Flourishes best among the dewy shades
Of a most youth-like faith-too much of knowledge Would mar the fine enchantment.
The GENIUS OF SOCRATES suddenly making an apparition.
God of my fathers, shield me! Who, and whence Art thou, that on my lonely meditation
Stealest like a spirit? Ah, thy eyes are kindling With a radiance not of the earth, and thy swift step Is silent as the snowfall. Beautiful presence,
If thou be more or less than mortal, speak, I do adjure thee.
Mark my answer well. From Jove I come. I am thy guardian genius, One of the Olympian angels who go forth With high command to educate men's souls For an immortal glory. Such the charge That from the gods I did receive o'er thee. Even from thy cradle have I dwelt within Thy spirit like divine vitality,
And made thy echoing conscience resonant With holy admonitions. Socrates,
Thou hast obeyed me well; and, therefore, now,
In sensible apparition I appear
Before thee, to instruct thee what thou art,
And what thou shall become.
Of love and wisdom. Then it was no dream
That some supernal watcher compassed me With his mysterious breathings. "Twas thy voice That harmonized the silence with the deep Soul-thrilling symphonies of truth;-thy words That vibrated along the chords of thought, Making me start and tremble.
Hast thou not marked a sudden flashing of light
Glance o'er thee when thy weary eyelids slept
On the tears they shed? Hast thou not caught the traces Of future scenes in tranced anticipation?
And when those scenes came in reality,
Felt sure that thou hast traversed them before,
By past familiarity prepared
To act aright through all their changes? When Thou hast hesitated on the verge of action, Hast thou not heard a voice cry-Socrates!
Do this, or do it not? Hast thou not found A kind of conscious impotence gain on thee While planning some misdeed of vice?
And when long intricate subtleties have wound My harassed soul almost to the point of madness With jarring doubts, was it not unto thee I've owed the dawning of some radiant star Of truth within me, which, like Hesperus, Smoothed the vexed waves of strife.
Have I wrought in thee; for I longed to make thee A blessing to thy country and thy kind:
And now before this altar, which the citizens
Raised to the God that stayed the plague at Athens, Come I to show thee more than is revealed
Celestial Genius, speak !
List the command of Jove! If thou obeyest my guidance, thou shalt be Hailed as the wisest of the wise of Greece; Thou likewise shalt diffuse thy wisdom freely, Without all grudging, unto all who seek thee; And in thy daily life's reality
Be all that other sages merely boast; So shall thy name be dear to all the gods And all the godlike, and eternal bliss Shall ripen in thy heart.-Divinity Itself shall so inspire thee, that thou too, Obedient to its impulse, shall become Divine. But think not so, my Socrates, To escape the teeth of envy-nay, the more Thy merits shall develope their rich fruit, The more the false, the base, the secular Will hate thee and detest thee. Thou must dare, And bear their malice bravely. They will call Thy piety profanation, and thy patriotism Rebellion, and thy darling innocence
The very vice of vices. They will bring thee Before the judges, and their unjust sentence
Shall doom thee to the death. But death will give thee A life like mine, and in the spirits' world
We will exult together-evermore.
Kneel, Socrates, and I
Will grant the Immortal's benediction.
Swear by the Eternal One that thou wilt consecrate Thyself to his service, and the cause of man,
Before high heaven, I swear it!
Enter SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES.
Well met, grandson of Phoebus, son of Thesbis, Brother of Eschylus. By the stars, I love To hear men praise thee-that is, next to myself— I like a generous rival, and a brave one, From my very heart of hearts. Euripides, You are my diamond spur-you goad the sides Of my flagging genius into a fiery race, Worthy of Phaeton; and if, like him,
I can but set the world in flames-why, truly, If I be roasted in the blaze I kindle, I'll not complain.
My heart echoes thy meaningI owe as much to you; 'tis Sophocles,
Who makes me what I am. Our common father, Promethean Eschylus, has left his genius Parted betwixt us; let us be as brethren. He was our solar orb-we are to each other As planets that reflect his radiance since He stooped o'er the horizon.
