Not with the failing breath and foot of age My faithful follower comes. Welcome, old friend!

_Arcas_

Faithful, not welcome, when my tale is told.

O that my over-speed and bursting grief Had on the journey choked my labouring breath, And lock'd my speech for ever in my breast!

Yet then another man would bring this news, Wherewith from end to end Arcadia rings.-- O honour'd Queen, thy son, my charge, is gone.

_The Chorus_

Too suddenly thou tellest such a loss.

Look up, O Queen! look up, O mistress dear!

Look up, and see thy friends who comfort thee.

_Merope_

Ah ... Ah ... Ah me!

_The Chorus_

And I, too, say, ah me!

_Arcas_

Forgive, forgive the bringer of such news!

_Merope_

Better from thine than from an enemy's tongue.

_The Chorus_

And yet no enemy did this, O Queen: But the wit-baffling will and hand of Heaven.

_Arcas_

No enemy! and what hast thou, then, heard?

Swift as I came, hath falsehood been before?

_The Chorus_

A youth arrived but now--the son, he said, Of an Arcadian lord--our prince's friend-- Jaded with travel, clad in hunter's garb.

He brought report that his own eyes had seen The prince, in chase after a swimming stag, Swept down a chasm rifted in the cliff Which hangs o'er the Stymphalian Lake, and drown'd.

_Arcas_

Ah me! with what a foot doth treason post, While loyalty, with all her speed, is slow!

Another tale, I trow, thy messenger For the King's private ear reserves, like this In one thing only, that the prince is dead.

_The Chorus_

And how then runs this true and private tale?

_Arcas_

As much to the King's wish, more to his shame.

This young Arcadian n.o.ble, guard and mate To aepytus, the king seduced with gold, And had him at the prince's side in leash, Ready to slip on his unconscious prey.

He on a hunting party two days since, Among the forests on Cyllene's side, Perform'd good service for his b.l.o.o.d.y wage; Our prince, and the good Laias, whom his ward Had in a father's place, he basely murder'd.

'Tis so, 'tis so, alas, for see the proof: Uncle and nephew disappear; their death Is charged against this stripling; agents, fee'd To ply 'twixt the Messenian king and him, Come forth, denounce the traffic and the traitor.

Seized, he escapes--and next I find him here.

Take this for true, the other tale for feign'd.

_The Chorus_

The youth, thou say'st, we saw and heard but now--

_Arcas_

He comes to tell his prompter he hath sped.

_The Chorus_

Still he repeats the drowning story here.

_Arcas_

To thee--that needs no OEdipus to explain.

_The Chorus_

Interpret, then; for we, it seems, are dull.

_Arcas_

Your King desired the profit of his death, Not the black credit of his murderer.

That stern word "_murder_" had too dread a sound For the Messenian hearts, who loved the prince.

_The Chorus_

Suspicion grave I see, but no firm proof.

_Merope_

Peace! peace! all's clear.--The wicked watch and work While the good sleep; the workers have the day.

Yes! yes! now I conceive the liberal grace Of this far-scheming tyrant, and his boon Of heirship to his kingdom for my son: He had his murderer ready, and the sword Lifted, and that unwish'd-for heirship void-- A tale, meanwhile, forged for his subjects' ears-- And me, henceforth sole rival with himself In their allegiance, me, in my son's death-hour, When all turn'd tow'rds me, me he would have shown To my Messenians, duped, disarm'd, despised, The willing sharer of his guilty rule, All claim to succour forfeit, to myself Hateful, by each Messenian heart abhorr'd.

His offers I repell'd--but what of that?

If with no rage, no fire of righteous hate, Such as ere now hath spurr'd to fearful deeds Weak women with a thousandth part my wrongs, But calm, but unresentful, I endured His offers, coldly heard them, cold repell'd?

How must men think me abject, void of heart, While all this time I bear to linger on In this blood-deluged palace, in whose halls Either a vengeful Fury I should stalk, Or else not live at all!--but here I haunt, A pale, unmeaning ghost, powerless to fright Or harm, and nurse my longing for my son, A helpless one, I know it--but the G.o.ds Have temper'd me e'en thus, and, in some souls, Misery, which rouses others, breaks the spring.

And even now, my son, ah me! my son, Fain would I fade away, as I have lived, Without a cry, a struggle, or a blow, All vengeance unattempted, and descend To the invisible plains, to roam with thee, Fit denizen, the lampless under-world---- But with what eyes should I encounter there My husband, wandering with his stern compeers, Amphiaraos, or Mycenae's king, Who led the Greeks to Ilium, Agamemnon, Betray'd like him, but, not like him, avenged?