Part 6

Remember, Zeus, the cause of all this woe!

CREON.

Oh, rid me of my pains! Up, get thee gone!

MEDEA.

What would I with thy pains? I have mine own.

CREON.

Up: or, 'fore God, my soldiers here shall fling . . .

MEDEA.

Not that! Not that! . . . I do but pray, O King . . .

CREON.

Thou wilt not? I must face the harsher task?

MEDEA.

I accept mine exile. 'Tis not that I ask.

CREON.

Why then so wild? Why clinging to mine hand?

MEDEA (rising).

For one day only leave me in thy land At peace, to find some counsel, ere the strain Of exile fall, some comfort for these twain, Mine innocents; since others take no thought, It seems, to save the babes that they begot. Ah! Thou wilt pity them! Thou also art A father: thou hast somewhere still a heart That feels. . . . I reck not of myself: 'tis they That break me, fallen upon so dire a day.

CREON.

Mine is no tyrant's mood. Aye, many a time Ere this my tenderness hath marred the chime Of wisest counsels. And I know that now I do mere folly. But so be it! Thou Shalt have this grace . . . But this I warn thee clear, If once the morrow's sunlight find thee here Within my borders, thee or child of thine, Thou diest! . . . Of this judgment not a line Shall waver nor abate. So linger on, If thou needs must, till the next risen sun; No further. . . . In one day there scarce can be Those perils wrought whose dread yet haunteth me.

CHORUS.

O woman, woman of sorrow, Where wilt thou turn and flee? What town shall be thine to-morrow, What land of all lands that be, What door of a strange man's home? Yea, God hath hunted thee, Medea, forth to the foam Of a trackless sea.

MEDEA.

Defeat on every side; what else?--But Oh, Not here the end is: think it not! I know For bride and groom one battle yet untried, And goodly pains for him that gave the bride. Dost dream I would have grovelled to this man, Save that I won mine end, and shaped my plan For merry deeds? My lips had never deigned Speak word with him: my flesh been never stained With touching. . . . Fool, Oh, triple fool! It lay So plain for him to kill my whole essay By exile swift: and, lo, he sets me free This one long day: wherein mine haters three Shall lie here dead, the father and the bride And husband--mine, not hers! Oh, I have tried So many thoughts of murder to my turn, I know not which best likes me. Shall I burn Their house with fire? Or stealing past unseen To Jason's bed--I have a blade made keen For that--stab, breast to breast, that wedded pair? Good, but for one thing. When I am taken there, And killed, they will laugh loud who hate me. . . . Nay, I love the old way best, the simple way Of poison, where we too are strong as men. Ah me! And they being dead--what place shall hold me then? What friend shall rise, with land inviolate And trusty doors, to shelter from their hate This flesh? . . . None anywhere! . . . A little more I needs must wait: and, if there ope some door Of refuge, some strong tower to shield me, good: In craft and darkness I will hunt this blood. Else, if mine hour be come and no hope nigh, Then sword in hand, full-willed and sure to die, I yet will live to slay them. I will wend Man-like, their road of daring to the end. So help me She who of all Gods hath been The best to me, of all my chosen queen And helpmate, Hecate, who dwells apart, The flame of flame, in my fire's inmost heart: For all their strength, they shall not stab my soul And laugh thereafter! Dark and full of dole Their bridal feast shall be, most dark the day They joined their hands, and hunted me away. Awake thee now, Medea! Whatso plot Thou hast, or cunning, strive and falter not. On to the peril-point! Now comes the strain Of daring. Shall they trample thee again? How? And with Hellas laughing o'er thy fall While this thief's daughter weds, and weds withal Jason? . . . A true king was thy father, yea, And born of the ancient Sun! . . . Thou know'st the way; And God hath made thee woman, things most vain For help, but wondrous in the paths of pain.

CHORUS.

Back streams the wave on the ever running river: Life, life is changed and the laws of it o'ertrod. Man shall be the slave, the affrighted, the low-liver! Man hath forgotten God. And woman, yea, woman, shall be terrible in story: The tales too, meseemeth, shall be other than of yore. For a fear there is that cometh out of Woman and a glory, And the hard hating voices shall encompass her no more!

The old bards shall cease, and their memory that lingers Of frail brides and faithless, shall be shrivelled as with fire. For they loved us not, nor knew us: and our lips were dumb, our fingers Could wake not the secret of the lyre. Else, else, O God the Singer, I had sung amid their rages A long tale of Man and his deeds for good and ill. But the old World knoweth--'tis the speech of all his ages-- Man's wrong and ours: he knoweth and is still.

Some Women.

Forth from thy father's home Thou camest, O heart of fire, To the Dark Blue Rocks, to the clashing foam, To the seas of thy desire: