Tyrants think him they murder not they spare.

_Polyphontes_

Not much a tyrant thy free speech displays me.

_Merope_

Thy shame secures my freedom, not thy will.

_Polyphontes_

Shame rarely checks the genuine tyrant's will.

_Merope_

One merit, then, thou hast; exult in that.

_Polyphontes_

Thou standest out, I see, repellest peace.

_Merope_

Thy sword repell'd it long ago, not I.

_Polyphontes_

Doubtless thou reckonest on the help of friends.

_Merope_

Not help of men, although, perhaps, of G.o.ds.

_Polyphontes_

What G.o.ds? the G.o.ds of concord, civil weal?

_Merope_

No! the avenging G.o.ds, who punish crime.

_Polyphontes_

Beware! from thee upbraidings I receive With pity, nay, with reverence; yet, beware!

I know, I know how hard it is to think That right, that conscience pointed to a deed, Where interest seems to have enjoin'd it too.

Most men are led by interest; and the few Who are not, expiate the general sin, Involved in one suspicion with the base.

Dizzy the path and perilous the way Which in a deed like mine a just man treads, But it is sometimes trodden, oh! believe it.

Yet how _canst_ thou believe it? therefore thou Hast all impunity. Yet, lest thy friends, Embolden'd by my lenience, think it fear, And count on like impunity, and rise, And have to thank thee for a fall, beware!

To rule this kingdom I intend; with sway Clement, if may be, but to rule it--there Expect no wavering, no retreat, no change.

And now I leave thee to these rites, esteem'd Pious, but impious, surely, if their scope Be to foment old memories of wrath.

Pray, as thou pour'st libations on this tomb, To be deliver'd from thy foster'd hate, Unjust suspicion, and erroneous fear.

[POLYPHONTES _goes into the palace._ THE CHORUS _and_ MEROPE _approach the tomb with their offerings._

_The Chorus_

Draw, draw near to the tomb! _strophe._ Lay honey-cakes on its marge, Pour the libation of milk, Deck it with garlands of flowers.

Tears fall thickly the while!

Behold, O King from the dark House of the grave, what we do!

O Arcadian hills, _antistrophe._ Send us the Youth whom ye hide, Girt with his coat for the chase, With the low broad hat of the tann'd Hunter o'ershadowing his brow; Grasping firm, in his hand Advanced, two javelins, not now Dangerous alone to the deer!

_Merope_

What shall I bear, O lost _str._ 1 Husband and King, to thy grave?-- Pure libations, and fresh Flowers? But thou, in the gloom, Discontented, perhaps, Demandest vengeance, not grief?

Sternly requirest a man, Light to spring up to thy house?

_The Chorus_

Vengeance, O Queen, is his due, _str._ 2 His most just prayer; yet his house-- If that might soothe him below-- Prosperous, mighty, came back In the third generation, the way Order'd by Fate, to their home; And now, glorious, secure, Fill the wealth-giving thrones Of their heritage, Pelops' isle.

_Merope_

Suffering sent them, Death _ant._ 1.

March'd with them, Hatred and Strife Met them entering their halls.

For from the day when the first Heracleidae received That Delphic hest to return, What hath involved them, but blind Error on error, and blood?

_The Chorus_

Truly I hear of a Maid _ant._ 2.

Of that stock born, who bestow'd Her blood that so she might make Victory sure to her race, When the fight hung in doubt! but she now, Honour'd and sung of by all, Far on Marathon plain, Gives her name to the spring Macaria, blessed Child.

_Merope_

She led the way of death. _str._ 3.

And the plain of Tegea, And the grave of Orestes-- Where, in secret seclusion Of his unreveal'd tomb, Sleeps Agamemnon's unhappy, Matricidal, world-famed, Seven-cubit-statured son-- Sent forth Echemus, the victor, the king, By whose hand, at the Isthmus, At the fate-denied straits, Fell the eldest of the sons of Heracles, Hyllus, the chief of his house.

Brother follow'd sister The all-wept way.

_The Chorus_

Yes; but his seed still, wiser-counsell'd, Sail'd by the fate-meant Gulf to their conquest-- Slew their enemies' king, Tisamenus.

Wherefore accept that happier omen!

Yet shall restorer appear to the race.

_Merope_

Three brothers won the field, _ant._ 3.

And to two did Destiny Give the thrones that they conquer'd.