Lys. What ails the King, that thus his brow is bent

By such a load of care?

King.

Lysimachus,

The load of empire lies a weary weight,

On age-worn brains; tho' skies and seas may smile,

And steadfast favouring Fortune sit serene,

Guiding the helm of State, but well thou knowest—

None better in my realm—through what wild waves,

Quicksands, and rock-fanged straits, our Bosphorus,

Laden with all our love, reels madly on

To shipwreck and to ruin. From the North,

Storm-cloud on storm-cloud issuing vollies forth

Fresh thunderbolts of war. The Emperor

Dallies within his closed seraglios,

Letting his eunuchs waste the might of Rome,

While the fierce Scythian, in a surge of blood,

Bursts on our bare-swept plains. Upon the South,

Our rival Cherson, with a jealous eye,

Waits on our adverse chances, taking joy

Of her republican guile in every check

And buffet envious Fortune deals our State,

Which doth obey a King. Of all our foes

I hate and dread these chiefly, for I fear

Lest, when my crown falls from my palsied brow,

My son Asander's youth may prove too weak

To curb these crafty burghers. Speak, I pray thee,

Most trusty servant. Can thy loyal brain

Devise some scheme whereby our dear-loved realm

May break the mesh of Fate?

Lys.

Indeed, my liege,

Too well I know our need, and long have tossed

Through sleepless nights, if haply I might find

Some remedy, but that which I have found

Shows worse than the disease.

King.

Nay, speak; what is it?

I know how wise thy thought.

Lys.

My liege, it chances

The Archon Lamachus is old and spent.

He has an only child, a daughter, Gycia,

The treasure of his age, who now blooms forth

In early maidenhood. The girl is fair

As is a morn in springtide; and her father

A king in all but name, such reverence

His citizens accord him. Were it not well

The Prince Asander should contract himself

In marriage to this girl, and take the strength

Of Cherson for her dowry, and the power

Of their strong fleets and practised arms to thrust

The invading savage backward?

King.

Nay, my lord;

No more of this, I pray. There is no tribe

Of all the blighting locust swarms of war,

Which sweep our wasted fields, I would not rather

Take to my heart and cherish than these vipers.

Dost thou forget, my lord, how of old time,

In the brave days of good Sauromatus,

These venomous townsmen, shamelessly allied

With the barbarian hosts, brought us to ruin;

Or, with the failing force of Cæsar leagued,

By subtle devilish enginery of war,

Robbed Bosphorus of its own, when, but for them,

Byzantium were our prey, and all its might,

And we Rome's masters? Nay; I swear to thee,

I would rather see the Prince dead at my feet,

I would rather see our loved State sunk and lost,

Than know my boy, the sole heir of my crown,

The sole hope of my people, taken and noosed

By this proud upstart girl. Speak not of it;

Ruin were better far.

Lys.

My liege, I bear

No greater favour to these insolent townsmen

Than thou thyself. I, who have fought with them

From my first youth—who saw my father slain,

Not in fair fight, pierced through by honest steel,

But unawares, struck by some villanous engine,

Which, armed with inextinguishable fire,

Flew hissing from the walls and slew at once

Coward and brave alike; I, whose young brother,

The stripling who to me was as a son,

Taken in some sally, languished till he died,

Chained in their dungeons' depths;—must I not hate them

With hate as deep as hell? And yet I know

There is no other way than that Asander

Should wed this woman. This alone can staunch

The bleeding wounds of the State.

King.

Lysimachus,

I am old; my will is weak, my body bent,

Not more than is my mind; I cannot reason.

But hark! I hear the ring of coursers' feet

Bespeak Asander coming. What an air

Of youth and morning breathes round him, and brings

A light of hope again!

Asan. My dearest sire and King, art thou thus grave

Of choice, or does our good Lysimachus,

Bringing unwonted loads of carking care,

O'ercloud thy brow? I prithee, father, fret not;

There is no cloud of care I yet have known—

And I am now a man, and have my cares—

Which the fresh breath of morn, the hungry chase,

The echoing horn, the jocund choir of tongues,

Or joy of some bold enterprise of war,

When the swift squadrons smite the echoing plains,

Scattering the stubborn spearmen, may not break,

As does the sun the mists. Nay, look not grave;

My youth is strong enough for any burden

Fortune can set on me.

