ION ; A TRAGEDY. 



the poets of any day ; but the ability to produce a sublime representa- 

 tion true to nature of the tragic features of an ancient and destiny- 

 yoverned life, particularly when the author is confined within the nar- 

 row limits assigned to a poet of the classic tragedy, marks Mr. 

 Talfourd as the just claimant of the highest meed of praise that can 

 be given to any child of song. 



The play before us is fully worthy of all the praise that our con- 

 temporaries have bestowed on it. It is a production teeming with 

 life and poetry, with life, as it marks so truly and emphatically the 

 strong and resistless passions of human nature when exposed to the 

 vicissitudes of an all-compelling destiny, and with poetry as those 

 passions are expressed not only with truth but delicacy, and with all 

 the embellishments that can be furnished by a lively fancy and 

 powerful imagination. While it never sinks from the dignity of the 

 tragedy of high life, it convinces us of its faithfulness of conception by 

 the tacit comparison which every intelligent reader must institute 

 with the feelings of his own breast. 



The story of the Tragedy carries us back to that half-mystic 

 period of Grecian history when the Dorian tribes were struggling to free 

 themselves from the despotism of single rule. The city of Argos, 

 ruled by the iron sway of Adrastus, one " of a race of rightful ino- 

 narchs,'' but whose tyranny had disgusted his subjects with the very 

 name of monarchy, is afflicted with a pestilence which priestcraft and 

 superstition alike attribute to the wrath of Apollo, whose oracle ac- 

 cordingly, at Delphi, is consulted respecting the cause and remedy of 

 the national misfortune. Meanwhile, however, the high priest of the 

 Argive Apollo'deems it fit to warn the proud, profligate, God-defying 

 king ; but the hazardous honour of unbidden meeting the tyrant's 

 glance is successfully requested by Ion, a foundling youth (as it would 

 appear), under the high priest's protection. This request, and his 

 parting with his aged guardian, are thus beautifully expressed : 



Ion O Sages, do not think my prayer 



Bespeaks unseemly forwardness send me ! 

 The coarsest reed that trembles in the marsh, 

 If Heaven select it for its instrument, 

 May shed celestial music on the breeze 

 As clearly as the pipe whose virgin gold 

 Befits the lip of Phoebus ; ye are wise, 

 And needed by your country ; ye are fathers : 

 I am a lone stray thing, whose little life 

 By strangers' bounty cherish'd like a wave 

 That from the summer sea a wanton breeze 

 Lifts for a moment's sparkle, will subside 

 Light as it rose, nor leave a sigh in breaking. 



Medon. Ion, no sigh ! 



Ion. Forgive me if I seem'd 



To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if I fall ; 

 Nor would I tax thy love with such a fear 

 But that high promptings, which could never rise 

 Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead 

 Thus boldly for the mission. 



Medon. My brave boy ! 



It shall be as thou wilt. I see thou art call'd 



