Medea: Act II

Medea: We are undone! How harsh upon mine ears doth grateThe song! and even now I cannot comprehendThe vast extent of woe that hath befallen me.Could Jason prove so false? Bereft of native land,And home, and kingdom, could he leave me here aloneOn foreign shores? Oh, cruel, could he quite rejectMy sum of service, he who saw the fire and seaWith crime o'ercome for his dear sake? And does he thinkThat thus the fatal chapter can be ended? Wild,Devoid of reason, sick of soul, my swift mind dartsIn all directions seeking whence revenge may come!I would he had a brother! But his wife--'gainst herBe aimed the blow! Can thus my wrongs be satisfied?Nay, nay--to meet my sum of woe must be heaped highThe crimes of Greece, of strange barbaric lands, and thoseWhich even thy hands have not known. Now lash thy soulWith memory's scourge, and call thy dark deeds in review:The glory of thy father's kingdom reft away;Thy brother, guiltless comrade of thy guilty flight,All hewn in pieces and his corpse strewn on the deep,To break his royal father's heart; and, last of crimes,Old Pelias by his daughters slain at thy command.O impious one, what streams of blood have flowed to workThy ends! And yet, not one of all my crimes by wrathWas prompted. Love, ill-omened love, suggested all.Yet, what could Jason else have done, compelled to serveAnother's will, another's law? He should have diedBefore he yielded to the tyrant's will. Nay, nay,Thou raging passion, speak not so! For, if he may,I would that Jason still may live and still be mine,As once he was; if not, yet may he still live on,And, mindful of my merits, live without my aid.The guilt is Creon's all, who with unbridled powerDissolves the marriage bond, my children separatesFrom me who bore them, yea, and makes the strongest pledge,Though ratified with straightest oath, of none effect.Let him alone sustain my wrath; let Creon payThe debt of guilt he owes! His palace will I bringTo utter desolation; and the whirling fireTo far-off Malea's crags shall send its lurid glare.

Nurse: Be silent now, I pray thee, and thy plaints confineTo secret woe! The man who heavy blows can bearIn silence, biding still his time with patient soul,Full oft his vengeance gains. 'Tis hidden wrath that harms;But hate proclaimed oft loses half its power to harm.

Medea: But small the grief is that can counsel take and hideIts head; great ills lie not in hiding, but must rushAbroad and work their will.

Nurse: Oh, cease this mad complaint,My mistress; scarce can friendly silence help thee now.Medea: But fortune fears the brave, the faint of heart o'erwhelms.

Nurse: Then valor be approved, if for it still there's room.

Medea: But it must always be that valor finds its place.

Nurse: No star of hope points out the way from these our woes.

Medea: The man who hopes for naught at least has naught to fear.

Nurse: The Colchians are thy foes; thy husband's vows have failed;Of all thy vast possessions not a jot is left.

Medea: Yet I am left. There's left both sea and land and fireAnd sword and gods and hurtling thunderbolts.Nurse: The king must be revered.

Nurse: Dost thou not fear?

Medea: I'm done with flight.Why should Medea flee?

Nurse: And dost thou still delay?

Nurse: Th' avenger will pursue.

Nurse: Nay, hold thy words, and cease thy threats, O foolish one.Thy temper curb; 'tis well to yield to fate's decrees.

Medea: Though fate may strip me of all my, myself am left.But who flings wide the royal palace doors? Behold,'Tis Creon's self, exalted high in Grecian sway.

Creon: Medea, baleful daughter of the Colchian king,Has not yet taken her hateful presence from our realm.On mischief is she bent. Well known her treach'rous power.For who escapes her? Who may pass his days in peace?This curséd pestilence at once would I have stayedBy force of arms; but Jason's prayers prevailed. She stillMay live, but let her free my borders from the fearHer presence genders, and her safety gain by flight.But lo, she comes, with fierce and threatening mien, to seekAn audience with us.Slaves defend us from her touchAnd pestilential presence! Bid her silence keep,And learn to yield obedience to the king's commands.Go, speed thy flight, thou thing of evil, fell, and monstrous!

