LAIAS. ÆPYTUS.LaiasSon of Cresphontes, we have reach'd the goalOf our night-journey, and thou see'st thy home.Behold thy heritage, thy father's realm!This is that fruitful, famed Messenian land,Wealthy in corn and flocks, which, when at lastThe late-relenting Gods with victory broughtThe Heracleidæ back to Pelops' isle,Fell to thy father's lot, the second prize.Before thy feet this recent city spreadsOf Stenyclaros, which he built, and madeOf his fresh-conquer'd realm the royal seat,Degrading Pylos from its ancient rule.There stands the temple of thine ancestor,Great Heracles; and, in that public place,Zeus hath his altar, where thy father fell.Southward and west, behold those snowy peaks,Taygetus, Laconia's border-wall;And, on this side, those confluent streams which makePamisus watering the Messenian plain;Then to the north, Lycæus and the hillsOf pastoral Arcadia, where, a babeSnatch'd from the slaughter of thy father's house,Thy mother's kin received thee, and rear'd up.—Our journey is well made, the work remainsWhich to perform we made it; means for thatLet us consult, before this palace sendsIts inmates on their daily tasks abroad.Haste and advise, for day comes on apace.ÆpytusO brother of my mother, guardian true,And second father from that hour when firstMy mother's faithful servant laid me down,An infant, at the hearth of Cypselus,My grandfather, the good Arcadian king—Thy part it were to advise, and mine to obey.But let us keep that purpose, which, at home,We judged the best; chance finds no better way.Go thou into the city, and seek outWhate'er in the Messenian people stirsOf faithful fondness for their former kingOr hatred to their present; in this lastWill lie, my grandsire said, our fairest chance.For tyrants make man good beyond himself;Hate to their rule, which else would die away,Their daily-practised chafings keep alive.Seek this! revive, unite it, give it hope;Bid it rise boldly at the signal given.Meanwhile within my father's palace I,An unknown guest, will enter, bringing wordOf my own death—but, Laias, well I hopeThrough that pretended death to live and reign.[The Choruscomes forth.Softly, stand back!—see, to these palace gatesWhat black procession slowly makes approach?—Sad-chanting maidens clad in mourning robes,With pitchers in their hands, and fresh-pull'd flowers—Doubtless, they bear them to my father's tomb.[Meropecomes forth.And look, to meet them, that one, grief-plunged Form,Severer, paler, statelier than they all,A golden circlet on her queenly brow!O Laias, Laias, let the heart speak here—Shall I not greet her? shall I not leap forth?[Polyphontescomes forth, followingMerope.LaiasNot so! thy heart would pay its moment's speechBy silence ever after, for, behold!The King (I know him, even through many years)Follows the approaching Queen, who stops, as call'd.No lingering now! straight to the city I;Do thou, till for thine entrance to this houseThe happy moment comes, lurk here unseenBehind the shelter of thy father's tomb;Remove yet further off, if aught comes near.But, here while harbouring, on its margin lay,Sole offering that thou hast, locks from thy head;And fill thy leisure with an earnest prayerTo his avenging Shade, and to the GodsWho under earth watch guilty deeds of men,To guide our vengeance to a prosperous close.[Laiasgoes out.Polyphontes,Merope,andThe Choruscome forward. As they advance,Æpytus,who at first conceals himself behind the tomb,moves off the stage.Polyphontes(ToThe Chorus)Set down your pitchers, maidens, and fall back!Suspend your melancholy rites awhile;Shortly ye shall resume them with your Queen.(ToMerope)I sought thee, Merope; I find thee thus,As I have ever found thee; bent to keep,By sad observances and public grief,A mournful feud alive, which else would die.I blame thee not, I do thy heart no wrong!Thy deep seclusion, thine unyielding gloom,Thine attitude of cold, estranged reproach,These punctual funeral honours, year by yearRepeated, are in thee, I well believe,Courageous, faithful actions, nobly dared.But, Merope, the eyes of other menRead in these actions, innocent in thee,Perpetual promptings to rebellious hope,War-cries to faction, year by year renew'd,Beacons of vengeance, not to be let die.And me, believe it, wise men gravely blame,And ignorant men despise me, that I standPassive, permitting thee what course thou wilt.Yes, the crowd mutters