_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 G.o.ds, 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 pa.s.sing folly, I love a man who loves me not again, And that is very h.e.l.l. 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 sh.o.r.es 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d'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 h.e.l.las. 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 h.e.l.lenic 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 n.o.ble blood By mixture with this upstart tyranny Which fouls the h.e.l.lenic pureness of its source In countless b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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.

_Lama._ Daughter, thy choice Is free as air to accept or to reject This suitor; only, in the name of Cherson, Do nothing rashly, and meanwhile take care That nought that fits a Grecian State be wanting To do him honour.

_Gycia._ Sir, it shall be done.

SCENE II.--_Outside the palace of_ LAMACHUS.

MEGACLES _and_ COURTIERS.

_Meg._ Well, my lords, and so this is the palace. A grand palace, forsooth, and a fine reception to match! Why, these people are worse than barbarians. They are worse than the sea, and that was inhospitable enough. The saints be praised that that is over, at any rate. Oh, the intolerable scent of pitch, and the tossing and the heaving! Heaven spare me such an ordeal again! I thought I should have died of the smells. And here, can it be? Is it possible that there is a distinct odour of--pah! what? Oils, as I am a Christian, and close to the very palace of the Archon! What a detestable people!

Some civet, good friends, some civet!

_1st Court._ Here it is, good Megacles. You did not hope, surely, to find republicans as sweet as those who live cleanly under a King?

But here are some of their precious citizens at last.

_Enter_ Citizens _hurriedly._

_1st Citizen._ I pray you, forgive us, gentlemen. We thought the Prince would take the land at the other quay, and had prepared our welcome accordingly.

_Meg._ Who are these men?

_1st Court._ They are honourable citizens of Cherson.

_Meg._ Citizens! They will not do for me. The Count of the Palace should be here with the Grand Chamberlain to meet my Master.

_1st Cit._ Your Master? Oh! then you are a serving man, as it would seem. Well, my good man, when comes your Master?

_Meg._ Oh, the impertinent scoundrel! Do you know, sir, who I am?

_1st Cit._ Probably the Prince's attendant, his lackey, or possibly his steward. I neither know nor care.

_Meg._ Oh, you barbarian! Where is the Count of the Palace, I say?

_1st Cit._ Now, citizen, cease this nonsense. We have not, thank Heaven, any such foolish effeminate functionary.

_Meg._ No Count of the Palace? Heavens! what a crew! Well, if there is none, where are your leading n.o.bles? where the Respectable and Ill.u.s.trious? You are certainly not Ill.u.s.trious nor Respectable; you probably are not even Honourable, or if you are you don't look it.