Kitabı oku: «The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06», sayfa 21

KING. But when?

MEDEA. Right soon, ay, all too soon!

KING. Send it to where Creusa waits.

 
MEDEA. To her?
             This Fleece to thy fair daughter? Ay, I will!
 

KING. Holdeth this casket aught besides the Fleece?

MEDEA. Yea, many things!

KING. Thine own?

 
MEDEA. Mine own.
             From these A gift I'd send her.
 
 
KING. Nay, I would demand
             Naught else of thee. Keep that which is thine own.
 
 
MEDEA. Surely thou wilt permit me one small gift!
             Thy daughter was so mild to me, so good,
             And she will be a mother to my babes.
             I fain would win her love! Thou dost desire
             Naught but the Fleece; perchance some trinkets rare
             Would please her eyes.
 
 
KING. Do even as thou wilt;
             Only, bethink thee of thy needs. Thou knowest
             Already how she loves thee. But an hour
             Agone she begged to send thy babes to thee
             That thou might'st see them once again, and take
             A last farewell before thou settest forth
             Upon thy weary way. I said her nay,
             For I had seen thy fury. Now thou art
             Quiet again, and so shalt have that grace.
 

MEDEA. Oh, thanks to thee, thou good and pious King!

KING. Wait here. I'll send the children to thee straight.

[He departs.]

 
MEDEA. He's gone—and to his doom! Fool! Didst thou not
             Tremble and shudder when thou took'st away
             Her last possession from the woman thou
             Hadst robbed already? Yet, I thank thee for it,
             Ay, thank thee!
             Thou hast given me back myself!
             —Unlock the casket!
 

GORA (fumbling at it).

That I cannot do.

 
MEDEA. Nay, I forgot how I did lock it up!
             The key is kept by friends I know full well.
 

[She turns toward the chest.]

 
  Up from below!
  Down from o'erhead!
  Open, thou secretest
  Tomb of the dead!
             The lid springs open, and I am no more
             A weak and powerless woman! There they lie,
             My staff, my veil of crimson! Mine! Ah, mine!
 

[She takes them out of the casket.]

 
             I take thee in my hands, thou mighty staff
             Of mine own mother, and through heart and limbs
             Unfailing strength streams forth from thee to me!
             And thee, beloved wimple, on my brow
             I bind once more!
 

[She veils herself.]

 
             How warm, how soft thou art,
             How dost thou pour new life through all my frame!
             Now come, come all my foes in close-set ranks,
             Banded against me, banded for your doom!
 

GORA. Look! Yonder flares a light!

 
MEDEA. Nay, let it flare!
             'Twill soon be quenched in blood!—
             Here are the presents I would send to her;
             And thou shalt be the bearer of my gifts!
 

GORA. I?

 
MEDEA. Thou! Go quickly to the chamber where
             Creusa sits, speak soft and honied words,
             Bring her Medea's greetings, and her gifts!
 

[She takes the gifts out of the chest one by one.]

 
             This golden box, first, that doth treasure up
             Most precious ointments. Ah, the bride will shine
             Like blazing stars, if she will ope its lid!
             But bear it heedfully, and shake it not!
 

GORA. Woe's me!

[She has grasped the ointment-box firmly in her left hand; as she steadies it with her right hand, she slightly jars the cover open, and a blinding flame leaps forth.]

 
MEDEA. I warned thee not to shake it, fool!
             Back to thy house again,
             Serpent with forked tongue!
             Wait till the knell hath rung;
             Thou shalt not wait in vain!
             Now clasp it tightly, carry it with heed!
 

GORA. I fear some dreadful thing will come of this!

MEDEA. So! Thou wouldst warn me? 'Tis a wise old crone!

GORA. And I must bear it?