that remorseful fearAnd paralysing conscience stop my arm,When it should pluck thee from thy hostile way.All this I bear, for, what I seek, I know:Peace, peace is what I seek, and public calm;Endless extinction of unhappy hates,Union cemented for this nation's weal.And even now, if to behold me here,This day, amid these rites, this black-robed train,Wakens, O Queen! remembrance in thy heartToo wide at variance with the peace I seek—I will not violate thy noble grief,The prayer I came to urge I will defer.MeropeThis day, to-morrow, yesterday, alikeI am, I shall be, have been, in my mindTow'rd thee; toward thy silence as thy speech.Speak, therefore, or keep silence, which thou wilt.PolyphontesHear me, then, speak; and let this mournful day,The twentieth anniversary of strife,Henceforth be honour'd as the date of peace.Yes, twenty years ago this day beheldThe king Cresphontes, thy great husband, fall;It needs no yearly offerings at his tombTo keep alive that memory in my heart—It lives, and, while I see the light, will live.For we were kinsmen—more than kinsmen—friends;Together we had grown, together lived;Together to this isle of Pelops cameTo take the inheritance of Heracles,Together won this fair Messenian land—Alas, that, how to rule it, was our broil!He had his counsel, party, friends—I mine;He stood by what he wish'd for—I the same;I smote him, when our wishes clash'd in arms—He had smit me, had he been swift as I.But while I smote him, Queen, I honour'd him;Me, too, had he prevail'd, he had not scorn'd.Enough of this! Since that, I have maintain'dThe sceptre—not remissly let it fall—And I am seated on a prosperous throne;Yet still, for I conceal it not, fermentsIn the Messenian people what remainsOf thy dead husband's faction—vigorous once,Now crush'd but not quite lifeless by his fall.And these men look to thee, and from thy grief—Something too studiously, forgive me, shown—Infer thee their accomplice; and they sayThat thou in secret nurturest up thy son,Him whom thou hiddest when thy husband fell,To avenge that fall, and bring them back to power.Such are their hopes—I ask not if by theeWillingly fed or no—their most vain hopes;For I have kept conspiracy fast-chain'dTill now, and I have strength to chain it still.But, Merope, the years advance;—I standUpon the threshold of old age, alone,Always in arms, always in face of foes.The long repressive attitude of ruleLeaves me austerer, sterner, than I would;Old age is more suspicious than the freeAnd valiant heart of youth, or manhood's firmUnclouded reason; I would not declineInto a jealous tyrant, scourged with fears,Closing in blood and gloom his sullen reign.The cares which might in me with time, I feel,Beget a cruel temper, help me quell!The breach between our parties help me close!Assist me to rule mildly; let us joinOur hands in solemn union, making friendsOur factions with the friendship of their chiefs.Let us in marriage, King and Queen, uniteClaims ever hostile else, and set thy son—No more an exile fed on empty hopes,And to an unsubstantial title heir,But prince adopted by the will of power,And future king—before this people's eyes.Consider him! consider not old hates!Consider, too, this people, who were dearTo their dead king, thy husband—yea, too dear,For that destroy'd him. Give them peace! thou can'st.O Merope, how many noble thoughts,How many precious feelings of man's heart,How many loves, how many gratitudes,Do twenty years wear out, and see expire!Shall they not wear one hatred out as well?MeropeThou hast forgot, then, who I am who hear,And who thou art who speakest to me? IAm Merope, thy murder'd master's wife;And thou art Polyphontes, first his friend,And then ... his murderer. These offending tearsThat murder moves; this breach that thou would'st closeWas by that murder open'd; that one child(If still, indeed, he lives) whom thou would'st seatUpon a throne not thine to give, is heir,Because thou slew'st his brothers with their father.Who can patch union here? What can there beBut everlasting horror 'twixt us two,Gulfs of estranging blood? Across that chasmWho can extend their hands?... Maidens, take backThese offerings home! our rites are spoil'd to-day.PolyphontesNot so; let these Messenian maidens markThe fear'd and blacken'd ruler of their race,Albeit with lips unapt to self-excuse,Blow off the spot of murder from his name.—Murder!