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Gycia and Irene.

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.

[Exit Irene.

Gycia.

Hapless girl! Praise Heaven

That I am fancy-free!

Enter Lamachus.

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.

[Going.

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.