Classic Poem

Sel. Ah, Demetrius,
Thy looks bode evil. I dare scarcely give
My heart's inquiry words. My noble boy,
How fares he?
Dem. Like a weed upon the shore,
Which only waits the next wave's visiting
To waft it hence for ever.
Sel. Righteous Gods!
If ye war not with man's best feelings; if
Ye build not up the fabric of his bliss
But as a toy to tear asunder, when
Ye lack amusement, save him, save my son!
What has he done, or I, that thus untimely
Your fatal bolts have found him?
Dem. Sire, arraign not
Heaven's just decrees. The favourites of the Gods
Leave this world first, while others are reserved
For suffering or for crime. It is the stream
Which bursts its banks, and spoils the plain, whose waters
Long remain out: the dew which falls from heaven
Just glitters brilliant on the branch, and then
Exhales to heaven again.
Sel. But I shall be
Childless, Demetrius. Oh! in that one word
How many pangs find utterance! I shall lose
The stay, the pride, the glory of my house,
And then —
Though full of honours, full of fame — shall sink
Into the grave: even as a tree, when crown'd
With all the fulness of luxuriance, falls,
For lack of that which propp'd it. Canst thou find
Nor cause, nor cure?
Dem. The cause, sire, is reveal'd;
The cure transcends my art.
Sel. Where lies his malady?
Dem. 'Tis love — but love so hopeless and so wild,
'Twere easier to pluck a star from heaven,
And wear it on his breast, than wed with her
From whom his heart is breaking.
Sel. Do not rack
My soul with vain surmise — Reveal her name —
Dem. Thou knowest, sire, that to-morrow, which unites
Royal Seleucus with Stratonice,
Is destined, too, to seal Demetrius' bliss
In fair Astrate's arms.
Sel. Ha! and Antiochus
Sighs for the dark-eyed maid?
Dem. For her whom heaven
Destines another's bride.
Sel. Now, good Demetrius,
Thou know'st that I have loved, have cherish'd thee,
And shown to thee less of a monarch's favour
Than a fond father's care.
Dem. Love, duty, honour,
Bind me to thee for ever.
Sel. Oh! Demetrius,
The life-drops of my heart are not so precious
As that boy's life to me. He is the string
On which hang all my joys. That snapt, the world
Is one blank desert, in which he is happiest
Who travels fastest o'er it. Oh, thou know'st
The talents, virtues of Antiochus;
And would'st thou kindle with thy bridal torch
His funeral pile? would'st thou his shroud should form
Thy marriage garment, and one strain compose
The hymeneal and the requiem?
Oh, save him, save him! See, thy sovereign sues —
Thy monarch on his bended knee petitions
For his child's life. Stretch forth thy arm to save
Before the hour is past, and he is dead,
And I am broken-hearted!
Dem. How in me
Resides the power to save him from his fate?
Sel. Resign Astarte —
Dem. Ah! sire, love is not,
Like a loose garment, worn or thrown aside
At pleasure. In the inmost heart it takes
So deep a root, that, like the oak, the storm,
Which lays its green head low, must tear up too
The soil in which 'tis planted. Can I live
To think of her but as a lover? Friendship
Or cold esteem can never fill the heart
Where love has been. That phaenix, when it dies,
Consumes its dwelling, that no meaner thing
May ever nestle there.
Sel. Alas! Demetrius,
His being is at stake. Fly to him — say,
" Astarte's thine. " Those words will be enough
To snatch him from the grave. Fly, ere his life
Is lost for ever, like a fire gone out
Not for defect of fuel, but when only
A little kind breath might relume the spark
In its expiring embers.
Dem. Would that I
Could rear again the fallen edifice
Of his lost bliss! But, sire, consult the hopes,
Th' affections which thy own heart cherishes:
There meditate, and learn how hard a thing
It is to root out love. Had the prince raised
His hopes as high as she, who soon will wear
The diadem of Babylon — had he
Felt this wild passion for Stratonice,
How would Seleucus bear the torturing pang
Which tore her from his doting bosom? — [ aside ] — Fix'd
He stands. The blood has left his cheek, as though
It had retreated to his heart, to ask
An answer there — and now returns on fire
With its intelligence.
Sel. Life, honours, sceptre —
Ay, even Stratonice, should be resign'd
To save him.
Dem. Then, sire, pardon me, if I
Have seem'd to trifle with a heart, whose feelings
Are springs so deep and pure. Listen awhile —
Thine is the nuptial torch which fires his bier —
Thine is the bell which tolls his dirge — and thine
The heart with love o'erflowing for him, yet
Dooming his death.
Sel. Have mercy, ye bright powers
Stratonice!
Dem. 'Tis she, 'tis she — the rock
Towards which his heart's best hopes flow darkly on,
Only to break against it. Oft, full oft,
Have I beheld the conflict of his passions
When love and duty warr'd; and I have mark'd
Unlook'd for blackness gather round his brow
Sudden and strange, and his dark lashes scarce
Restrain the swelling orbs, which, fierce and red,
Dilate behind them, till, like fiery meteors
Dissolved in weeping mists, and often while
A smiling effort writhes his lip, a sigh
So deep and piteous issues from his heart,
That all his features' brightness vanishes,
And, like the dimples of a wind-swept brook,
Gives place to dismal furrows. She too breathes
A world of sighs, yet seems those sighs to cherish;
And when she meets him sighs more deeply, yet
Still finds a cause for meeting, and ne'er parts,
But from beneath her light fair lids there trickle
Those dews, which even the brightness that we love
Will draw forth from the heart.
Sel. Demetrius,
Haste to Stratonice. Bid her be deck'd
In all her brightest ornaments to please
The bridegroom of to-morrow; bid her meet me,
Ere the ninth hour is told, in my son's chambers.
Summon my peers — say that the king commands
Their special presence, and do thou, Demetrius,
Attend me there.