King.

Couldst thou, Asander,

Consent to serve the State, if it should bid thee

Wed without love?

Asan.

What, father, is that all?

I do not know this tertian fever, love,

Of which too oft my comrades groan and sigh,

This green-sick blight, which turns a lusty soldier

To a hysterical girl. Wed without love?

One day I needs must wed, though love I shall not.

And if it were indeed to serve the State,

Nay, if 'twould smooth one wrinkle from thy brow,

Why, it might be to-morrow. Tell me, father,

Who is this paragon that thou designest

Shall call me husband? Some barbarian damsel

Reared on mare's milk, and nurtured in a tent

In Scythia? Well, 'twere better than to mate

With some great lady from the Imperial Court,

Part tigress and all wanton. I care not;

Or if the scheme miscarry, I care not.

Tell me, good father.

King.

Wouldst thou wed, Asander,

If 'twere to save the State, a Greek from Cherson?

Asan. From Cherson? Nay, my liege; that were too much.

A girl from out that cockatrice's den—

Take such a one to wife? I would liefer take

A viper to my breast! Nay, nay, you jest,

My father, for you hate this low-born crew,

Grown gross by huckstering ways and sordid craft—

Ay, more than I.

King.

It is no jest, my son.

Our good Lysimachus will tell thee all

Our need and whence it comes.

Lys.

My gracious Prince,

Thus stands the case, no otherwise. Our foes

Press closer year by year, our widespread plains

Are ravaged, and our bare, unpeopled fields

Breed scantier levies; while the treasury

Stands empty, and we have not means to buy

The force that might resist them. Nought but ruin,

Speedy, inevitable, can await

Our failing Bosphorus' unaided strength,

Unless some potent rich ally should join

Our weakness to her might. None other is there

To which to look but Cherson; and I know,

From trusty friends among them, that even now,

Perchance this very day, an embassy

Comes to us with design that we should sink

Our old traditional hate in the new bonds

Which Hymen binds together. For the girl

Gycia, the daughter of old Lamachus,

Their foremost man, there comes but one report—

That she is fair as good.

Asan.

My lord, I pray you,

Waste not good breath. If I must sell myself,

It matters not if she be fair or foul,

Angel or doubly damned; hating the race,

Men, maidens, young and old, I would blight my life

To save my country.

King.

Thanks, my dearest son.

There spake a patriot indeed.

Servant.

My liege,

An embassy from Cherson for the King.

Asan. Insolent hounds!

This is too much. I will have none of them.

Take back that message.

King.

Thou art right, my son.

I could not bear to lose thee, not to win

A thousand Chersons. Let us fight alone,

And see what fortune sends us.

Lys.

Good my liege,

Be not too hasty. (To Ambassador) Sir, the King has heard

The message which you bring, and presently

Will send a fitting answer.

[Exit Ambassador.

Nay, my liege,

I beg your patience. That these fellows make

Their friendship difficult is true; but think

How great the value of it, and remember

How easy 'tis to promise and break faith

With insolent dogs like these. This Lamachus

Is older than your grace, and feebler far.

He will not live for ever, and, he gone,

Will not the Prince Asander be as great,

The husband of his daughter and his heir,

As he is now, and sway the power of Cherson

For our own ends, and cast to all the winds

This foul enforcèd compact, and o'erturn

This commonwealth of curs? I will stake my life

That three years shall not pass ere he is King

Of Cherson in possession, and at once

Of Bosphorus next heir.

"The tongue hath sworn, the mind remains unsworn,"

So says their poet.

Asan.

I'll have none of it.

I am not all Greek, but part Cimmerian,

And scorn to break my word.

Let us face ruin, father, not deceit.

King. My noble son, I love thee.

Lys.

Good my liege,

And thou, my Lord Asander, ponder it.

Consider our poor country's gaping wounds,

And what a remedy lies to our hands.

I will die willingly if I devise not

A scheme to bend these upstarts to your will.