—but whatismurder? When a wretchFor private gain or hatred takes a life,We call it murder, crush him, brand his name.But when, for some great public cause, an armIs, without love or hate, austerely raisedAgainst a power exempt from common checks,Dangerous to all, to be but thus annull'd—Ranks any man with murder such an act?With grievous deeds, perhaps; with murder, no!Find then such cause, the charge of murder falls—Be judge thyself if it abound not here.All know how weak the eagle, Heracles,Soaring from his death-pile on Œta, leftHis puny, callow eaglets; and what trials—Infirm protectors, dubious oraclesConstrued awry, misplann'd invasions—woreThree generations of his offspring out;Hardly the fourth, with grievous loss, regain'dTheir fathers' realm, this isle, from Pelops named.Who made that triumph, though deferr'd, secure?Who, but the kinsmen of the royal broodOf Heracles, scarce Heracleidæ lessThan they? these, and the Dorian lords, whose kingÆgimius gave our outcast house a homeWhen Thebes, when Athens dared not; who in armsThrice issued with us from their pastoral vales,And shed their blood like water in our cause?Such were the dispossessors; of what stampWere they we dispossessed?—of us I speak,Who to Messenia with thy husband came;I speak not now of Argos, where his brother,Not now of Sparta, where his nephews reign'd.—What we found here were tribes of fame obscure,Much turbulence, and little constancy,Precariously ruled by foreign lordsFrom the Æolian stock of Neleus sprung,A house once great, now dwindling in its sons.Such were the conquer'd, such the conquerors; whoHad most thy husband's confidence? ConsultHis acts! the wife he chose was—full of virtues—But an Arcadian princess, more akinTo his new subjects than to us; his friendsWere the Messenian chiefs; the laws he framedWere aim'd at their promotion, our decline.And, finally, this land, then half-subdued,Which from one central city's guarded seatAs from a fastness in the rocks our scantHandful of Dorian conquerors might have curb'd,He parcell'd out in five confederate states,Sowing his victors thinly through them all,Mere prisoners, meant or not, among our foes.If this was fear of them, it shamed the king;If jealousy of us, it shamed the man.Long we refrain'd ourselves, submitted long,Construed his acts indulgently, revered,Though found perverse, the blood of Heracles;Reluctantly the rest—but, against all,One voice preach'd patience, and that voice was mine!At last it reach'd us, that he, still mistrustful,Deeming, as tyrants deem, our silence hate,Unadulating grief conspiracy,Had to this city, Stenyclaros, call'dA general assemblage of the realm,With compact in that concourse to deliver,For death, his ancient to his new-made friends.Patience was thenceforth self destruction. I,I his chief kinsman, I his pioneerAnd champion to the throne, I honouring mostOf men the line of Heracles, preferr'dThe many of that lineage to the one;What his foes dared not, I, his lover, dared;I at that altar, where mid shouting crowdsHe sacrificed, our ruin in his heart,To Zeus, before he struck his blow, struck mine—Struck once, and awed his mob, and saved this realm.Murder let others call this, if they will;I, self-defence and righteous execution.MeropeAlas, how fair a colour can his tongue,Who self-exculpates, lend to foulest deeds!Thy trusting lord didst thou, his servant, slay;Kinsman, thou slew'st thy kinsman; friend, thy friend—This were enough; but let me tell thee, too,Thou hadst no cause, as feign'd, in his misrule.For ask at Argos, asked in Lacedæmon,Whose people, when the Heracleidæ came,Were hunted out, and to Achaia fled,Whether is better, to abide alone,A wolfish band, in a dispeopled realm,Or conquerors with conquer'd to uniteInto one puissant folk, as he design'd?These sturdy and unworn Messenian tribes,Who shook the fierce Neleidæ on their throne,Who to the invading Dorians stretch'd a hand,And half bestow'd, half yielded up their soil—He would not let his savage chiefs alight,A cloud of vultures, on this vigorous race,Ravin a little while in spoil and blood,Then, gorged and helpless, be assail'd and slain.He would have saved you from your furious selves,Not in abhorr'd estrangement let you stand;He would have mix'd you with your friendly foes,Foes dazzled with your prowess, well inclinedTo reverence your lineage, more, to obey;So would have built you, in