Part 17

CHORUS.

Some Women.

Wrath upon wrath, meseems, this day shall fall From God on Jason! He hath earned it all.

Other Women.

O miserable maiden, all my heart Is torn for thee, so sudden to depart From thy king's chambers and the light above To darkness, all for sake of Jason's love!

MEDEA.

Women, my mind is clear. I go to slay My children with all speed, and then, away From hence; not wait yet longer till they stand Beneath another and an angrier hand To die. Yea, howsoe'er I shield them, die They must. And, seeing that they must, 'tis I Shall slay them, I their mother, touched of none Beside. Oh, up and get thine armour on, My heart! Why longer tarry we to win Our crown of dire inevitable sin? Take up thy sword, O poor right hand of mine, Thy sword: then onward to the thin-drawn line Where life turns agony. Let there be naught Of softness now: and keep thee from that thought, 'Born of thy flesh,' 'thine own beloved.' Now, For one brief day, forget thy children: thou Shalt weep hereafter. Though thou slay them, yet Sweet were they. . . . I am sore unfortunate.

CHORUS.

Some Women.

O Earth, our mother; and thou All-seer, arrowy crown Of Sunlight, manward now Look down, Oh, look down! Look upon one accurst, Ere yet in blood she twine Red hands--blood that is thine! O Sun, save her first! She is thy daughter still, Of thine own golden line; Save her! Or shall man spill The life divine? Give peace, O Fire that diest not! Send thy spell To stay her yet, to lift her afar, afar-- A torture-changed spirit, a voice of Hell Wrought of old wrongs and war!

Others.

Alas for the mother's pain Wasted! Alas the dear Life that was born in vain! Woman, what mak'st thou here, Thou from beyond the Gate Where dim Symplegades Clash in the dark blue seas, The shores where death doth wait? Why hast thou taken on thee, To make us desolate, This anger of misery And guilt of hate? For fierce are the smitings back of blood once shed Where love hath been: God's wrath upon them that kill, And an anguished earth, and the wonder of the dead Haunting as music still. . . .

A Woman.

Hark! Did ye hear? Heard ye the children's cry?

Another.

O miserable woman! O abhorred!

A Child within.

What shall I do? What is it? Keep me fast From mother!

The Other Child.

I know nothing. Brother! Oh, I think she means to kill us.

A Woman.

Let me go! I will--Help! Help!--and save them at the last.

A Child.

Yes, in God's name! Help quickly ere we die!

The Other Child.

She has almost caught me now. She has a sword.

Women at the door.

Thou stone, thou thing of iron! Wilt verily Spill with thine hand that life, the vintage stored Of thine own agony?