 
MEDEA. Yea! Obey, thou slave!
             How darest thou presume to answer me?
             Be silent! Nay, thou shalt, thou must!
                     And next
             Here on this salver, high-embossed with gold,
             I set this jeweled chalice, rich and fair
             To see, and o'er it lay the best of all,
             The thing her heart most craves—the Golden Fleece!—
             Go hence and do thine errand. Nay, but first
             Spread o'er these gifts this mantle—fair it is
             And richly broidered, made to grace a queen—
             To cover all from sight and keep them hid.—
             Now, go, and do what I commanded thee,
             And take these gifts, that foe doth send to foe!
 

[A slave-woman enters with the children.]

 
SLAVE. My lord the king hath sent these children hither;
             And when an hour is gone I take them back.
 
 
MEDEA. Sooth, they come early to the marriage feast!
             Now to thy mistress lead my servant here;
             She takes a message from me, bears rich gifts.
 

(_She turns to _GORA.)

 
             And thou, remember what I told thee late!
             Nay, not a word! It is my will!
 

(To the slave-woman.)

 
             Away!
             And bring her to thy mistress.
 

[GORA and the slave-woman depart together.]

 
             Well begun,
             But not yet ended! Easy is my path,
             Now I see clearly what I have to do!
 

[The children, hand in hand, make as if to follow the slave-woman.]

Where go ye?

BOY. In the house!

MEDEA. What seek ye there?

BOY. Our father told us we should stay with her.

 
MEDEA. Thy mother bids you tarry. Wait, I say!—
             When I bethink me how they are my blood,
             My very flesh, the babes I bore so long
             In my own womb, and nourished at my breast,
             When I bethink me 'tis my very self
             That turns against me, in my inmost soul
             Fierce anger stabs me knife-like, bloody thoughts
             Rise fast within me!—
 

(To the children.)

 
             What hath mother done,
             To make you flee her sight and run away
             To hide in strangers' bosoms?
 
 
BOY. Thou dost seek
             To steal us both away, and shut us up
             Within thy boat again, where we were both
             So sick and dizzy. We would rather stay
             Here, would we not, my brother?
 

YOUNGER BOY. Yea!

 
MEDEA. Thou, too,
             Absyrtus? But 'tis better, better so!
             Come hither!
 

BOY. I'm afraid!

MEDEA. Come here, I say!

BOY. Nay, thou wilt hurt me!

 
MEDEA. Hurt thee? Thou hast done
             Naught to deserve it!
 
 
Boy. Once thou flung'st me down
             Upon the pavement, hard, because I looked
             So like my father. But he loves me for it!
             I'd rather stay with him, and with that good
             And gentle lady!
 
 
MEDEA. Thou shalt go to her,
             E'en to that gentle lady!—How his mien
             Is like to his, the traitor's! How his words
             Are syllabled like Jason's!—Patience! Wait!
 

YOUNGER BOY. I'm sleepy!

 
BOY. Let's lie down and go to sleep.
             It's late.
 
 
MEDEA. Ye'll have your fill of sleep ere long!
             Go, lay you down upon those steps to rest,
             While I take counsel with myself.—Ah, see
             How watchfully he guides the younger one,
             Takes off his little mantle, wraps it warm
             And close about his shoulders, now lies down
             Beside him, clasping hands!—He never was
             A naughty child!—O children, children mine!
 

BOY (starting up).

Dost want us?

 
MEDEA. Nay, lie down, and go to sleep!
             What would I give, if I could sleep as sound!
 

[The boy lies down again, and both go to sleep. MEDEA seats herself on a bench opposite the children. It grows darker and darker.]

 
MEDEA. The night is falling, stars are climbing high,
             Shedding their kindly beams on all below—
             The same that shone there yestere'en, as though
             All things today were as they were before.
             And yet 'twixt now and yesterday there yawns
             A gulf, as wide as that which sunders joy
             Made perfect and grim death! How change-less e'er
             Is Nature—and man's life and happiness
             How fitful, fleeting!
             When I tell the tale
             Of my unhappy life, it is as though
             I listened, while another told it me,
             And now would stop him: "Nay, that cannot be,
             My friend! This woman here, that harbors dark
             And murderous thoughts—how can she be the same
             That once, long years agone, on Colchis' strand
             Trod, free and happy, 'neath these very stars,
             As pure, as mild, as free from any sin
             As new-born child upon its mother's breast?"
             Where goes she, then? She seeks the peasant's hut
             To comfort the poor serf, whose little crops
             Were trampled by her father's huntsmen late,
             And brings him gold to ease his bitter heart.
             Why trips she down the forest-path? She hastes
             To meet her brother who is waiting there
             In some green copse. Together then they wend
             Homeward their way along the well-known path,
             Like twin-stars shining through the forest-gloom.
             Another draweth nigh; his brow is crowned
             With coronet of gold; he is the King,
             Their royal father, and he lays his hand
             In blessing on their heads, and names them both
             His joy, his dearest treasure.—Welcome, then,
             Most dear and friendly faces! Are ye come
             To comfort me in this my loneliness?
             Draw nearer, nearer yet! I fain would look
             Into your eyes! Dear brother, dost thou smile
             So friendly on me? Ah, how fair thou art,
             My heart's best treasure! But my father's face
             Is sober, earnest; yet he loves me still,
             Yea, loveth his good daughter!
 

[She springs up suddenly.]

 
             Good? Ha, good?
             'Tis a false lie! For know, thou old, gray man,
             She will betray thee, hath betrayed thee, thee,
             Ay, and herself! But thou didst curse her sore
             "Know thou shalt be thrust forth
             Like a beast of the wilderness," thou saidst;
             "Friendless and homeless, with no place
             To lay thy head! And he, for whom
             Thou hast betrayed me, he will be
             First to take vengeance on thee, first
             To leave thee, thrust thee forth, and first
             To slay thee!" See, thy words were true!
             For here I stand, thrust forth indeed,
             By all men like a monster shunned,
             Deserted by the wretch for whom
             I gave thee up, and with no place
             To lay me down; alas! not dead;
             Black thoughts of murder in my heart!—
             Dost thou rejoice at thy revenge?
             Com'st closer?—Children! O my babes!
 

[She rushes across to where the children lie sleeping, and shakes them violently.]

 
My children, did ye hear? Awake!
 

BOY (waking).

What wouldst thou?

MEDEA (pressing them fiercely to her).

Clasp your arms about me close!

BOY. I slept so soundly.

 
MEDEA. Slept? How could ye sleep?
             Thought ye, because your mother watched you here,
             That ye were safe? Ye ne'er were in the hands
             Of any foe more dangerous! Sleep? With me,
             Your mother, near? How could ye?—Go within,
             And there ye shall find rest, indeed!
 

[The children sleepily mount the steps and disappear down the colonnade into the palace.]

 
             They're gone,
             And all is well again!—Yet, now they're gone,
             How am I bettered? Must I aught the less
             Flee forth, today, and leave them in the hands
             Of these my bitter foes? Is Jason less
             A traitor? Will the bride make aught the less
             Of feasting on her bridal day, forsooth?
             Tomorrow, when the sun shall rise,
             Then shall I be alone,
             The world a desert waste for me,
             My babes, my husband—gone!
             A wand'rer I, with weary feet
             All torn and bleeding sore,
             And bound for exile!—Whither, then
             I know no more!
             My foes stay here and make a joyous feast,
             And laugh to think me gone;
             My babes cling tightly to a stranger's breast,
             Estranged from me forever, far away
             From where I needs must come!
             And wilt thou suffer that?
             Is it not even now too late,
             Too late to grant forgiveness?
             Hath not Creusa even now the robes,
             Ay, and the chalice, that fierce-flaming cup?
             Hark! Nay, not yet!—But soon enough
             Will come the shriek of agony
             Ringing through all the palace halls!
             Then they will come and slay me,
             Nor spare the babes!
             Hark! What a cry was that! Ha! Tongues of flame
             Leap curling from the palace! It is done!
             No more may I retreat, repent!
             Let come what must! Set forward!
 

[GORA bursts out of the palace in a frenzy.]

GORA. Oh, horror, horror!

MEDEA (hurrying to her).

So the deed is done!

 
GORA. Woe, woe! Creusa dead, the palace red
             With mounting flames!
 
 
MEDEA. So, art thou gone at last,
             Thou snow-white, spotless bride? Or seek'st thou still
             To charm my children from me? Wouldst thou? Wouldst thou?
             Wouldst take them whither thou art gone?
             Nay, to the gods I give them now,
             And not to thee, nay, not to thee!
 

GORA. What hast thou done?—Look, look, they come!

MEDEA. They come? Too late! Too late!

[She vanishes down the colonnade.]

 
GORA. Alas that I, so old and gray, should aid,
             Unknowing, such dark deeds! I counseled her
             To take revenge: but such revenge—oh, gods!
             Where are the babes? 'Twas here I left them late.
             Where art thou, O Medea? And thy babes—
             Ah, where are they?
 

[She, too, disappears down the colonnade. Through the windows of the palace in the background the rapidly mounting flames now burst forth.]

JASON'S VOICE.

Creusa! O Creusa!

KING'S VOICE (from within).

O my daughter!

[GORA bursts out of the palace and falls upon her knees in the middle of the stage, covering her face with her hands.]

GORA. What have I seen?—Oh, horror!

[MEDEA appears at the entrance to the colonnade; in her left hand she brandishes a dagger; she raises her right hand to command silence.]

[The curtain falls.]

ACT V

The outer court of CREON'S _palace, as in the preceding act; the royal apartments in the background lie in blackened ruins whence smoke is still curling up; the court-yard is filled with various palace attendants busied in various ways. The dawn is just breaking.

The_ KING appears, dragging GORA out of the palace; a train of

CREUSA'S slave-women follows him.

 
KING. Away with thee! It was thy wicked hand
             That to my daughter brought those bloody gifts
             Which were her doom! My daughter! Oh, Creusa!
             My child, my child!
 

[He turns to the slave-women.]

 
'Twas she?
 
 
GORA. Yea, it was I!
             I knew not that my hands bore doom of death
             Within thy dwelling.
 
 
KING. Knew'st not. Never think
             To 'scape my wrath on this wise!
 
 
GORA. Dost thou think
             I shudder at thy wrath? Mine eyes have seen—
             Woe's me!—the children weltering in their blood,
             Slain by the hand of her that bore them, ay,
             Medea's very hand! And after that,
             All other horrors are to me but jest!
 
 
KING. Creusa! Oh, my child, my pure, true child!
             Say, did thy hand not shake, thou grisly dame,
             When to her side thou broughtest death?
 
 
GORA. I shed no tears for her! She had her due!
             Why would she seek to snatch away the last
             Possession of my most unhappy mistress?
             I weep for these my babes, whom I did love
             So tenderly, and whom I saw but now
             Butchered—and by their mother! Ah, I would
             Ye all were in your graves, and by your side
             That traitor that doth call himself Lord Jason!
             I would I were in Colchis with Medea
             And these poor babes in safety! Would I ne'er
             Had seen your faces, or your city here,
             Whereon this grievous fate so justly falls!
 
 
KING. These insults thou wilt soon enough put by,
             When thou shalt feel my heavy hand of doom!
             But is it certain that my child is dead?
             So many cry her dead, though I can find
             None that did see her fall! Is there no way
             To 'scape the fire? And can the flames wax strong
             So quickly? See how slow they lick and curl
             Along the fallen rafters of my house!
             Do ye not see? And yet ye say she's dead?
             An hour ago she stood before mine eyes
             A blooming flower, instinct with happy life—
             And now she's dead! Nay, I cannot believe,
             And will not! 'Gainst my will I turn mine eyes
             Now here, now there, and cannot but believe
             That now, or now, or now at least, she must
             Appear in all her stainless purity
             And beauty, glide in safety to me here
             Through those black, smoldering ruins!—Who was by?
             Who saw her perish?—Thou?—Quick, speak!—Nay, then,
             Roll not thine eyes in horror! Tell thy tale,
             E'en though it kill me! Is she dead, indeed?
 

