Mine eyes can see not, when I look to find Their places. I am broken by the wings Of evil... . Yea, I know to what bad things I go, but louder than all thought doth cry Anger, which maketh man's worst misery.

[_She follows the_ CHILDREN _into the house_.

CHORUS.

My thoughts have roamed a cloudy land, And heard a fierier music fall Than woman's heart should stir withal: And yet some Muse majestical, Unknown, hath hold of woman's hand, Seeking for Wisdom--not in all: A feeble seed, a scattered band, Thou yet shalt find in lonely places, Not dead amongst us, nor our faces Turned alway from the Muses' call.

And thus my thought would speak: that she Who ne'er hath borne a child nor known Is nearer to felicity: Unlit she goeth and alone, With little understanding what A child's touch means of joy or woe, And many toils she beareth not.

But they within whose garden fair That gentle plant hath blown, they go Deep-written all their days with care-- To rear the children, to make fast Their hold, to win them wealth; and then Much darkness, if the seed at last Bear fruit in good or evil men!

And one thing at the end of all Abideth, that which all men dread: The wealth is won, the limbs are bred To manhood, and the heart withal Honest: and, lo, where Fortune smiled, Some change, and what hath fallen? Hark!

'Tis death slow winging to the dark, And in his arms what was thy child.

What therefore doth it bring of gain To man, whose cup stood full before, That G.o.d should send this one thing more Of hunger and of dread, a door Set wide to every wind of pain?

[MEDEA _comes out alone from the house_.

MEDEA.

Friends, this long hour I wait on Fortune's eyes, And strain my senses in a hot surmise What pa.s.seth on that hill.--Ha! even now There comes ... 'tis one of Jason's men, I trow.

His wild-perturbed breath doth warrant me The tidings of some strange calamity.

[_Enter_ MESSENGER.

MESSENGER.

O dire and ghastly deed! Get thee away, Medea! Fly! Nor let behind thee stay One chariot's wing, one keel that sweeps the seas... .

MEDEA.

And what hath chanced, to cause such flights as these?

MESSENGER.

The maiden princess lieth--and her sire, The king--both murdered by thy poison-fire.

MEDEA.

Most happy tiding! Which thy name prefers Henceforth among my friends and well-wishers.

MESSENGER.

What say'st thou? Woman, is thy mind within Clear, and not raving? Thou art found in sin Most b.l.o.o.d.y wrought against the king's high head, And laughest at the tale, and hast no dread?

MEDEA.

I have words also that could answer well Thy word. But take thine ease, good friend, and tell, How died they? Hath it been a very foul Death, prithee? That were comfort to my soul.

MESSENGER.

When thy two children, hand in hand entwined, Came with their father, and pa.s.sed on to find The new-made bridal rooms, Oh, we were glad, We thralls, who ever loved thee well, and had Grief in thy grief. And straight there pa.s.sed a word From ear to ear, that thou and thy false lord Had poured peace offering upon wrath foregone.

A right glad welcome gave we them, and one Kissed the small hand, and one the shining hair: Myself, for very joy, I followed where The women's rooms are. There our mistress ... she Whom now we name so ... thinking not to see Thy little pair, with glad and eager brow Sate waiting Jason. Then she saw, and slow Shrouded her eyes, and backward turned again, Sick that thy children should come near her. Then Thy husband quick went forward, to entreat The young maid's fitful wrath. "Thou will not meet Love's coming with unkindness? Nay, refrain Thy suddenness, and turn thy face again, Holding as friends all that to me are dear, Thine husband. And accept these robes they bear As gifts: and beg thy father to unmake His doom of exile on them--for my sake."

When once she saw the raiment, she could still Her joy no more, but gave him all his will.

And almost ere the father and the two Children were gone from out the room, she drew The flowered garments forth, and sate her down To her arraying: bound the golden crown Through her long curls, and in a mirror fair Arranged their separate cl.u.s.ters, smiling there At the dead self that faced her. Then aside She pushed her seat, and paced those chambers wide Alone, her white foot poising delicately-- So pa.s.sing joyful in those gifts was she!-- And many a time would pause, straight-limbed, and wheel Her head to watch the long fold to her heel Sweeping. And then came something strange. Her cheek Seemed pale, and back with crooked steps and weak Groping of arms she walked, and scarcely found Her old seat, that she fell not to the ground.

Among the handmaids was a woman old And grey, who deemed, I think, that Pan had hold Upon her, or some spirit, and raised a keen Awakening shout; till through her lips was seen A white foam crawling, and her eyeb.a.l.l.s back Twisted, and all her face dead pale for lack Of life: and while that old dame called, the cry Turned strangely to its opposite, to die Sobbing. Oh, swiftly then one woman flew To seek her father's rooms, one for the new Bridegroom, to tell the tale. And all the place Was loud with hurrying feet.