a few short years,A just, therefore a safe, supremacy.For well he knew, what you, his chiefs, did not—How of all human rules the over-tenseAre apt to snap; the easy-stretch'd endure.O gentle wisdom, little understood!O arts above the vulgar tyrant's reach!O policy too subtle far for senseOf heady, masterful, injurious men!This good he meant you, and for this he died!Yet not for this—else might thy crime in partBe error deem'd—but that pretence is vain.For, if ye slew him for supposed misrule,Injustice to his kin and Dorian friends,Why with the offending father did ye slayTwo unoffending babes, his innocent sons?Why not on them have placed the forfeit crown,Ruled in their name, and train'd them to your will?Hadtheymisruled? hadtheyforgot their friends,Forsworn their blood? ungratefully hadtheyPreferr'd Messenian serfs to Dorian lords?No! but to thy ambition their poor livesWere bar—and this, too, was their father's crime.That thou might'st reign he died, not for his faultEven fancied; and his death thou wroughtest chief!For, if the other lords desired his fallHotlier than thou, and were by thee kept back,Why dost thou only profit by his death?Thy crown condemns thee, while thy tongue absolves.And now to me thou tenderest friendly league,And to my son reversion to thy throne!Short answer is sufficient; league with thee,For me I deem such impious; and for himExile abroad more safe than heirship here.PolyphontesI ask thee not to approve thy husband's death,No, nor expect thee to admit the grounds,In reason good, which justified my deed.With women the heart argues, not the mind.But, for thy children's death, I stand assoil'd—I saved them, meant them honour; but thy friendsRose, and with fire and sword assailed my houseBy night; in that blind tumult they were slain.To chance impute their deaths, then, not to me.MeropeSuch chance as kill'd the father, kill'd the sons.PolyphontesOne son at least I spared, for still he lives.MeropeTyrants think him they murder not they spare.PolyphontesNot much a tyrant thy free speech displays me.MeropeThy shame secures my freedom, not thy will.PolyphontesShame rarely checks the genuine tyrant's will.MeropeOne merit, then, thou hast; exult in that.PolyphontesThou standest out, I see, repellest peace.MeropeThy sword repell'd it long ago, not I.PolyphontesDoubtless thou reckonest on the help of friends.MeropeNot help of men, although, perhaps, of Gods.PolyphontesWhat Gods? the Gods of concord, civil weal?MeropeNo! the avenging Gods, who punish crime.PolyphontesBeware! from thee upbraidings I receiveWith pity, nay, with reverence; yet, beware!I know, I know how hard it is to thinkThat right, that conscience pointed to a deed,Where interest seems to have enjoin'd it too.Most men are led by interest; and the fewWho are not, expiate the general sin,Involved in one suspicion with the base.Dizzy the path and perilous the wayWhich in a deed like mine a just man treads,But it is sometimes trodden, oh! believe it.Yet howcanstthou believe it? therefore thouHast all impunity. Yet, lest thy friends,Embolden'd by my lenience, think it fear,And count on like impunity, and rise,And have to thank thee for a fall, beware!To rule this kingdom I intend; with swayClement, if may be, but to rule it—thereExpect no wavering, no retreat, no change.And now I leave thee to these rites, esteem'dPious, but impious, surely, if their scopeBe to foment old memories of wrath.Pray, as thou pour'st libations on this tomb,To be deliver'd from thy foster'd hate,Unjust suspicion, and erroneous fear.[Polyphontesgoes into the palace.The ChorusandMeropeapproach the tomb with theirofferings.The Chorusstrophe.Draw, draw near to the tomb!Lay honey-cakes on its marge,Pour the libation of milk,Deck it with garlands of flowers.Tears fall thickly the while!Behold, O King from the darkHouse of the grave, what we do!antistrophe.O Arcadian hills,Send us the Youth whom ye hide,Girt with his coat for the chase,With the low broad hat of the tann'dHunter o'ershadowing his brow;Grasping firm, in his handAdvanced, two javelins, not nowDangerous alone to the deer!Meropestr.1What shall I bear, O lostHusband and King, to thy grave?