If the devil, the devil, will join in our revel,
Laugh away, jolly boys, laugh away;
We'll do all we can to ruin the man,
Who will not submit to his sway,
Jolly boys,
Laugh away, jolly boys, laugh away!
MELITUS.
Well, Aristophanes, now that the peace
Is sworn between us, may we venture to ask
What you intended by the monosyllable
What dost refer to ?
ARISTOPHANES.
I'll just tell you;
Murder will out they say-the thing I've done
What in the name of wonder
Have you done them out of their showers? I wish you had, I'd purchase some for my vineyards.
It is the title of a comedy
Against our old foe, Socrates.
The very thing I wanted-I detest
Socrates from my soul, and I vow vengeance.
Once when I made the oration to the people
On the glories of the war, he said that I
Was a fool for my pains, and bade me rather speak
In favour of peace, or hold my tongue. By Jove,
To be so snubbed in public-'twas enough
To turn my gall to vinegar. Moreover,
When I had written a most graceful song
To recommend women and wine, in comes
This marplot of my sport, and tells me that
The poet's pen should grace a better theme
Than lust and drunkenness.
I'm not surprised
At anything from Socrates-the impertinent
Meddler in other people's honest business.
I do remember once I laid out money
In the time of an expected dearth, and bought up
All the corn in the province. I had hoped
To wring a handsome fortune by monopoly,
Out of the people's want. But Socrates
(How I do hate him !) moved the Areopagus
Against me, and my corn went at a price
That hardly paid my trouble-and my character
Went with it. I have not recovered either;
But if a time should come for paying off
A debt of vengeance, I'll bring Socrates
Before a court as rigid.
ARISTOPHANES.
So you can;
And in your private ear these Clouds of mine
Will much assist your malice. In the play
I set forth Socrates as lost among
The vapours of strange scepticism—ay,
As masking many a perilous innovation
In a phantastic jargon, meant to be
Sublime, therefore the more susceptible
Of my ridiculous parody. Last night
'Twas acted; and the overflowing house
Was shaken by the thunders of applause :
Depend on it, I've made a hit-I've caught
The heart of the mob; and Socrates will lose
Much of his popularity, if not
Something besides. When Aristophanes
Once takes a grudge, it is no joking matter
To the subject of his satire.
I'm right glad Of this; your comedy will do us serviceLet us but work together, and we'll soon Undermine him and supplant him.
If anything on earth is dear to me,
It is this plot; and in the future time,
What I most long for, is the death of Socrates.
SCENE II.
The Camp in Baotia.
Tell me, my soul, wherefore this solitude
Enchants thee? Is it that thy living genius
Comes nearest to thee when the strife of men
Grows distant? It is that the infinite God,
Jealous of interference, makes thee feel
His presence most, when earthlier
presences
Are banished from thee.-Nay, I know not this;
But yet I know he is my light in darkness,
And more than company in loneliness.
So be it-and do thou, my burning spirit,
Drink his bright inspiration! I'm transported
Even now, and my prophetic conscience soars
To an unspeakable glory. Here I stand
Single, amid the sleeping camp of Athens,
In the weird starlit watches. "Tis the night
Before the battle;—young to-morrow's dawn
Shall see the Athenians warring with brave men
Brave, gallant, and heroic though our foes-
These stern Boeotian rivals well deserve
Our best resentment:-they have wronged our state
By insult and by injury. And yet
It galls my heart thus to contend with them
Who should be brethren; while fierce Macedon,
Like a grim pard, watches the altercation,
And in our mutual hatred plots our ruin—
Why, therefore, do we fight?
(Enter a BAOTIAN WIZARD and WITCH.)
Ah, who are these? Are they not like the demons that make horrid The crimson dreams of murderers? Speak, and tell me, Ye haggard vagabonds of darkness-what
Are ye?-whence come ye?
We do ;-what were the use
Of our Baotian witchcraft, did we not
Know what we wish to know?
Ye vampires of credulity!
Impostors. The warm blood that we have drunk
In unrevealable orgies, makes us know
A something more than even the wisest of Greeks
Dares to conjecture.
By the listening heavens,
They have divined me truly :-'tis most strangely
Exact. I made that vow with the silentest voice
Of conscience. Not a whisper passed my lips.
Are they themselves the supernatural beings
That haunt the desolate obscure of æther,
And all beholding-must not be beheld ?—
Ah! their black eyes glare on me with a glance
Of fascination. On their withered brows
There shines a bloody cross:-their death-white lips
Quiver with an ineffable hellish scorn.
Sure, they are demons curst, whose tongues are dipped
In burning blasphemies. By the great Gods,
We were, we are, we shall be-The three stages
Of our existence were doomed contraries.-
We were come hither, witch, for thy sweet fate
Is woven with mine-We were, in years long fled,
Famed lovers-such as poets might have painted;
Cupid and Venus would have served no better
For an amorous rhapsodist-young, handsome, rich,
Brave, delicate-were we not so, daughter of Styx?
We were, till hot ambition, like hell's lightning,
Blasted us to perdition.
We sought to be as tyrants in Boeotia :—
The stratagem failed-failed through the perfidy
Of those we trusted. We were sentenced both,
Not unto death-that had been merciful
For ourselves and others;-No, to banishment,
Eternal exile, from our native land,
We fled to the caves of the Sibyls. There ambition,
Crushed, but not killed, revived, and with a power
A million-fold intenser. That we could not
Gain by means natural, we swore to compass
By spiritual impulsions.
SOCRATES.
Tell me more.
WITCH.
his tale would curdle
The life in thy pure veins, and make thee dastard
In the battle. We will not divulge the rites
Of fire and blood by which-but we achieved
The infernal victory gallantly, at least-
If madly, let it be so; we won mastery
O'er diabolic legions; by our spells
And incantations made the tools of our will,
The slaves and by their shrewd sagacity
We sway a band of men, fierce as ourselves,
And rule our rulers; or if they refuse
Obedience, slay them.
Ye who exult in knowledge, know ye not
The judgment of the Gods?
Aye, by the Gods!
We know their judgment, but we fear it not ;-
The anguish and incessant scorching agony
We feel on earth have steeled us to the terror
Of future torments, which must come, and will—
Earth is a hell to us. What need we tremble-
We can't be worse, or worse excruciated.
Our destiny is ever to advance
From hell to hell. We have nothing left to lose
By the change, and as the infernal wheel revolves
Shall gain at least variety.
Has brought the skulking tears into my eyes:
I too have felt the struggling of the passions,
That turn ye from yourselves. Can sympathy
Do nought to serve you?
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
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