Asan. My liege, I do your will,

Though with a heavy heart. Farewell, my father.

If I must bid farewell to this dear City,

Which nourished me from childhood, 'tis to save it,

Not otherwise, and thou my sire and King.

From thee I do not part, and oftentimes,

If the saints will, I yet shall welcome thee,

When all our foes are routed and our troubles

Fled like some passing storm-cloud, to my hearth,

And set thy heir upon thy knees, a Prince

Of Bosphorus and Cherson.

King.

Good, my son.

I pray God keep you, for I dimly fear,

So dark a presage doth obscure my mind,

That we shall meet no more.

Lys.

My honoured liege,

These are the figments of a mind which grief

Hath part disordered. Thou shalt see thy son,

Trust me for it; I swear it. One thing more

Remains. I know what 'tis to be a youth

As yet untouched by love; I know what charm

Lies in the magic of a woman's eyes

For a young virgin heart. I pray you, sir,

Swear to me by the saints, that, come what may,

For no allurement which thy new life brings thee,

The love of wife or child, wilt thou forget

Our Bosphorus, but still wilt hold her weal

Above all other objects of thy love

In good or adverse fortune.

Asan.

Nay, my lord,

There is no need for oaths; yet will I swear it,

Here on this soldier's cross.

[Makes a cross with the hilt of his sword.

Farewell, my father,

I mar my manhood, staying.

King.

Farewell, son.

Let my old eyes fix on thee till thou goest

Beneath the farthest verge. Good Megacles,

And you brave gentlemen, be faithful all

To me and to your Prince.

Lys.

My Lord Asander,

Remember!

Gycia.

Sweetest Irene,

What joy it is to see thee once again

After so long an absence! We had grown

Together on one stalk so long, since first

Our girlish lives began to burst to flower,

That it was hard to part us. But methinks

That something of the rose from off thy cheek

Has faded, and its rounded outline fair

Seems grown a little thinner.

Ire.

Gycia,

The flower, once severed from the stalk, no more

Grows as before.

Gycia.

Thou strange girl, to put on

Such grave airs! Ah! I fear at Bosphorus

Some gay knight has bewitched thee; thou hast fallen

In love, as girls say—though what it may be

To fall in love, I know not, thank the gods,

Having much else to think of.

Ire.

Prithee, dear,

Speak not of this.

Gycia.

Ah! then I know 'tis true.

Confess what manner of thing love is.

Ire. Nay, nay, I cannot tell thee (weeping), Gycia;

Thou knowest not what thou askest. What is love?

Seek not to know it. 'Tis to be no more

Thy own, but all another's; 'tis to dwell

By day and night on one fixed madding thought,

Till the form wastes, and with the form the heart

Is warped from right to wrong, and can forget

All that it loved before, faith, duty, country,

Friendship, affection—everything but love.

Seek not to know it, dear; or, knowing it,

Be happier than I.

Gycia.

My poor Irene!

Then, 'tis indeed a misery to love.

I do repent that I have tortured thee

By such unthinking jests. Forgive me, dear,

I will speak no more of it; with me thy secret

Is safe as with a sister. Shouldst thou wish

To unburden to me thy unhappy heart,

If haply I might bring thy love to thee.

Thou shalt his name divulge and quality,

And I will do my best.

Ire.

Never, dear Gycia.

Forget my weakness; 'twas a passing folly,

I love a man who loves me not again,

And that is very hell. I would die sooner

Than breathe his name to thee. Farewell, dear lady!

Thou canst not aid me.

Gycia.

Hapless girl! Praise Heaven

That I am fancy-free!

Lama. My dearest daughter, why this solemn aspect?

I have glad news for thee. Thou knowest of old

The weary jealousies, the bloody feuds,

Which 'twixt our Cherson and her neighbour City

Have raged ere I was born—nay, ere my grandsire

First saw the light of heaven. Both our States

Are crippled by this brainless enmity.

And now the Empire, now the Scythian, threatens

Destruction to our Cities, whom, united,

We might defy with scorn. Seeing this weakness,

Thy father, wishful, ere his race be run,

To save our much-loved Cherson, sent of late

Politic envoys to our former foe,

And now—i' faith, I am not so old, 'twould seem

That I have lost my state-craft—comes a message.