—Pure libations, and freshFlowers? But thou, in the gloom,Discontented, perhaps,Demandest vengeance, not grief?Sternly requirest a man,Light to spring up to thy house?The Chorusstr.2.Vengeance, O Queen, is his due,His most just prayer; yet his house—If that might soothe him below—Prosperous, mighty, came backIn the third generation, the wayOrder'd by Fate, to their home;And now, glorious, secure,Fill the wealth-giving thronesOf their heritage, Pelops' isle.Meropeant.1.Suffering sent them, DeathMarch'd with them, Hatred and StrifeMet them entering their halls.For from the day when the firstHeracleidæ receivedThat Delphic hest to return,What hath involved them, but blindError on error, and blood?The Chorusant.2.Truly I hear of a MaidOf that stock born, who bestow'dHer blood that so she might makeVictory sure to her race,When the fight hung in doubt! but she now,Honour'd and sung of by all,Far on Marathon plain,Gives her name to the springMacaria, blessed Child.Meropestr.3.She led the way of death.And the plain of Tegea,And the grave of Orestes—Where, in secret seclusionOf his unreveal'd tomb,Sleeps Agamemnon's unhappy,Matricidal, world-famed,Seven-cubit-statured son—Sent forth Echemus, the victor, the king,By whose hand, at the Isthmus,At the fate-denied straits,Fell the eldest of the sons of Heracles,Hyllus, the chief of his house.Brother follow'd sisterThe all-wept way.The ChorusYes; but his seed still, wiser-counsell'd,Sail'd by the fate-meant Gulf to their conquest—Slew their enemies' king, Tisamenus.Wherefore accept that happier omen!Yet shall restorer appear to the race.Meropeant.3.Three brothers won the field,And to two did DestinyGive the thrones that they conquer'd.But the third, what delays himFrom his unattain'd crown?...Ah Pylades and Electra,Ever faithful, untired,Jealous, blood-exacting friends!Your sons leap upon the foe of your kin,In the passes of Delphi,In the temple-built gorge!There the youngest of the band of conquerorsPerish'd, in sight of the goal.Thrice son follow'd sireThe all-wept way.The Chorusstr.4.Thou tellest the fate of the lastOf the three Heracleidæ.Not of him, of Cresphontes thou shared'st the lot!A king, a king was he while he lived,Swaying the sceptre with predestined hand;And now, minister loved,Holds rule.MeropeAh me ... Ah....The ChorusFor the awful Monarchs below.Meropestr.5.Thou touchest the worst of my ills.Oh had he fallen of oldAt the Isthmus, in fight with his foes,By Achaian, Arcadian spear!Then had his sepulchre risenOn the high sea-bank, in the sightOf either Gulf, and remain'dAll-regarded afar,Noble memorial of worthOf a valiant Chief, to his own.The Chorusant.4.There rose up a cry in the streetsFrom the terrified people.From the altar of Zeus, from the crowd, came a wail.A blow, a blow was struck, and he fell,Sullying his garment with dark-streaming blood;While stood o'er him a Form—Some FormMeropeAh me.... Ah....The ChorusOf a dreadful Presence of fear.Meropeant.5.More piercing the second cry rang,Wail'd from the palace within,From the Children.... The Fury to them,Fresh from their father, draws near.Ah bloody axe! dizzy blows!In these ears, they thunder, they ring,These poor ears, still! and these eyesNight and day see them fall,Fiery phantoms of death,On the fair, curl'd heads of my sons.The Chorusstr.6.Not to thee only hath comeSorrow, O Queen, of mankind.Had not Electra to hauntA palace defiled by a death unavenged,For years, in silence, devouring her heart?But her nursling, her hope, came at last.Thou, too, rearest in hope,Far 'mid Arcadian hills,Somewhere, for vengeance, a champion, a light.Soon, soon shall Zeus bring him home!Soon shall he dawn on this land!Meropestr.7.Him in secret, in tears,Month after month, I awaitVainly. For he, in the glensOf Lycæus afar,A gladsome hunter of deer,Basks in his morning of youth,Spares not a thought to his home.The Chorusant.6.Give not thy heart to despair.No lamentation can loosePrisoners of death from the grave;But Zeus, who accounteth thy quarrel his own,Still rules, still watches, and numb'reth the hoursTill the sinner, the vengeance, be ripe.Still, by Acheron stream,Terrible Deities thronedSit, and eye grimly the victim unscourged.Still, still the Dorian boy,Exiled, remembers his home.Meropeant.7.Him if high-ruling ZeusBring to me safe, let the restGo as it will! But if thisClash with justice, the GodsForgive my folly, and workVengeance on sinner and sin—Only to me give my child!The Chorusstr.8.Hear us and help us, Shade of our King!Meropestr.9.A return, O Father! give to thy boy!The Chorusant.8.Send an avenger, Gods of the dead!
