Part 16

Be patient. Many a mother before thee Hath parted from her children. We poor things Of men must needs endure what fortune brings.

MEDEA.

I will endure.--Go thou within, and lay All ready that my sons may need to-day.

O children, children mine: and you have found A land and home, where, leaving me discrowned And desolate, forever you will stay, Motherless children! And I go my way To other lands, an exile, ere you bring Your fruits home, ere I see you prospering Or know your brides, or deck the bridal bed, All flowers, and lift your torches overhead. Oh cursed be mine own hard heart! 'Twas all In vain, then, that I reared you up, so tall And fair; in vain I bore you, and was torn With those long pitiless pains, when you were born. Ah, wondrous hopes my poor heart had in you, How you would tend me in mine age, and do The shroud about me with your own dear hands, When I lay cold, blessed in all the lands That knew us. And that gentle thought is dead! You go, and I live on, to eat the bread Of long years, to myself most full of pain. And never your dear eyes, never again, Shall see your mother, far away being thrown To other shapes of life. . . . My babes, my own, Why gaze ye so?--What is it that ye see?-- And laugh with that last laughter? . . . Woe is me, What shall I do? Women, my strength is gone, Gone like a dream, since once I looked upon Those shining faces. . . . I can do it not. Good-bye to all the thoughts that burned so hot Aforetime! I will take and hide them far, Far, from men's eyes. Why should I seek a war So blind: by these babes' wounds to sting again Their father's heart, and win myself a pain Twice deeper? Never, never! I forget Henceforward all I laboured for. And yet, What is it with me? Would I be a thing Mocked at, and leave mine enemies to sting Unsmitten? It must be. O coward heart, Ever to harbour such soft words!--Depart Out of my sight, ye twain. [The CHILDREN go in. And they whose eyes Shall hold it sin to share my sacrifice, On their heads be it! My hand shall swerve not now.

Ah, Ah, thou Wrath within me! Do not thou, Do not. . . . Down, down, thou tortured thing, and spare My children! They will dwell with us, aye, there Far off, and give thee peace. Too late, too late! By all Hell's living agonies of hate, They shall not take my little ones alive To make their mock with! Howsoe'er I strive The thing is doomed; it shall not escape now From being. Aye, the crown is on the brow, And the robe girt, and in the robe that high Queen dying. I know all. Yet . . . seeing that I Must go so long a journey, and these twain A longer yet and darker, I would fain Speak with them, ere I go.

Come, children; stand A little from me. There. Reach out your hand, Your right hand--so--to mother: and good-bye!

Oh, darling hand! Oh, darling mouth, and eye, And royal mien, and bright brave faces clear, May you be blessed, but not here! What here Was yours, your father stole. . . . Ah God, the glow Of cheek on cheek, the tender touch; and Oh, Sweet scent of childhood. . . . Go! Go! . . . Am I blind? . . . Mine eyes can see not, when I look to find Their places. I am broken by the wings Of evil. . . . Yea, I know to what bad things I go, but louder than all thought doth cry Anger, which maketh man's worst misery.

CHORUS.

My thoughts have roamed a cloudy land, And heard a fierier music fall Than woman's heart should stir withal: And yet some Muse majestical, Unknown, hath hold of woman's hand, Seeking for Wisdom--not in all: A feeble seed, a scattered band, Thou yet shalt find in lonely places, Not dead amongst us, nor our faces Turned alway from the Muses' call.

And thus my thought would speak: that she Who ne'er hath borne a child nor known Is nearer to felicity: Unlit she goeth and alone, With little understanding what A child's touch means of joy or woe, And many toils she beareth not.

But they within whose garden fair That gentle plant hath blown, they go Deep-written all their days with care-- To rear the children, to make fast Their hold, to win them wealth; and then Much darkness, if the seed at last Bear fruit in good or evil men! And one thing at the end of all Abideth, that which all men dread: The wealth is won, the limbs are bred To manhood, and the heart withal Honest: and, lo, where Fortune smiled, Some change, and what hath fallen? Hark! 'Tis death slow winging to the dark, And in his arms what was thy child.

What therefore doth it bring of gain To man, whose cup stood full before, That God should send this one thing more Of hunger and of dread, a door Set wide to every wind of pain?

MEDEA.

Friends, this long hour I wait on Fortune's eyes, And strain my senses in a hot surmise What passeth on that hill.--Ha! even now There comes . . . 'tis one of Jason's men, I trow. His wild-perturbed breath doth warrant me The tidings of some strange calamity.

MESSENGER.

O dire and ghastly deed! Get thee away, Medea! Fly! Nor let behind thee stay One chariot's wing, one keel that sweeps the seas. . . .

MEDEA.

And what hath chanced, to cause such flights as these?

MESSENGER.

The maiden princess lieth--and her sire, The king--both murdered by thy poison-fire.

MEDEA.

