I say, but let them see him from afar,
And in an hour shall we, bound hand and foot,
Be on our way to Bruges.
My rule of governance has not been such
As e'er to issue in so foul a close.
Van den Bosch. What matter by what rule thou may'st have
Think'st thou a hundred thousand citizens
Shall stay the fury of their empty maws
Because thou 'st ruled them justly?
That such a hope is mine.
Van den Bosch.
And I must take this matter on myself.
Artevelde. Hold, Van den Bosch! I say this shall not be.
I must be madder than I think I am
Ere I shall yield up my authority,
Which I abuse not, to be used by thee.
Van den Bosch. This comes of lifting dreamers into power.
I tell thee, in this strait and stress of famine,
The people, but to pave the way to peace,
Would instantly despatch our heads to Bruges.
Once and again I warn thee that thy life
Hangs by a thread.
Why, know I not it does ?
What hath it hung by else since Titas' eve?
Did I not by mine own advisëd choice
Place it in jeopardy for certain ends?
And what were these? To prop thy tottering state?
To float thee o'er a leaf, and that performed,
To cater for our joint security?
No, verily, not such my high ambition.
I bent my thoughts on yonder city's weal;
I looked to give it victory and freedom;
And working to that end, by consequence
From one great peril did deliver thee-
Not for the love of thee or of thy life,
Which I regard not, but the city's service;
And, if for that same service it seem good,
I will expose thy life to equal hazard.
Van den Bosch. Thou wilt?
Artevelde.
O Lord! to hear him speak,
What a most mighty emperor of puppets
Is this that I have brought upon the board!
But how if he that made it should unmake?
Artevelde. Unto His sovereignty who truly made me
With infinite humility I bow!
Both, both of us are puppets, Van den Bosch-
Part of the curious clockwork of this world.
We scold and squeak and crack each other's crowns
And if, by twitches moved from wires we see not,
I were to toss thee from this steeple's top,
I should be but the instrument-no more-
The tool of that chastising providence
Which doth exalt the lowly and abase
The violent and proud; but let me hope
Such is not mine appointed task to-day.
Thou passest in the world for worldly-wise:
Then, seeing we must sink or swim together,
What can it profit thee, in this extreme
Of our distress, to wrangle with me thus
For my supremacy and rule? Thy fate
Is of necessity bound up with mine,.
Must needs partake my cares: let that suffice
To put thy pride to rest till better times.
Contest-more reasonably wrong—a prize
More precious than the ordering of a shipwreck.
Van den Bosch. Tush, tush, Van Artevelde! Thou talk'st and talk'st,
And honest burghers think it wondrous fine.
But thou might'st easier, with that tongue of thine,
Persuade yon smoke to fly i' the face o' the wind,
Than talk away my wit and understanding.
I say yon herald shall not enter here.
Artevelde. I know, sir, no man better, where my talk
Is serviceable singly, where it needs
To be by acts enforced. I say, beware,
And brave not mine authority too far..
Van den Bosch. Hast thou authority to take my life? What is it else to let yon herald in
To bargain for our blood?
Why, what a very slave of life art thou!
Look round about on this once populous town:
Not one of all these numerous housetops
But hides some spectral form of misery-
Some peevish pining child and moaning mother-
Some aged man that in his dotage scolds,
Not knowing why he hungers-some cold corse,
That lies unstraightened where the spirit left it.
Look round, and answer what thy life can be
To tell upon the balance of such scales,
I too would live-I have a love for life—
But, rather than to live to charge my soul
With one hour's lengthening out of woes like these,
I'd leap this parapet with as free a bound
As e'er was schoolboy's o'er a garden wall.
Van den Bosch. I'd like to see thee do it.
Artevelde.
But for the present be content to see
My less precipitous descent; for, lo!
There comes the herald o'er the hill.
Van den Bosch.
Thou shalt not have the start of me in this.
[He follows, and the scene closes.
