_Merope_

The rest to me is little; yet, since that Must from some mouth be heard, relate it thou.

_Messenger_

Not little, if thou saw'st what love, what zeal, At thy dead husband's name the people show.

For when this morning in the public square I took my stand, and saw the unarm'd crowds Of citizens in holiday attire, Women and children intermix'd; and then, Group'd around Zeus's altar, all in arms, Serried and grim, the ring of Dorian lords-- I trembled for our prince and his attempt.

Silence and expectation held us all; Till presently the King came forth, in robe Of sacrifice, his guards clearing the way Before him--at his side, the prince, thy son, Unarm'd and travel-soil'd, just as he was.

With him conferring the King slowly reach'd The altar in the middle of the square, Where, by the sacrificing minister, The flower-dress'd victim stood--a milk-white bull, Swaying from side to side his ma.s.sy head With short impatient lowings. There he stopp'd, And seem'd to muse awhile, then raised his eyes To heaven, and laid his hand upon the steer, And cried: _O Zeus, let what blood-guiltiness_ _Yet stains our land be by this blood wash'd out,_ _And grant henceforth to the Messenians peace!_ That moment, while with upturn'd eyes he pray'd, The prince s.n.a.t.c.h'd from the sacrificer's hand The axe, and on the forehead of the King, Where twines the chaplet, dealt a mighty blow Which fell'd him to the earth, and o'er him stood, And shouted: _Since by thee defilement came,_ _What blood so meet as thine to wash it out?_ _What hand to strike thee meet as mine, the hand_ _Of aepytus, thy murder'd master's son?_-- But, gazing at him from the ground, the King....

_Is it, then, thou?_ he murmur'd; and with that, He bow'd his head, and deeply groan'd, and died.

Till then we all seem'd stone, but then a cry Broke from the Dorian lords; forward they rush'd To circle the prince round--when suddenly Laias in arms sprang to his nephew's side, Crying: _O ye Messenians, will ye leave The son to perish as ye left the sire?_ And from that moment I saw nothing clear; For from all sides a deluge, as it seem'd Burst o'er the altar and the Dorian lords, Of holiday-clad citizens transform'd To armed warriors;--I heard vengeful cries, I heard the clash of weapons; then I saw The Dorians lying dead, thy son hail'd king.

And, truly, one who sees, what seem'd so strong, The power of this tyrant and his lords, Melt like a pa.s.sing smoke, a nightly dream, At one bold word, one enterprising blow-- Might ask, why we endured their yoke so long; But that we know how every perilous feat Of daring, easy as it seems when done, Is easy at no moment but the right.

_The Chorus_

Thou speakest well; but here, to give our eyes Authentic proof of what thou tell'st our ears, The conquerors, with the King's dead body, come.

[aePYTUS, LAIAS, _and_ ARCAS _come in with the dead body of_ POLYPHONTES, _followed by a crowd of the_ MESSENIANS.

_Laias_

Sister, from this day forth thou art no more The widow of a husband unavenged, The anxious mother of an exiled son.

Thine enemy is slain, thy son is king!

Rejoice with us! and trust me, he who wish'd Welfare to the Messenian state, and calm, Could find no way to found them sure as this.

_aepytus_

Mother, all these approve me; but if thou Approve not too, I have but half my joy.

_Merope_

O aepytus, my son, behold, behold This iron man, my enemy and thine, This politic sovereign, lying at our feet, With blood-bespatter'd robes, and chaplet shorn!

Inscrutable as ever, see, it keeps Its sombre aspect of majestic care, Of solitary thought, unshared resolve, Even in death, that countenance austere!

So look'd he, when to Stenyclaros first, A new-made wife, I from Arcadia came, And found him at my husband's side, his friend, His kinsman, his right hand in peace and war, Unsparing in his service of his toil, His blood--to me, for I confess it, kind; So look'd he in that dreadful day of death; So, when he pleaded for our league but now.

What meantest thou, O Polyphontes, what Desired'st thou, what truly spurr'd thee on?

Was policy of state, the ascendency Of the Heracleidan conquerors, as thou said'st, Indeed thy lifelong pa.s.sion and sole aim?

Or did'st thou but, as cautious schemers use, Cloak thine ambition with these specious words?

I know not: just, in either case, the stroke Which laid thee low, for blood requires blood; But yet, not knowing this, I triumph not Over thy corpse--triumph not, neither mourn,-- For I find worth in thee, and badness too.

What mood of spirit, therefore, shall we call The true one of a man--what way of life His fix'd condition and perpetual walk?

None, since a twofold colour reigns in all.

But thou, my son, study to make prevail One colour in thy life, the hue of truth; That justice, that sage order, not alone Natural vengeance, may maintain thine act, And make it stand indeed the will of Heaven.

Thy father's pa.s.sion was this people's ease, This people's anarchy, thy foe's pretence.

As the chiefs rule, my son, the people are.

Unhappy people, where the chiefs themselves Are, like the mob, vicious and ignorant!

So rule, that even thine enemies may fail To find in thee a fault whereon to found, Of tyrannous harshness, or remissness weak-- So rule, that as thy father thou be loved!

So rule, that as his foe thou be obey'd!

Take these, my son, over thine enemy's corpse Thy mother's prayers! and this prayer last of all: That even in thy victory thou show, Mortal, the moderation of a man.

_aepytus_

O mother, my best diligence shall be In all by thy experience to be ruled Where my own youth falls short! But, Laias, now, First work after such victory, let us go To render to my true Messenians thanks, To the G.o.ds grateful sacrifice; and then, a.s.sume the ensigns of my father's power.

_The Chorus_

Son of Cresphontes, past what perils Com'st thou, guided safe, to thy home!

What things daring! what enduring!

And all this by the will of the G.o.ds.

EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA

A DRAMATIC POEM

PERSONS

EMPEDOCLES.

PAUSANIAS, _a Physician_.

CALLICLES, _a young Harp-player_.

_The Scene of the Poem is on Mount Etna; at first in the forest region, afterwards on the summit of the mountain_.

ACT I. SCENE I.

_Morning. A Pa.s.s in the forest region of Etna._

CALLICLES

(_Alone, resting on a rock by the path._)

The mules, I think, will not be here this hour; They feel the cool wet turf under their feet By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes In which they have toil'd all night from Catana, And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan, How gracious is the mountain at this hour!

A thousand times have I been here alone, Or with the revellers from the mountain-towns, But never on so fair a morn;--the sun Is shining on the brilliant mountain-crests, And on the highest pines; but farther down, Here in the valley, is in shade; the sward Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs; One sees one's footprints crush'd in the wet gra.s.s, One's breath curls in the air; and on these pines That climb from the stream's edge, the long grey tufts, Which the goats love, are jewell'd thick with dew.

Here will I stay till the slow litter comes.

I have my harp too--that is well.--Apollo!

What mortal could be sick or sorry here?

I know not in what mind Empedocles, Whose mules I follow'd, may be coming up, But if, as most men say, he is half mad With exile, and with brooding on his wrongs, Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him, Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure.

The mules must be below, far down. I hear Their tinkling bells, mix'd with the song of birds, Rise faintly to me--now it stops!--Who's here?

Pausanias! and on foot? alone?

_Pausanias_

And thou, then?

I left thee supping with Peisianax, With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crown'd, Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee, And praised and spoil'd by master and by guests Almost as much as the new dancing-girl.