none could chide his gamesomeness—fell sick But yesterday, and died in my weak arms Ere I could seek for stouter aid: I hoped That I had taught my grief to veil its signs From thy observant care; but when I stood Upon the well-known terrace where we loved, Arm link'd in arm, to watch the gleaming sails— His favourite pastime, for he burn'd to share A seaman's hardy lot,—my tears would flow, And I forgot to dry them. But I see Cleon is walking yonder; let me call him; For sure 'twill cheer thy heart to speak with him.
AGENOR.
Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep, Or, if thou wilt, to weep.
[Exit Irus.]
I envy thee
The privilege, but Jupiter forfend
That I should rob thee of it!
[Enter Cleon.]
CLEON.
Hail, Agenor! Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet To find thy age unstricken.
AGENOR.
Rather mourn That I am destined still to linger here
In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me. I chide these sinews that are framed so tough Grief cannot palsy them; I chide the air Which round this citadel of nature breathes With sweetness not of this world; I would share The common grave of my dear countrymen, And sink to rest while all familiar things Old custom has endear'd are failing with me, Rather than shiver on in life behind them: Nor should these walls detain me from the paths Where death may be embraced, but that my word, In a rash moment plighted to our host, Forbids me to depart without his license, Which firmly he refuses.
CLEON.