The Prince Asander, heir of Bosphorus,

Touches our shores to-day, and presently

Will be with us.

Gycia.

Oh, father, is it wise?

Do fire and water mingle? Does the hawk

Mate with the dove; the tiger with the lamb;

The tyrant with the peaceful commonwealth;

Fair commerce with the unfruitful works of war?

What union can there be 'twixt our fair city

And this half-barbarous race? 'Twere against nature

To bid these opposite elements combine—

The Greek with the Cimmerian. Father, pray you,

Send them away, with honour if you please,

And soothing words and gifts—only, I pray you,

Send them away, this Prince who doth despise us,

And his false retinue of slaves.

Lama.

My daughter,

Thy words are wanting in thy wonted love

And dutiful observance. 'Twere an insult

Unwashed by streams of bloodshed, should our City

Scorn thus the guests it summoned. Come they must,

And with all hospitable care and honour,

Else were thy sire dishonoured. Thou wilt give them

A fitting welcome.

Gycia.

Pardon me, my father,

That I spoke rashly. I obey thy will.

Lama. Stay, Gycia. Dost thou know what 'tis to love?

Gycia. Ay, thee, dear father.

Lama.

Nay, I know it well.

But has no noble youth e'er touched thy heart?

Gycia. None, father, Heaven be praised! The young Irene

Was with me when thou cam'st, and all her life

Seems blighted by this curse of love—for one

Whose name she hides, with whom in Bosphorus

She met, when there she sojourned. Her young brother,

The noble Theodorus, whom thou knowest,

Lets all the world go by him and grows pale

For love, and pines, and wherefore?—For thy daughter,

Who knows not what love means, and cannot brook

Such brain-sick folly. Nay, be sure, good father,

I love not thus, and shall not.

Lama.

Well, well, girl,

Thou wilt know it yet. I fetter not thy choice,

But if thou couldst by loving bind together

Not two hearts only, but opposing peoples;

Supplant by halcyon days long years of strife,

And link them in unbroken harmony;—

Were this no glory for a woman, this

No worthy price of her heart?

Gycia.

Tell me, I pray,

What mean you by this riddle?

Lama.

Prince Asander

Comes here to ask your hand, and with it take

A gracious dower of peace and amity.

He does not ask thee to forsake thy home,

But leaves for thee his own. All tongues together

Are full of praise of him: virgin in love,

A brave youth in the field, as we have proved

In many a mortal fight; a face and form

Like a young god's. I would, my love, thy heart

Might turn to him, and find thy happiness

In that which makes me happy. I am old

And failing, and I fain would see thee blest

Before I die, and at thy knees an heir

To all my riches, and the State of Cherson

From anxious cares delivered, and through thee.

Gycia. Father, we are of the Athenian race,

Which was the flower of Hellas. Ours the fame

Of Poets, Statesmen, Orators, whose works

And thoughts upon the forehead of mankind

Shine like a precious jewel; ours the glory

Of those great Soldiers who by sea and land

Scattered the foemen to the winds of heaven,

First in the files of time. And though our mother,

Our Athens, sank, crushed by the might of Rome,

What is Rome now?—An Empire rent in twain;

An Empire sinking 'neath the unwieldy weight

Of its own power; an Empire where the Senate

Ranks lower than the Circus, and a wanton

Degrades the Imperial throne. But though to its fall

The monster totters, this our Cherson keeps

The bravery of old, and still maintains

The old Hellenic spirit and some likeness

Of the fair Commonwealth which ruled the world.

Surely, my father, 'tis a glorious spring

Drawn from the heaven-kissed summits whence we come;

And shall we, then, defile our noble blood

By mixture with this upstart tyranny

Which fouls the Hellenic pureness of its source

In countless bastard channels? If our State

Ask of its children sacrifice, 'tis well.

It shall be given; only I prithee, father,

Seek not that I should with barbaric blood

Taint the pure stream, which flows from Pericles.

Let me abide unwedded, if I may,

A Greek girl as before.