Ion, after the death of his father, is called to the throne of Athens. But, becoming convinced that his people will live a better and happier life under the forms and laws of a republic, he binds his counsellors and people by an oath to found that form of government, and puts himself to death on his coronationday.
Ion. I thank you for your greeting. Shout no more;
But in deep silence raise your hearts to heaven,
That it may strengthen me, so young and frail
As I am, for the business of this hour.
Medon. Nay, do not think of me. My son! my son!
What ails thee? When thou should'st reflect the joy
Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave
Am I indeed so pale?
It is a solemn office I assume;
Yet thus, with Phoebus' blessing, I embrace it.
Agenor. I await thy will.
Ion. To thee I look, as to the wisest friend
Of this afflicted people;-thou must leave
A while the quiet which thy life hath earned,
To rule our councils; fill the seats of justice
With good men, not so absolute in goodness
As to forget what human frailty is,
And order my sad country.
Age.
Pardon me-
Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request.
Thou never could'st deny me what I sought
In boyish wantonness, and shalt not grudge
Thy wisdom to me till our state revive
From its long anguish ;—it will not be long
If Heaven approve me here. Thou hast all power
Whether I live or die.
Die! I am old-
Ion. Death is not jealous of thy mild decay
Which gently wins thee his. Exulting youth
Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride,
And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp
His shivering prey at noontide.
Let me see
The captain of the guard.
Crythes.
Humbly, the favour which thy sire bestowed
On one who loved him well.
I cannot thank thee, That wakest the memory of my father's weakness But I will not forget that thou hast shared
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit,
And learned the need of luxury. I grant,
For thee and thy brave comrades, ample share
Of such rich treasure as my stores contain,
To grace thy passage to some distant land,
Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword,
May glorious laurels wreath it! In our realm
We shall not need it longer.
Crythes.
Dost intend
To banish the firm troops before whose valour
Barbarian millions shrink appalled, and leave
Our city naked to the first assault
Ion.
No, Crythes! In ourselves,
In our own honest hearts and chainless hands,
Will be our safeguard. While we seek no use
Of arms we would not have our children blend
With their first innocent wishes; while the love
Of Argos and of justice shall be one
To their young reason; while their sinews grow
Firm 'midst the gladness of heroic sports,-
We shall not ask, to guard our country's peace,
One selfish passion or one venal sword.
I would not grieve thee; but thy valiant troop
For I esteem them valiant-must no more
With luxury which suits a desperate camp
See that they embark, Agenor,
Infect us.
Ere night.
Crythes. My lord-
No more--my word hath passed.
Medon, there is no office I can add
To those thou hast grown old in; thou wilt guard
The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home-
Thy too delightful home—befriend the stranger
As thou didst me;-there sometimes waste a thought
On thy spoiled inmate !
Medon.
Think of thee, my lord?
Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign-
Ion. Pr'ythee no more. Argives, I have a boon
To crave of you;-whene'er I shall rejoin
In death, the father from whose heart, in life,
Stern Fate divided me, think gently of him!
For ye, who saw him in his full-blown pride,
Knew little of affections crushed within,
And wrongs which frenzied him; yet never more
Let the great interests of the state depend
Upon the thousand chances that may sway
A piece of human frailty! Swear to me
That ye will seek, hereafter, in yourselves
The means of sovereign rule:-our narrow space,
So happy in its confines, so compact,
Needs not the magic of a single name,
Which wider regions may require, to draw
Their interests into one; but circled thus,
Like a blessed family, by simple laws,
May tenderly be governed; all degrees
Moulded together as a single form
Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords
Of sympathy pervading, shall suffuse
In times of quiet with one bloom, and fill
With one resistless impulse, if the hosts
Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me
That ye will do this.
Wherefore ask this now?
Thou shalt live long;—the paleness of thy face,
Which late appalled me, wears a glory now,
And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy
The gods approve me then!
Yet I will use the function of a king,
And claim obedience. Promise, if I leave
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