Medea: But tell me what the crime, my lord, or what the guiltThat merits exile?Medea: If now thou judgest, hear me; if thou reign'st, command.

Creon: The king's command thou must abide, nor question aught.

Medea: Unrighteous sovereignty has never long endured.

Creon: Go hence, and to the Colchians complain.

Medea: I go,But let him take me hence who brought me to thy shores.

Creon: Thy prayer has come too late, for fixed is my decree.

Medea: Who judges, and denies his ear to either side,Though right his judgment, still is he himself unjust.

Creon: Didst lend thine ear to Pelias, ere thou judgedst him?But come, I'll give thee grace to plead thy goodly cause.

Medea: How hard the task to turn the soul from wrath, when onceTo wrath inclined; how 'tis the creed of sceptered kingsTo swerve not from the purposed course they once have taken,Full well I know, for I have tasted royalty.For, though by present storms of ill I'm overwhelmed,An exile, suppliant, lone, forsaken, all forlorn,I once in happier times a royal princess shone,And traced my proud descent from heavenly Phoebus' self.My father's realm extended wide o'er all the landWhere Phasis' gentle waters flow, o'er Scythia's plainsWhose rivers sweeten Pontus' briny waves; where, too,Thermodon's banks inclose the race of warlike maids,Whose gleaming shields strike terror to their foes. All thisMy father held in sway. And I, of noble birth,And blessed of heaven, in royal state was high upraised.Then princes humbly sought my hand in wedlock, mine,Who now must sue. O changeful fortune, thou my throneHast reft away, and given me exile in its stead.Trust not in kingly realms, since fickle chance may strewTheir treasures to the winds. Lo, this is regal, thisThe work of kings, which time nor change cannot undo:To succor the afflicted, to provide at needA trusty refuge for the suppliant. This aloneI brought of all my Colchian treasure, this renown,This very flower of fame, that by my arts I savedThe bulwark of the Greeks, the offspring of the gods.My princely gift to Greece is Orpheus, that sweet bardWho can the trees in willing bondage draw, and meltThe crag's hard heart. Mine too are Boreas' wingéd sons,And Leda's heaven-born progeny, and Lynceus, he,Whose glance can pierce the distant view--yea, all the Greeks,Save Jason; for I mention not the king of kings,The leader of the leaders; he is mine alone,My labor's recompense; the rest I give to you.Nay, come, O king, arraign me, and rehearse my crimes.But stay! for I'll confess them all. The only crimeOf which I stand accused is this--the Argo saved.Suppose my maiden scruples had opposed the deed;Suppose my filial piety had stayed my hand:Then had the mighty chieftains fall'n, and in their fateAll Greece had been o'erwhelmed; then this, thy son-in-law,Had felt the bull's consuming breath, and perished there.Nay, nay, let fortune, when she will, my doom decree;I glory still that kings have owed their lives to me.But what reward I reap for all my glorious deedsIs in thy hands. Convict me, if thou wilt, of sin,But give him back for whom I sinned. O Creon, see,I own that I am guilty. This much thou didst know,When first I clasped thy knees, a humble suppliant,And sought the shelter of thy royal clemency.Some little corner of thy kingdom now I ask,In which to hide my grief. If I must flee again,Oh, let some nook remote within thy broad domainBe found for me!

Creon: That I my power in mercy wield,And spurn not those who seek my aid let Jason's selfMy witness be, who, exiled, overwhelmed by fate,And smitten sore with fear, a refuge found with me.For Io, Thessalia's monarch, bent on vengeance dire,Seeks Jason at my hand. The cause, indeed, is just:For that his sire, o'erburdened with the weight of years,Was foully taken off, while by thy wicked guileHis guileless sisters' hands were nerved to do the deed.If now our Jason can unlink his cause from thine,'Tis easy his defense to make, for on his handsNo stain of blood is found. His arm no sword upraised,And he has had no part nor lot in this thy crime.No, thou and thou alone the arch contriver art,Uniting in thy person woman's fertile witAnd man's effective strength; while in thy reckless heartNo thought of reputation dwells to check thy hand.Then go thou hence and purge our kingdom of its stain;Bear hence thy deadly poisons; free the citizensFrom fear; abiding in some other land than this,Outwear the patience of the gods.

