Part 6 (1/2)

_Mortals._ MIDAS, King of Phrygia.

ZOPYRION, his Prime-Minister.

ASPHALION, LACON, Courtiers.

COURTIERS, Attendants, Priests, &c.

_Scene, Phrygia._

MIDAS.

ACT I.

_Scene; a rural spot; on one side, a bare Hill, on the other an Ilex wood; a stream with reeds on its banks._

_The Curtain rises and discovers Tmolus seated on a throne of turf, on his right hand Apollo with his lyre, attended by the Muses; on the left, Pan, fauns, &c._

_Enter Midas and Zopyrion._

_Midas._ The Hours have oped the palace of the dawn And through the Eastern gates of Heaven, Aurora Comes charioted on light, her wind-swift steeds, Winged with roseate clouds, strain up the steep.

She loosely holds the reins, her golden hair, Its strings outspread by the sweet morning breeze[,]

Blinds the pale stars. Our rural tasks begin; The young lambs bleat pent up within the fold, The herds low in their stalls, & the blithe c.o.c.k Halloos most loudly to his distant mates.

But who are these we see? these are not men, Divine of form & sple[n]didly arrayed, They sit in solemn conclave. Is that Pan, [36]

Our Country G.o.d, surrounded by his Fauns?

And who is he whose crown of gold & harp Are attributes of high Apollo?

_Zopyr._ Best Your majesty retire; we may offend.

_Midas._ Aye, and at the base thought the coward blood Deserts your trembling lips; but follow me.

Oh G.o.ds! for such your bearing is, & sure No mortal ever yet possessed the gold That glitters on your silken robes; may one, Who, though a king, can boast of no descent More n.o.ble than Deucalion's stone-formed men[,]

May I demand the cause for which you deign To print upon this worthless Phrygian earth The vestige of your gold-inwoven sandals, Or why that old white-headed man sits there Upon that gra.s.sy throne, & looks as he Were stationed umpire to some weighty cause[?]

_Tmolus._ G.o.d Pan with his blithe pipe which the Fauns love Has challenged Phoebus of the golden lyre[,]

Saying his Syrinx can give sweeter notes Than the stringed instrument Apollo boasts.

I judge between the parties. Welcome, King, I am old Tmolus, G.o.d of that bare Hill, [37]

You may remain and hear th' Immortals sing.

_Mid._ [_aside_] My judgement is made up before I hear; Pan is my guardian G.o.d, old-horned Pan, The Phrygian's G.o.d who watches o'er our flocks; No harmony can equal his blithe pipe.

[Sidenote: (Sh.e.l.ley.)]

_Apollo (sings)._ The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, Curtained with star-enwoven tapestries, From the broad moonlight of the sky, Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes Waken me when their Mother, the grey Dawn, Tells them that dreams & that the moon is gone.

Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome, I walk over the mountains & the waves, Leaving my robe upon the Ocean foam,-- My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves Are filled with my bright presence & the air Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare.

The sunbeams are my shafts with which I kill Deceit, that loves the night & fears the day; All men who do, or even imagine ill Fly me, and from the glory of my ray Good minds and open actions take new might Until diminished by the reign of night.

I feed the clouds, the rainbows & the flowers [38]

With their etherial colours; the moon's globe And the pure stars in their eternal bowers Are cinctured with my power as with a robe; Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may s.h.i.+ne Are portions of one power, which is mine.

I stand at noon upon the peak of heaven, Then with unwilling steps I wander down Into the clouds of the Atlantic even-- For grief that I depart they weep & frown [;]

What look is more delightful than the smile With which I soothe them from the western isle [?]

I am the eye with which the Universe Beholds itself & knows it is divine.

All harmony of instrument or verse, All prophecy, all medecine is mine; All light of art or nature;--to my song Victory and praise, in its own right, belong.