A SLAVE-WOMAN.

Dead!

KING. And thou saw'st it?

 
SLAVE-WOMAN.
             With my very eyes!
             Saw how the flames leaped forth from out that box
             Of gold, and caught her flesh—
 
 
KING. Hold! Hold! Enough!
             This woman saw it! Creusa is no more!
             Creusa! Oh, my daughter, my dear child!
             Once, many years agone, she burnt her hand
             Against the altar; she was but a child,
             And cried aloud with pain. I rushed to her
             And caught her in my arms, and to my lips.
             I put her poor scorched fingers, blowing hard
             To ease the burning pain. The little maid
             E'en through her bitter tears smiled up at me
             And, softly sobbing, whispered in my ear,
             "It is not much! I do not mind the pain!"
             Gods! That she should be burned to death? Oh, gods!
 

[He turns fiercely upon GORA.]

 
             And as for thee,—if I should plunge my sword
             Ten, twenty times, up to the hilt, clean through
             Thy body, would that bring my daughter back?
             Or, could I find that hideous witch-wife—Stay!
             Where went she, that hath robbed me of my child?
             I'll shake an answer straight from out thy mouth,
             Ay, though thy soul come with it, if thou'lt not
             Declare to me this instant where she's gone!
 
 
GORA. I know not—and I care no whit to know!
             Let her go forth alone to her sure doom.
             Why dost thou tarry? Slay me! For I have
             No wish to live!
 
 
KING. We'll speak of that anon;
             But first I'll have thy answer!
 
 
JASON (behind the scenes).
             Where's Medea?
             Bring her before my face! Medea!
 

[He enters suddenly with drawn sword.]

 
             Nay,
             They told me she was caught! Where is she, then?
 

(To GORA.)

 
Ha! Thou here? Where's thy mistress?
 

GORA. Fled away!

JASON. Hath she the children?

GORA. Nay!

JASON. Then they are—

 
GORA. Dead!
             Yea, dead! thou smooth-tongued traitor, dead, I say!
             She sought to put them where thine eyes could never
             Take joy in them again; but, knowing well
             No spot on earth so sacred was but thou
             To find them wouldst break in, she hid them, safe
             Forever, in the grave! Ay, stand aghast,
             And stare upon the pavement! Thou canst never
             Recall thy babes to life! They're gone for aye!
             And, for their sake, I'm glad! No, I am not,
             For their sake—but because thou dost despair,
             That, smooth-tongued traitor, glads my heart indeed!
             Was it not thou that drove her to this crime,
             And thou, false King, with thine hypocrisy?
             She was a noble creature-but ye drew
             Your nets of shameful treachery too close
             About her, till, in wild despair, cut off
             From all escape else, she o'erleaped your snares,
             And made thy crown, the kingly ornament
             Of royal heads, to be the awful tool
             Of her unnatural crime! Ay, wring your hands,
             But wring them for your own most grievous fate!
 

(Turning to the KING.)

 
Why sought thy child another woman's bed?
 

(Turning to JASON.)

 
             Why must thou steal her, bring her here to Greece,
             If thou didst never love her? If thou didst
             Right truly love her, why, then, thrust her forth?
             Though others cry her murderess, yea, though I
             Myself must name her so, yet none the less
             Ye have but met your just deserts!—For me,
             I have no wish to live another day!
             Two of my babes are dead, the third I needs
             Must hate forever! Take me, lead me hence
             And slay me, if ye will! Fair hopes I have
             At last, of justice in that other world,
             Now I have seen Heaven's vengeance on you hurled!
 

[_She is led away by some of the _KING's attendants.]

(Pause.)