Medea: Thou bid'st me flee?Then give me back my bark wherein to flee. RestoreThe partner of my flight! Why should I flee alone?I came not thus. Or if avenging war thou fear'st,Then banish both the culprits; why distinguish meFrom Jason? 'Twas for him old Pelias was o'ercome;For him the flight, the plunder of my father's realm,My sire forsaken and my infant brother slain,And all the guilt that love suggests; 'twas all for him.Deep dyed in sin am I, but on my guilty soulThe sin of profit lieth not.

Creon: Why seek delayBy speech? Too long thou tarriest.

Medea: I go, but grantThis last request: let not the mother's fall o'erwhelmHer hapless babes.

Creon: Then go in peace. For I to themA father's place will fill, and take them to my heart.

Medea: Now by the fair hopes born upon this wedding day,And by thy hopes of lasting sovereignty secureFrom changeful fate's assault, I pray thee grant from flightA respite brief, while I upon my children's lipsA mother's kiss imprint, perchance the last.

Creon: A timeThou seek'st for treachery.

Medea: What fraud can be devisedIn one short hour?

Creon: To those on mischief bent, be sure,The briefest time is fraught with mischief's fatal power.

Medea: Dost thou refuse me, then, one little space for tears?

Creon: Though deep-ingrafted fear would fain resist thy plea,A single day I'll give thee ere my sentence holds.

Medea: Too gracious thou. But let my respite further shrink,And I'll depart content.

Creon: Thy life shall surely payThe forfeit if tomorrow's sun beholds thee stillIn Corinth. But the voice of Hymen calls awayTo solemnize the rites of this his festal day.

Chorus: Too bold the man who first upon the seas,The treacherous seas, his fragile bark confided;Who, as the well-known shore behind him glided,His life intrusted to the fickle breeze;

And, as his unknown seaward course he spedWithin his slender craft with foolish daring,Midway 'twixt life and death went onward faring,Along the perilous narrow margin led.

Not yet were sparkling constellations known,Or sky, all spangled with the starry glory;Not yet could sailors read the warning storyBy stormy Hyades upon the heavens thrown.

Not yet was Zeus's foster-mother famed,Nor slow Boötes round the north star wheeling;Nor Boreas nor Zephyr gently stealing,Each feared or welcomed, though as yet unnamed.

First Tiphys dared to spread his venturous sail,The hidden lesson of the breezes learning,Now all his canvas to the Zephyrs turning,Now shifting all to catch the changing gale.

Now midway on the mast the yard remains,Now at the head with all its canvas drawing,While eager sailors lure the breezes blowing,And over all the gleaming topsail strains.

The guiltless golden age our fathers saw,When youth and age the same horizon bounded;No greed of gain their simple hearts confounded;Their native wealth enough, 'twas all they knew.

But lo, the severed worlds have been brought nearAnd linked in one by Argo's hand uniting;While seas endure the oar's unwonted smiting,And add their fury to the primal fear.

Amid these perils sturdy Tiphys paled,And from his nerveless hand the vessel bounded;While stricken Orpheus' lyre no more resounded,And tuneful Argo's warning message failed.

What sinking terror filled each quaking breast,When near the borders of sea-girt Pelorus,There smote upon their ears the horrid chorusOf Scylla's baying wolves around them pressed.

And of this wild adventure what the prize,That lured the daring bark with heroes laden?The fleece of gold, and this mad Colchian maiden,Well fit to be the first ship's merchandize.

The sea, subdued, the victor's law obeys;No vessel needs a goddess' art in framing,Nor oars in heroes' hands, the ocean taming:The frailest craft now dares the roughest waves.

The time will come, as lapsing ages flee,When every land shall yield its hidden treasure;When men no more shall unknown courses measure,For round the world no "farthest land" shall be.