Be it a brother's wager. From this time Let us so hold it. I am conscience sick, Remembering our past jealousies ;-I hate The envy of fair fame, which made me scorn All laurels but my own. Our popular contests Were stained with this false passion; and that rogue, Arch Aristophanes, the bitter wag,
Was not my name even now upon your lips? Pray take it not in vain; its signification You'll allow is superexcellent.
SOPHOCLES.
You are merry,
As usual, you most comical of mortals!
The town is full of you; you have beaten us both Out of the field with your confounded mummeries. The Athenians were once famed (so say the chronicles) For small and dainty mouths-but, sooth to say, Since Aristophanes appeared, they're grown As broad as the broad grins you force upon them. ARISTOPHANES.
You hit me hard-you grand tragedians Are dreadfully facetious. Nothing less Than murdering even in jests. Achilles' steed Dancing in ladies' slippers, were scarce more Ineffably funny-fun, as Socrates tells us, Consisting in an essence he calls contrast- A jumble of pathos and bathos.
Hast seen him lately, Aristophanes?
He is more shy, reserved, and solitary Than was his wont.
What, once more in the clouds !
Sublimed abstractions! By the faith of comedy,
I'll write a play, and give it for a name,
The Clouds of Socrates.
Thou'lt damn thyself, not him. Believe me, jester, His clouds are clouds of glory; like the Aurora That robes the dawning sun in midsummer- A dewy intermission, kindly sent
To veil the instantaneous theophany
Of too much brightness. Nay, confine thy muse, If I may call it by so fair a name,
To the Athenian cockneyism, wherein
She flaunts and flourishes: dare not to violate The august divinity of heavenly truth That kindles Socrates-the Olympian virtue Of the gods is in him. Aristophanes, 'Tis not for such as thee, irreverent man, To violate such a name. Or if thou dost, They will compare thee to some hooting owl, That winks his vulgar staring eyes in the day-beam And thinks it darkness.
Thank you, good Euripides; Lay it on thick;-give me the best of your brogue.
'Twill marvellously improve my comic vein.
I owe you one for this. Mark, how I'll pay you ;- I talked about these Clouds of Socrates Only in badinage-your biting censure Has made it earnest. Ay, fair gentleman, By the gods above, I'll write it! and your pet Philosopher shall cut such capers as
Will cool his friends and heat his enemies. Euripides shall weep to see his master Playing the fool; and in thy private ear, Conceited, priggish moralist, I'll tell thee A thing or two. I hate that Socrates, Whom thou admirest-hate him with a hate Of outraged love;-yes, I too loved him once; But he in his insidious quiet style
Began to jeer my fooleries, as he called them, And painted my debaucheries in crimson. Beware the hate of a comedian—
The sweetest honey-bees have sharpest stings- The mellowest wine makes acidest vinegar;- Mark me I'll make your giant Socrates Look like a pigmy: I will write him down From his high pedestal, till he become
The scoff of fools-perhaps, even something worse Than this, thou little reck'st of. In the mean time Keep a civil tongue, and for yourself take care How you provoke my spleen; the Athenians Have itching ears, and I've the tickling of them.
Go, do thy worst; I ever knew thee for A poisonous anomaly of nature-
A hot head and cold heart.
Your words; and, if I'm not entirely mistaken, I'll make you eat them too.-Poisonous, forsooth!
SOCRATES (in a Temple of Jupiter).
Father of gods and men! I come to adore Thy presence in this Temple, which the vows. Of our first ancestors did consecrate
To thee. These tempest-worn, time-shattered walls, Circled thy altar immemorially,-
Ay, in the olden age, before the fanes
Of Pallas or of Theseus yet were known.
There is more solace here,-at least to me,
In this small solitary church, than in The gorgeous ceremonials of the priesthood
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