PLATO.

Then, maiden, do they instantly remember,
By an instinctive reminiscency,

That they from countless, limitless ages of ages,
Had conversed with each other-that they were
Married in heaven-predestined each for each.
Thus by a supernatural decree,

They instantly rejoin-their sympathies
Melt down into each other, even as mine
Do into thine, Euphrosyne,-what think you?

EUPHROSYNE.

A darling metaphysical romance,

Upon my word-but do you not believe

Twould make this intellectual dream more precious,
Could we but superadd an earthly marriage,

As other lovers do?

PLATO.

No, my Euphrosyne,

"Twould only spoil this our celestial one.
We are better as we are; this spiritual courtship
Is a much finer thing than what the herd

Of vulgar men call marriage.

Nay, more than a sister;

Next to my Xenophon, whose life is due

To the bravery of Socrates, I love

Thee, my Euphrosyne, best. Hast heard the news?
E'er long my Xenophon and I intend

To bow our heads beneath the flowery yoke

Of gentle Hymen.

EUPHROSYNE.

What! go and get married!

CHLOE.

You transcendental creature. You must be
A fairy, not a woman. No romancing,
I'll marry in the good old Attic way;
And I most heartily would recommend
Friend Plato, and his fair Euphrosyne,
To follow our example. We are going
To visit some gay friends,-live while you live-
My rule is simple-pleasure! pleasure! pleasure!
EUPHROSYNE.

You are too wild, and much too saucy, Chloe;
Such girls as you change our most grave philosophers
Into mere flirters-dangling, lounging, sighing,
Lying, and dying Cupids.

CHLOE.

Ah, Euphrosyne,
Your blush is telling another tale. Upon
Your rosy and voluptuous lip there lies

Passion asleep, yet dreaming. When it wakes,
Good bye to all these cold, chaste, snowy dreams
Of bodiless loves-You'll marry like the rest of us;
Or if you don't-hang yourself out of spite.

ACT V.

SCENE I.-The Gymnastic Games.

Enter EURIPIDES, PHEDON, HERALD, and several Gymnasiasts.

EURIPIDES.

Who wins?-By the faith of a poet, I will write

An ode upon the winner.

But contend as brethren,

In right good humour-no ill blood, I pray you.

PHÆDON.

I love these games-and now especially,

When peace revisits Athens, like a goddess

Smiling away war's horrors. Now, dear Attica
Seems doubly happy; for her happiness
Is of that sweet imperishable kind
Which follows on the traces of despair

Like heavenly morning on a night of storms.

EURIPIDES.

By Phœbus! he too grows poetical:

I tremble for my chaplet.

PHÆDON.

As the Sun

Might tremble at his faintest satellite

That drinks his lustre. Come, my gallant boxers,
The races are concluded; now is the hour
For the cestus-Go it merrily, my hearties.

HERALD.

A ring-a ring!-the chaplet for the winner.

(The Gymnasiasts box with the cestus till one defeats the other.)

EURIPIDES.

Well fought-Great Mars himself, the invulnerable,
Could not have done it better. Here, brave champion,
I place this garland on thy head,-I won't
Forget the ode.

PHÆDON.

Would I'd another prize

For the vanquished; he deserved it ;-come, rise up;
'Twas a mere accident. I'll wager anything
You'll win in the next match; you only need
A little practise. Ha! here come the wrestlers.

HERALD.

A ring, a ring!They'll show you gallant sport;
They are Spartans, gentlemen, and you will find them
True game, I'll warrant ;-fine display of muscle,
Solid as iron-every nerve is strung

With a fiery energy-every thing tells

There's not an atom of effeminate softness

In forms like these. They oiled and shaved each other
Like regular knowing ones. Anon you'll see them
Collar and foil, and wallow in the mire

Like swine, and strive, out of pure love, to throttle
Each other's windpipes: then they'll butt like rams
With their brazen foreheads, till, at a happy catch,
One hoists another in the air and hurls him
On the ground with the violence of a thunderbolt,
Then falling on him, hinders him from rising,
Pressing his neck with his elbow, till the other

Smites him upon the shoulder, as to say,
I'm conquered, Gentlemen,-a ring-a ring!

(Wrestlers contend, exhibiting a great variety of skill, till one falls, defeated.)

SCENE II.

SOCRATES (alone).

It is the hour when from the Olympic heaven

Jove scatters dreams. Athens lies hushed in slumber :

Her eager citizens are still as the dead:

Her busy, prattling, jangling populace

Have quite forgot their brawls-and I am left

Sole watcher, with the stars for company.

The stars-Oh, ye mysterious ones, what are ye?

Can ye not, in your silent harmonies,

Which, through the resonant depths of conscience ring,
Articulate your essence?-Are ye not

Deities visible, inviolable

All lightened and all lightning-spirits eternal
Encompassed with those perfect orbs of matter
Which are your animated bodies?-Ha!
How is the pinnacle of bright mythology

Girt round by clouds !-Resplendent science soars
Into a firmament of ignorance,

Where extremes meet and lose themselves. And yet
My soul longs to hold converse with the souls

Of the Stars--for souls they have-souls that emit
And receive inspirations. "Tis their height
Alone, or rather, shall I say, our lowness,
Severs our fellowship. The nearer they
Approach the inaccessible throne of God,
The more they vanish from our sphere of notice.

O hard condition of the sons of men,

That we behold all things inversed !—It is

The curse of our position-for gross sense,

Antagonizing spiritual truth,

Deens great things small, and small things great. What way
Shall we avoid this phantasy-by rising

To God?-Ay, we must first identify
Ourselves with God, the universal centre,-
Measure all things by him-not by ourselves.
Fly from our small particular orbits-stand
Upon the sun, and, with no partial gaze,
Behold the involved immensity of things:
Thus shall we-

Enter GENIUS.

Ah! the vision comes again. Thus let me kneel to thee, immaculate shape Of divine æther! wherefore dost thou now

Burst on my trance, and make the solemn midnight A thing of wild astonishment ?-Speak to me.

GENIUS.

Peace be to Socrates. Thus let me wave
The wand of supernatural calmness o'er thee.
SOCRATES.

Wonderful Presence !—even now I feel
Thy magic-reason wakes serenely, as

The young Aurora, and fierce passions leave me
Like the last murky clouds of a thunder-storm.

GENIUS.

I come to show thee that which shall befall thee.

I am all ear.

SOCRATES.

GENIUS.

The Providence of Heaven

Hath given me this commission unto thee;
For thou art one to whom entrancement's power
Is granted, and the foresight of futurity

To thee becomes a blessing, which to others
Were a dire curse.

SOCRATES.
Then read my destiny.
GENIUS.

It is the destiny I warned thee of,
And now 'tis ripe for its accomplishment:
Thy deadliest foes have secretly contrived
Thy accusation; all things are prepared
For thy destruction ;-They will summon thee
To the Court of the Thirty Tyrants. Critias,
Thy old disciple, for thy just reproof

Is now thy traitor-That apostate sways
The verdict of the court, and thou shalt be
Condemned to the death.

SOCRATES.

Great Jupiter, I thank thee;

'Tis even so that I would wish to die.
Socrates is grown weary of the world;
'Tis at the best a paltry prison-house
For the free soul that struggles to rejoin
The Olympians. Here in vain we strive to bring
Wisdom and virtue, to the perfectness

That prompts ambition. We are frustrated

In the best-while to the worst all things conspire.

Thou dost not fear to die?

GENIUS.

SOCRATES.

Heaven bear me witness