Part 1 (1/2)
Gycia.
by Lewis Morris.
PREFACE.
The following Drama was written with a view to Stage representation, and it is therefore rather as an Acting Play than as a Dramatic Poem that it should be judged by its readers.
It follows as closely as possible the striking story recorded by Constantine Porphyrogenitus in his work, ”De Administratione Imperii.” Nor has the writer had occasion (except in the death of the heroine) to modify the powerful historical situations and incidents to which it is right to say his attention was first directed by his friend the well-known scholar and critic, Mr. W. Watkiss Lloyd.
The date of the story is circa 970 A.D.
ACT I.
SCENE I.--_Bosphorus. The King's palace. The_ KING, _in anxious thought. To him_ LYSIMACHUS, _afterwards_ ASANDER.
_Enter_ LYSIMACHUS.
_Lys._ What ails the King, that thus his brow is bent By such a load of care?
_King._ Lysimachus, The load of empire lies a weary weight, On age-worn brains; tho' skies and seas may smile, And steadfast favouring Fortune sit serene, Guiding the helm of State, but well thou knowest-- None better in my realm--through what wild waves, Quicksands, and rock-fanged straits, our Bosphorus, Laden with all our love, reels madly on To s.h.i.+pwreck and to ruin. From the North, Storm-cloud on storm-cloud issuing vollies forth Fresh thunderbolts of war. The Emperor Dallies within his closed seraglios, Letting his eunuchs waste the might of Rome, While the fierce Scythian, in a surge of blood, Bursts on our bare-swept plains. Upon the South, Our rival Cherson, with a jealous eye, Waits on our adverse chances, taking joy Of her republican guile in every check And buffet envious Fortune deals our State, Which doth obey a King. Of all our foes I hate and dread these chiefly, for I fear Lest, when my crown falls from my palsied brow, My son Asander's youth may prove too weak To curb these crafty burghers. Speak, I pray thee, Most trusty servant. Can thy loyal brain Devise some scheme whereby our dear-loved realm May break the mesh of Fate?
_Lys._ Indeed, my liege, Too well I know our need, and long have tossed Through sleepless nights, if haply I might find Some remedy, but that which I have found Shows worse than the disease.
_King._ Nay, speak; what is it?
I know how wise thy thought.
_Lys._ My liege, it chances The Archon Lamachus is old and spent.
He has an only child, a daughter, Gycia, The treasure of his age, who now blooms forth In early maidenhood. The girl is fair As is a morn in springtide; and her father A king in all but name, such reverence His citizens accord him. Were it not well The Prince Asander should contract himself In marriage to this girl, and take the strength Of Cherson for her dowry, and the power Of their strong fleets and practised arms to thrust The invading savage backward?
_King._ Nay, my lord; No more of this, I pray. There is no tribe Of all the blighting locust swarms of war, Which sweep our wasted fields, I would not rather Take to my heart and cherish than these vipers.
Dost thou forget, my lord, how of old time, In the brave days of good Sauromatus, These venomous townsmen, shamelessly allied With the barbarian hosts, brought us to ruin; Or, with the failing force of Caesar leagued, By subtle devilish enginery of war, Robbed Bosphorus of its own, when, but for them, Byzantium were our prey, and all its might, And we Rome's masters? Nay; I swear to thee, I would rather see the Prince dead at my feet, I would rather see our loved State sunk and lost, Than know my boy, the sole heir of my crown, The sole hope of my people, taken and noosed By this proud upstart girl. Speak not of it; Ruin were better far.
_Lys._ My liege, I bear No greater favour to these insolent townsmen Than thou thyself. I, who have fought with them From my first youth--who saw my father slain, Not in fair fight, pierced through by honest steel, But unawares, struck by some villanous engine, Which, armed with inextinguishable fire, Flew hissing from the walls and slew at once Coward and brave alike; I, whose young brother, The stripling who to me was as a son, Taken in some sally, languished till he died, Chained in their dungeons' depths;--must I not hate them With hate as deep as h.e.l.l? And yet I know There is no other way than that Asander Should wed this woman. This alone can staunch The bleeding wounds of the State.
_King._ Lysimachus, I am old; my will is weak, my body bent, Not more than is my mind; I cannot reason.
But hark! I hear the ring of coursers' feet Bespeak Asander coming. What an air Of youth and morning breathes round him, and brings A light of hope again!
_Enter ASANDER from the chase._
_Asan._ My dearest sire and King, art thou thus grave Of choice, or does our good Lysimachus, Bringing unwonted loads of carking care, O'ercloud thy brow? I prithee, father, fret not; There is no cloud of care I yet have known-- And I am now a man, and have my cares-- Which the fresh breath of morn, the hungry chase, The echoing horn, the jocund choir of tongues, Or joy of some bold enterprise of war, When the swift squadrons smite the echoing plains, Scattering the stubborn spearmen, may not break, As does the sun the mists. Nay, look not grave; My youth is strong enough for any burden Fortune can set on me.
_King._ Couldst thou, Asander, Consent to serve the State, if it should bid thee Wed without love?
_Asan._ What, father, is that all?
I do not know this tertian fever, love, Of which too oft my comrades groan and sigh, This green-sick blight, which turns a l.u.s.ty soldier To a hysterical girl. Wed without love?
One day I needs must wed, though love I shall not.
And if it were indeed to serve the State, Nay, if 'twould smooth one wrinkle from thy brow, Why, it might be to-morrow. Tell me, father, Who is this paragon that thou designest Shall call me husband? Some barbarian damsel Reared on mare's milk, and nurtured in a tent In Scythia? Well, 'twere better than to mate With some great lady from the Imperial Court, Part tigress and all wanton. I care not; Or if the scheme miscarry, I care not.