So long a s.p.a.ce As a swift walker on a measured way Would pace a furlong's course in, there she lay Speechless, with veiled lids. Then wide her eyes She oped, and wildly, as she strove to rise, Shrieked: for two diverse waves upon her rolled Of stabbing death. The carcanet of gold That gripped her brow was molten in a dire And wondrous river of devouring fire.

And those fine robes, the gift thy children gave-- G.o.d's mercy!--everywhere did lap and lave The delicate flesh; till up she sprang, and fled, A fiery pillar, shaking locks and head This way and that, seeking to cast the crown Somewhere away. But like a thing nailed down The burning gold held fast the anadem, And through her locks, the more she scattered them, Came fire the fiercer, till to earth she fell A thing--save to her sire--scarce nameable, And strove no more. That cheek of royal mien, Where was it--or the place where eyes had been?

Only from crown and temples came faint blood Shot through with fire. The very flesh, it stood Out from the bones, as from a wounded pine The gum starts, where those gnawing poisons fine Bit in the dark--a ghastly sight! And touch The dead we durst not. We had seen too much.

But that poor father, knowing not, had sped, Swift to his daughter's room, and there the dead Lay at his feet. He knelt, and groaning low, Folded her in his arms, and kissed her: "Oh, Unhappy child, what thing unnatural hath So hideously undone thee? Or what wrath Of G.o.ds, to make this old grey sepulchre Childless of thee? Would G.o.d but lay me there To die with thee, my daughter!" So he cried.

But after, when he stayed from tears, and tried To uplift his old bent frame, lo, in the folds Of those fine robes it held, as ivy holds Strangling among your laurel boughs. Oh, then A ghastly struggle came! Again, again, Up on his knee he writhed; but that dead breast Clung still to his: till, wild, like one possessed, He dragged himself half free; and, lo, the live Flesh parted; and he laid him down to strive No more with death, but perish; for the deep Had risen above his soul. And there they sleep, At last, the old proud father and the bride, Even as his tears had craved it, side by side.

For thee--Oh, no word more! Thyself will know How best to baffle vengeance... . Long ago I looked upon man's days, and found a grey Shadow. And this thing more I surely say, That those of all men who are counted wise, Strong wits, devisers of great policies, Do pay the bitterest toll. Since life began, Hath there in G.o.d's eye stood one happy man?

Fair days roll on, and bear more gifts or less Of fortune, but to no man happiness.

[_Exit_ MESSENGER.

CHORUS.

_Some Women._

Wrath upon wrath, meseems, this day shall fall From G.o.d on Jason! He hath earned it all.

_Other Women._

O miserable maiden, all my heart Is torn for thee, so sudden to depart From thy king's chambers and the light above To darkness, all for sake of Jason's love!

MEDEA.

Women, my mind is clear. I go to slay My children with all speed, and then, away From hence; not wait yet longer till they stand Beneath another and an angrier hand To die. Yea, howsoe'er I shield them, die They must. And, seeing that they must, 'tis I Shall slay them, I their mother, touched of none Beside. Oh, up and get thine armour on, My heart! Why longer tarry we to win Our crown of dire inevitable sin?

Take up thy sword, O poor right hand of mine, Thy sword: then onward to the thin-drawn line Where life turns agony. Let there be naught Of softness now: and keep thee from that thought, 'Born of thy flesh,' 'thine own beloved.' Now, For one brief day, forget thy children: thou Shalt weep hereafter. Though thou slay them, yet Sweet were they... . I am sore unfortunate.

[_She goes into the house._

CHORUS.

_Some Women._

O Earth, our mother; and thou All-seer, arrowy crown Of Sunlight, manward now Look down, Oh, look down!

Look upon one accurst, Ere yet in blood she twine Red hands--blood that is thine!

O Sun, save her first!

She is thy daughter still, Of thine own golden line; Save her! Or shall man spill The life divine?

Give peace, O Fire that diest not! Send thy spell To stay her yet, to lift her afar, afar-- A torture-changed spirit, a voice of h.e.l.l Wrought of old wrongs and war!

_Others._

Alas for the mother's pain Wasted! Alas the dear Life that was born in vain!

Woman, what mak'st thou here, Thou from beyond the Gate Where dim Symplegades Clash in the dark blue seas, The sh.o.r.es where death doth wait?

Why hast thou taken on thee, To make us desolate, This anger of misery And guilt of hate?

For fierce are the smitings back of blood once shed Where love hath been: G.o.d's wrath upon them that kill, And an anguished earth, and the wonder of the dead Haunting as music still... .