Most happy tiding! Which thy name prefers Henceforth among my friends and well-wishers.

MESSENGER.

What say'st thou? Woman, is thy mind within Clear, and not raving? Thou art found in sin Most bloody wrought against the king's high head, And laughest at the tale, and hast no dread?

MEDEA.

I have words also that could answer well Thy word. But take thine ease, good friend, and tell, How died they? Hath it been a very foul Death, prithee? That were comfort to my soul.

MESSENGER.

When thy two children, hand in hand entwined, Came with their father, and passed on to find The new-made bridal rooms, Oh, we were glad, We thralls, who ever loved thee well, and had Grief in thy grief. And straight there passed a word From ear to ear, that thou and thy false lord Had poured peace offering upon wrath foregone. A right glad welcome gave we them, and one Kissed the small hand, and one the shining hair: Myself, for very joy, I followed where The women's rooms are. There our mistress . . . she Whom now we name so . . . thinking not to see Thy little pair, with glad and eager brow Sate waiting Jason. Then she saw, and slow Shrouded her eyes, and backward turned again, Sick that thy children should come near her. Then Thy husband quick went forward, to entreat The young maid's fitful wrath. "Thou will not meet Love's coming with unkindness? Nay, refrain Thy suddenness, and turn thy face again, Holding as friends all that to me are dear, Thine husband. And accept these robes they bear As gifts: and beg thy father to unmake His doom of exile on them--for my sake." When once she saw the raiment, she could still Her joy no more, but gave him all his will. And almost ere the father and the two Children were gone from out the room, she drew The flowered garments forth, and sate her down To her arraying: bound the golden crown Through her long curls, and in a mirror fair Arranged their separate clusters, smiling there At the dead self that faced her. Then aside She pushed her seat, and paced those chambers wide Alone, her white foot poising delicately-- So passing joyful in those gifts was she!-- And many a time would pause, straight-limbed, and wheel Her head to watch the long fold to her heel Sweeping. And then came something strange. Her cheek Seemed pale, and back with crooked steps and weak Groping of arms she walked, and scarcely found Her old seat, that she fell not to the ground. Among the handmaids was a woman old And grey, who deemed, I think, that Pan had hold Upon her, or some spirit, and raised a keen Awakening shout; till through her lips was seen A white foam crawling, and her eyeballs back Twisted, and all her face dead pale for lack Of life: and while that old dame called, the cry Turned strangely to its opposite, to die Sobbing. Oh, swiftly then one woman flew To seek her father's rooms, one for the new Bridegroom, to tell the tale. And all the place Was loud with hurrying feet. So long a space As a swift walker on a measured way Would pace a furlong's course in, there she lay Speechless, with veiled lids. Then wide her eyes She oped, and wildly, as she strove to rise, Shrieked: for two diverse waves upon her rolled Of stabbing death. The carcanet of gold That gripped her brow was molten in a dire And wondrous river of devouring fire. And those fine robes, the gift thy children gave-- God's mercy!--everywhere did lap and lave The delicate flesh; till up she sprang, and fled, A fiery pillar, shaking locks and head This way and that, seeking to cast the crown Somewhere away. But like a thing nailed down The burning gold held fast the anadem, And through her locks, the more she scattered them, Came fire the fiercer, till to earth she fell A thing--save to her sire--scarce nameable, And strove no more. That cheek of royal mien, Where was it--or the place where eyes had been? Only from crown and temples came faint blood Shot through with fire. The very flesh, it stood Out from the bones, as from a wounded pine The gum starts, where those gnawing poisons fine Bit in the dark--a ghastly sight! And touch The dead we durst not. We had seen too much. But that poor father, knowing not, had sped, Swift to his daughter's room, and there the dead Lay at his feet. He knelt, and groaning low, Folded her in his arms, and kissed her: "Oh, Unhappy child, what thing unnatural hath So hideously undone thee? Or what wrath Of gods, to make this old grey sepulchre Childless of thee? Would God but lay me there To die with thee, my daughter!" So he cried. But after, when he stayed from tears, and tried To uplift his old bent frame, lo, in the folds Of those fine robes it held, as ivy holds Strangling among your laurel boughs. Oh, then A ghastly struggle came! Again, again, Up on his knee he writhed; but that dead breast Clung still to his: till, wild, like one possessed, He dragged himself half free; and, lo, the live Flesh parted; and he laid him down to strive No more with death, but perish; for the deep Had risen above his soul. And there they sleep, At last, the old proud father and the bride, Even as his tears had craved it, side by side. For thee--Oh, no word more! Thyself will know How best to baffle vengeance. . . . Long ago I looked upon man's days, and found a grey Shadow. And this thing more I surely say, That those of all men who are counted wise, Strong wits, devisers of great policies, Do pay the bitterest toll. Since life began, Hath there in God's eye stood one happy man? Fair days roll on, and bear more gifts or less Of fortune, but to no man happiness.