In her hiding-place of the thickets Of the lentisk and ilex In her rough form, fearing The hunter on the outlook, Poor changeling! trembled.

Or the children, plucking In the thorn-choked gullies Wild gooseberries, scared her, The shy mountain-bear!

Or the shepherds, on slopes With pale-spiked lavender And crisp thyme tufted, Came upon her, stealing At day-break through the dew.

Once, 'mid those gorges, _str_. 3.

Spray-drizzled, lonely, Unclimb'd of man-- O'er whose cliffs the townsmen Of crag-perch'd Nonacris Behold in summer The slender torrent Of Styx come dancing, A wind-blown thread-- By the precipices of Khelmos, The fleet, desperate hunter, The youthful Arcas, born of Zeus, His fleeing mother, Transform'd Callisto, Unwitting follow'd-- And raised his spear.

Turning, with piteous, _ant_. 3.

Distressful longing, Sad, eager eyes, Mutely she regarded Her well-known enemy.

Low moans half utter'd What speech refused her; Tears coursed, tears human, Down those disfigured, Once human cheeks.

With unutterable foreboding Her son, heart-stricken, eyed her.

The G.o.ds had pity, made them Stars.

Stars now they sparkle In the northern Heaven-- The guard Arcturus, The guard-watch'd Bear.

So, o'er thee and thy child, _epode._ Some G.o.d, Merope, now, In dangerous hour, stretches his hand.

So, like a star, dawns thy son, Radiant with fortune and joy.

[POLYPHONTES _comes in_.

_Polyphontes_

O Merope, the trouble on thy face Tells me enough thou know'st the news which all Messenia speaks! the prince, thy son, is dead.

Not from my lips should consolation fall; To offer that, I come not; but to urge, Even after news of this sad death, our league.

Yes, once again I come; I will not take This morning's angry answer for thy last.

To the Messenian kingdom thou and I Are the sole claimants left; what cause of strife Lay in thy son is buried in his grave.

Most honourably I meant, I call the G.o.ds To witness, offering him return and power; Yet, had he lived, suspicion, jealousy, Inevitably had surged up, perhaps, 'Twixt thee and me--suspicion, that I nursed Some ill design against him; jealousy, That he enjoy'd but part, being heir to all.

And he himself, with the impetuous heart Of youth, 'tis like, had never quite forgone The thought of vengeance on me, never quite Unclosed his itching fingers from his sword.

But thou, O Merope, though deeply wrong'd, Though injured past forgiveness, as men deem, Yet hast been long at school with thoughtful time, And from that teacher may'st have learn'd, like me, That all may be endured, and all forgiv'n-- Have learn'd, that we must sacrifice the bent Of personal feeling to the public weal-- Have learn'd, that there are guilty deeds, which leave The hand that does them guiltless; in a word, That kings live for their peoples, not themselves.

This having known, let us a union found (For the last time I ask, ask earnestly) Based on pure public welfare; let us be Not Merope and Polyphontes, foes Blood-sever'd, but Messenia's King and Queen!

Let us forget ourselves for those we rule!

Speak! I go hence to offer sacrifice To the Preserver Zeus; let me return Thanks to him for our amity as well.

_Merope_

Oh had'st thou, Polyphontes, still but kept The silence thou hast kept for twenty years!

_Polyphontes_

Henceforth, if what I urge displease, I may.

But fair proposal merits fair reply.

_Merope_

And thou shalt have it! Yes, because thou _hast_ For twenty years forborne to interrupt The solitude of her whom thou hast wrong'd-- That scanty grace shall earn thee this reply.-- First, for our union. Trust me, 'twixt us two The brazen footed Fury ever stalks, Waving her hundred hands, a torch in each, Aglow with angry fire, to keep us twain.

Now, for thyself. Thou com'st with well-cloak'd joy, To announce the ruin of my husband's house, To sound thy triumph in his widow's ears, To bid her share thine unendanger'd throne.

To this thou would'st have answer. Take it: Fly!...

Cut short thy triumph, seeming at its height; Fling off thy crown, supposed at last secure; Forsake this ample, proud Messenian realm; To some small, humble, and unnoted strand, Some rock more lonely than that Lemnian isle Where Philoctetes pined, take ship and flee!

Some solitude more inaccessible Than the ice-bastion'd Caucasian Mount Chosen a prison for Prometheus, climb!

There in unvoiced oblivion sink thy name, And bid the sun, thine only visitant, Divulge not to the far-off world of men What once-famed wretch he there did espy hid.

There nurse a late remorse, and thank the G.o.ds, And thank thy bitterest foe, that, having lost All things but life, thou lose not life as well.

_Polyphontes_

What mad bewilderment of grief is this?

_Merope_

_Thou_ art bewilder'd; the sane head is mine.

_Polyphontes_

I pity thee, and wish thee calmer mind.

_Merope_

Pity thyself; none needs compa.s.sion more.

_Polyphontes_

Yet, oh! could'st thou but act as reason bids!

_Merope_

And in my turn I wish the same for thee.

_Polyphontes_

All I could do to soothe thee has been tried.

_Merope_

For that, in this my warning, thou art paid.

_Polyphontes_

Know'st thou then aught, that thus thou sound'st the alarm?

_Merope_

Thy crime! that were enough to make one fear.

_Polyphontes_

My deed is of old date, and long atoned.

_Merope_

Atoned this very day, perhaps, it is.

_Polyphontes_