 
KING. Nay, if I wronged her,—by the gods in Heaven
             I swear I meant it not!—Now haste we all
             To search these smoking ruins for what trace
             Remains of my poor girl, that we may lay
             Her broken, bruised frame to rest at last
             In Earth's kind bosom!
 

[_He turns to _JASON.]

 
             But, for thee—straightway
             Thou must go forth, where'er thy feet may choose
             To carry thee! Pollution such as thine
             Spells woe for all about thee, as I've proved.
             Oh, had I never seen, never rescued thee,
             Ne'er acted friendship's part and welcomed thee
             Within my palace! And, for thanks, thou took'st
             My daughter from me! Go, lest thou shouldst take
             As well the only comfort left me now—
             To weep her memory!
 

JASON. Wouldst thou thrust me forth?

KING. I banish thee my sight.

JASON. What shall I do?

KING. Some god will answer that!

 
JASON. Who, then, will guide
             My wandering steps, who lend a helping hand?
             For, see! my head is bleeding, wounded sore
             By falling firebrands! How? All silent, then?
             And none will guide me, none companion me,
             None follow me, whom once so many joyed
             To follow? Spirits of my babes, lead ye
             The way, and guide your father to the grave
             That waits him!
 

[He goes slowly away.]

 
KING (to his attendants).
             Quick, to work! And after that,
             Mourning that hath no end!
 

[He goes away in the other direction.]

The curtain falls for a moment, and, when it rises again, discloses a wild and lonely region surrounded by forest and by lofty crags, at the foot of which lies a mean hut. A rustic enters.

 
RUSTIC. How fair the morning dawns! Oh, kindly gods,
             After the storm and fury of the night,
             Your sun doth rise more glorious than before!
 

[He goes into the hut.]

(JASON comes stumbling out of the forest and leaning heavily on his sword.)

 
JASON. Nay, I can go no farther! How my head
             Doth burn and throb, the blood how boil within!
             My tongue cleaves to the roof of my parched mouth!
             Is none within there? Must I die of thirst,
             And all alone?—Ha! Yon's the very hut
             That gave me shelter when I came this way
             Before, a rich man still, a happy father,
             My bosom filled with newly-wakened hopes!
 

[He knocks at the door.]

 
             'Tis but a drink I crave, and then a place
             To lay me down and die!
 

[The peasant comes out of the house.]

 
RUSTIC. Who knocks?—Poor man,
             Who art thou? Ah, poor soul, he's faint to death!
 
 
JASON. Oh, water, water! Give me but to drink!
             See, Jason is my name, famed far and wide,
             The hero of the wondrous Golden Fleece!
             A prince—a king—and of the Argonauts
             The mighty leader, Jason!
 
 
RUSTIC. Art thou, then,
             In very sooth Lord Jason? Get thee gone
             And quickly! Thou shalt not so much as set
             A foot upon my threshold, to pollute
             My humble dwelling! Thou didst bring but now
             Death to the daughter of my lord the King!
             Then seek not shelter at the meanest door
             Of any of his subjects!
 

[He goes into the hut again and shuts the door behind him.]

 
JASON. He is gone,
             And leaves me here to lie upon the earth,
             Bowed in the dust, for any that may pass
             To trample on!—O Death, on thee I call!
             Have pity on me! Take me to my babes!
 

[He sinks down upon the ground.]

MEDEA makes her way among some tumbled rocks, and stands suddenly before him, the Golden Fleece flung over her shoulders like a mantle.

MEDEA. Jason!

 
JASON (half raising himself).
             Who calls me?—Ha! What spectral form
             Is this before me? Is it thou, Medea?
             Ha! Dost thou dare to show thyself again
             Before mine eyes? My sword! My sword!
 

[He tries to rise, but falls weakly back.]

 
             Woe's me!
             My limbs refuse their service! Here I lie,
             A broken wreck!
 
 
MEDEA. Nay, cease thy mad attempts
             Thou canst not harm me, for I am reserved
             To be the victim of another's hand,
             And not of thine!
 

JASON. My babes!—Where has thou them?

MEDEA. Nay, they are mine!

