Ion

SCENE: BEFORE THE TEMPLE OF APOLLO AT DELPHI.

The sun is about to rise. MERCURY enters.)

MERCURY Atlas, that on his brazen shoulders rolls

Yon heaven, the ancient mansion of the gods,

Was by a goddess sire to Maia; she

To supreme Jove bore me, and call’d me Hermes;

Attendant on the king, his high behests

I execute. To Delphi am I come,

This land where Phoebus from his central throne

Utters to mortals his high strain, declaring

The present and the future; this is the cause;

Greece hath a city of distinguish’d glory,

Which from the goddess of the golden lance

Received its name; Erechtheus was its king;

His daughter, call’d Creusa, to the embrace

Of nuptial love Apollo strain’d perforce,

Where northward points the rock beneath the heights

Crown’d with the Athenian citadel of Pallas,

Call’d Macrai by the lords of Attica.

Her growing burden, to her sire unknown

(Such was the pleasure of the god), she bore,

Till in her secret chamber to a son

The rolling months gave birth: to the same cave,

Where by the enamour’d god she was compress’d,

Creusa bore the infant: there for death

Exposed him in a well-compacted ark

Of circular form, observant of the customs

Drawn from her great progenitors, and chief

From Erichthonius, who from the Attic earth

Deriv’d his origin: to him as guards

Minerva gave two dragons, and in charge

Consign’d him to the daughters of Aglauros:

This rite to the Erechthidae hence remains,

Mid serpents wreathed in ductile gold to nurse

Their children. What of ornament she had

She hung around her son, and left him thus

To perish. But to me his earnest prayer

Phoebus applied, “To the high-lineaged sons

Of glorious Athens go, my brother; well

Thou know’st the city of Pallas; from the cave

Deep in the hollow rock a new-born babe,

Laid as he is, and all his vestments with him;

Bring to thy brother to my shrine, and place

At the entrance of my temple; of the rest

(For, know, the child is mine) I will take care.”

To gratify my brother thence I bore

The osier-woven ark, and placed the boy

Here at the temple’s base, the wreathed lid

Uncovering, that the infant might be seen.

It chanced, as the orient sun the steep of heav’n

Ascended, to the god’s oracular seat

The priestess entering, on the infant cast

Her eye, and marvelled, deeming that some nymph

Of Delphi at the fane had dared to lay

The secret burden of her womb: this thought

Prompts her to move it from the shrine: but soon

To pity she resign’d the harsh intent;

The impulse of the god secretly acting

In favour of the child, that in his temple

It might abide; her gentle hand then took it,

And gave it nurture; yet conceived she not

That Phoebus was the sire, nor who the mother

Knew aught, nor of his parents could the child

Give information. All his youthful years

Sportive he wandered round the shrine, and there

Was fed: but when his firmer age advanced

To manhood, o’er the treasures of the god

The Delphians placed him, to his faithful care

Consigning all; and in this royal dome

His hallow’d life he to this hour hath pass’d.

Meantime Creusa, mother of the child,

To Xuthus was espoused, the occasion this:-

On Athens from Euboean Chalcis roll’d

The waves of war; be join’d their martial toil,

And with his spear repell’d the foe; for this

To the proud honour of Creusa’s bed

Advanc’d; no native, in Achaea sprung

From Aeolus, the son of Jove. Long time

Unbless’d with children, to the oracular shrine

Of Phoebus are they come, through fond desire

Of progeny: to this the god hath brought

The fortune of his son, nor, as was deem’d,

Forgets him; but to Xuthus, when he stands

This sacred seat consulting, will he give

That son, declared his offspring; that the child,

When to Creusa’s house brought back, by her

May be agnized; the bridal rites of Phoebus

Kept secret, that the youth may claim the state

Due to his birth, through all the states of Greece

Named Ion, founder of the colonies

On the Asiatic coast. The laurell’d cave

Now will I visit, there to learn what fortune

Is to the boy appointed, for I see

This son of Phoebus issuing forth to adorn

The gates before the shrine with laurel boughs.

First of the gods I hail him by the name

Of Ion, which his fortune soon will give him.

(MERCURY vanishes. ION and the attendants of the temple enter.)

ION(chanting) Now flames this radiant chariot of the sun

High o’er the earth, at whose ethereal fire

The stars into the sacred night retreat:

O’er the Parnassian cliffs the ascending wheels

To mortals roll the beams of day; the wreaths

Of incense-breathing myrrh mount to the roof

Of Phoebus’ fane; the Delphic priestess now

Assumes her seat, and from the hallow’d tripod

Pronounces to the Greeks the oracular strains

Which the god dictates. Haste, ye Delphic train,

Haste to Castalia’s silver-streaming fount;

Bathed in its chaste dews to the temple go;

There from your guarded mouths no sound be heard

But of good omen, that to those who crave

Admission to the oracle, your voice

May with auspicious words expound the answers.

My task, which from my early infancy

Hath been my charge, shall be with laurel boughs

And sacred wreaths to cleanse the vestibule

Of Phoebus, on the pavement moistening dews

To rain, and with my bow to chase the birds

Which would defile the hallow’d ornaments.

A mother’s fondness, and a father’s care

I never knew: the temple of the god

Claims then my service, for it nurtured me.

(The attendants leave. ION busies himself before the temple as he continues to sing.)

Haste, thou verdant new-sprung bough,

Haste, thy early office know;

Branch of beauteous laurel come,

Sweep Apollo’s sacred dome,

Cropp’d this temple’s base beneath,

Where the immortal gardens breathe,

And eternal dews that round

Water the delicious ground,

Bathe the myrtle’s tresses fair.

Lightly thus, with constant care,

The pavement of the god I sweep,

When over the Parnassian steep

Flames the bright sun’s mounting ray;

This my task each rising day.

Son of Latona, Paean, Paean, hail!

Never, O never may thy honours fail!

Grateful is my task, who wait

Serving, Phoebus, at thy gate;

Honouring thus thy hallow’d shrine,

Honour for the task is mine.

Labouring with unwilling hands,

Me no mortal man commands:

But, immortal gods, to you

All my pleasing toil is due.

Phoebus is to me a sire;

Grateful thoughts my soul inspire;

Nurtured by thy bounty here,

Thee, Apollo, I revere;

As a father’s I repeat.

Son of Latona, Paean, Paean, hail!

Never, O never may thy honours fail!

Now from this labour with the laurel bough

I cease; and sprinkling from the golden vase

The chaste drops which Castalia’s fountain rolls,

Bedew the pavement. Never may I quit

This office to the god; or, if I quit it,

Be it, good Fortune, at thy favouring call!

But see, the early birds have left their nests,

And this way from Parnassus wing their flight.

Come not, I charge you, near the battlements,

Nor near the golden dome. Herald of Jove,

Strong though thy beak beyond the feather’d kind,

My bow shall reach thee. Towards the altar, see,

A swan comes sailing: elsewhere wilt thou move

Thy scarlet-tinctured foot? or from my bow

The lyre of Phoebus to thy notes attuned

Will not protect thee; farther stretch thy wings;

Go, wanton, skim along the Delian lake,

Or wilt thou steep thy melody in blood.

Look, what strange bird comes onwards; wouldst thou fix

Beneath the battlements thy straw-built nest?

My singing bow shall drive thee hence; begone,

Or to the banks of Alpheus, gulfy stream,

Or to the Isthmian grove; there hatch thy young;

Mar not these pendent ornaments, nor soil

The temple of the god: I would not kill you:

‘Twere pity, for to mortal man you bear

The message of the gods; yet my due...