JASON. Where hast thou them, I say?

 
MEDEA. They're gone where they are happier far than thou
             Or I shall ever be!
 

JASON. Dead! Dead! My babes!

 
MEDEA. Thou deemest death the worst of mortal woes?
             I know a far more wretched one—to be
             Alone, unloved! Hadst thou not prized mere life
             Far, far above its worth, we were not now
             In such a pass. But we must bear our weight
             Of sorrow, for thy deeds! Yet these our babes
             Are spared that grief, at least!
 
 
JASON. And thou canst stand
             So patient, quiet, there, and speak such words?
 
 
MEDEA. Quiet, thou sayst, and patient? Were my heart
             Not closed to thee e'en now, as e'er it was,
             Then couldst thou see the bitter, smarting pain
             Which, ever swelling like an angry sea,
             Tosses, now here, now there, the laboring wreck
             That is my grief, and, veiling it from sight
             In awful desolation, sweeps it forth
             O'er boundless ocean-wastes! I sorrow not
             Because the babes are dead; my only grief
             Is that they ever lived, that thou and I
             Must still live on!
 

JASON. Alas!

 
MEDEA. Bear thou the lot
             That fortune sends thee; for, to say the truth,
             Thou richly hast deserved it!—Even as thou
             Before me liest on the naked earth,
             So lay I once in Colchis at thy feet
             And craved protection—but thou wouldst not hear!
             Nay, rather didst thou stretch thine eager hands
             In blind unreason forth, to lay them swift
             Upon the golden prize, although I cried,
             "'Tis Death that thou dost grasp at!"—Take it, then,
             That prize that thou so stubbornly didst seek,
             Even Death!
             I leave thee now, forevermore.
             'Tis the last time-for all eternity
             The very last—that I shall speak with thee,
             My husband! Fare thee well! Ay, after all
             The joys that blessed our happy, happy youth,
             'Mid all the bitter woes that hem us in
             On every side, in face of all the grief
             That threatens for the future, still I say,
             "Farewell, my husband!" Now there dawns for thee
             A life of heavy sorrows; but, let come
             What may, abide it firmly, show thyself
             Stronger in suffering than in doing deeds
             Men named heroic! If thy bitter woe
             Shall make thee yearn for death, then think on me,
             And it shall comfort thee to know how mine
             Is bitterer far, because I set my hand
             To deeds, to which thou only gav'st assent.
             I go my way, and take my heavy weight
             Of sorrow with me through the wide, wide world.
             A dagger-stroke were blest release indeed;
             But no! it may not be! It were not meet
             Medea perish at Medea's hands.
             My earlier life, before I stooped to sin,
             Doth make me worthy of a better judge
             Than I could be—I go to Delphi's shrine,
             And there, before the altar of the god,
             The very spot whence Phrixus long ago
             Did steal the prize, I'll hang it up again,
             Restore to that dark god what is his own—
             The Golden Fleece—the only thing the flames
             Have left unharmed, the only thing that 'scaped
             Safe from the bloody, fiery death that slew
             That fair Corinthian princess.—To the priests
             I'll go, and I'll submit me to their will,
             Ay, though they take my life to expiate
             My grievous sins, or though they send me forth
             To wander still through some far desert-waste,
             My very life, prolonged, a heavier weight
             Of sorrow than I ever yet have known!
 

[She holds up the gleaming Fleece before his eyes.]

 
             Know'st thou the golden prize which thou didst strive
             So eagerly to win, which seemed to thee
             The shining crown of all thy famous deeds?
             What is the happiness the world can give?—
             A shadow! What the fame it can bestow?—
             An empty dream! Poor man! Thy dreams were all
             Of shadows! And the dreams are ended now,
             But not the long, black Night!—Farewell to thee,
             My husband, for I go! That was a day
             Of heavy sorrows when we first did meet;
             Today, 'mid heavier sorrows, we must part!
             Farewell!
 

JASON. Deserted! All alone! My babes!