LAIAS. ÆPYTUS.
Laias
Son of Cresphontes, we have reach'd the goalOf our night-journey, and thou see'st thy home.Behold thy heritage, thy father's realm!This is that fruitful, famed Messenian land,Wealthy in corn and flocks, which, when at lastThe late-relenting Gods with victory broughtThe Heracleidæ back to Pelops' isle,Fell to thy father's lot, the second prize.Before thy feet this recent city spreadsOf Stenyclaros, which he built, and madeOf his fresh-conquer'd realm the royal seat,Degrading Pylos from its ancient rule.There stands the temple of thine ancestor,Great Heracles; and, in that public place,Zeus hath his altar, where thy father fell.Southward and west, behold those snowy peaks,Taygetus, Laconia's border-wall;And, on this side, those confluent streams which makePamisus watering the Messenian plain;Then to the north, Lycæus and the hillsOf pastoral Arcadia, where, a babeSnatch'd from the slaughter of thy father's house,Thy mother's kin received thee, and rear'd up.—Our journey is well made, the work remainsWhich to perform we made it; means for thatLet us consult, before this palace sendsIts inmates on their daily tasks abroad.Haste and advise, for day comes on apace.
Æpytus
O brother of my mother, guardian true,And second father from that hour when firstMy mother's faithful servant laid me down,An infant, at the hearth of Cypselus,My grandfather, the good Arcadian king—Thy part it were to advise, and mine to obey.But let us keep that purpose, which, at home,We judged the best; chance finds no better way.Go thou into the city, and seek outWhate'er in the Messenian people stirsOf faithful fondness for their former kingOr hatred to their present; in this lastWill lie, my grandsire said, our fairest chance.For tyrants make man good beyond himself;Hate to their rule, which else would die away,Their daily-practised chafings keep alive.Seek this! revive, unite it, give it hope;Bid it rise boldly at the signal given.Meanwhile within my father's palace I,An unknown guest, will enter, bringing wordOf my own death—but, Laias, well I hopeThrough that pretended death to live and reign.
[The Choruscomes forth.
Softly, stand back!—see, to these palace gatesWhat black procession slowly makes approach?—Sad-chanting maidens clad in mourning robes,With pitchers in their hands, and fresh-pull'd flowers—Doubtless, they bear them to my father's tomb.
[Meropecomes forth.
And look, to meet them, that one, grief-plunged Form,Severer, paler, statelier than they all,A golden circlet on her queenly brow!O Laias, Laias, let the heart speak here—Shall I not greet her? shall I not leap forth?
[Polyphontescomes forth, followingMerope.
Laias
Not so! thy heart would pay its moment's speechBy silence ever after, for, behold!The King (I know him, even through many years)Follows the approaching Queen, who stops, as call'd.No lingering now! straight to the city I;Do thou, till for thine entrance to this houseThe happy moment comes, lurk here unseenBehind the shelter of thy father's tomb;Remove yet further off, if aught comes near.But, here while harbouring, on its margin lay,Sole offering that thou hast, locks from thy head;And fill thy leisure with an earnest prayerTo his avenging Shade, and to the GodsWho under earth watch guilty deeds of men,To guide our vengeance to a prosperous close.
[Laiasgoes out.Polyphontes,Merope,andThe Choruscome forward. As they advance,Æpytus,who at first conceals himself behind the tomb,moves off the stage.
Polyphontes(ToThe Chorus)
Set down your pitchers, maidens, and fall back!Suspend your melancholy rites awhile;Shortly ye shall resume them with your Queen.
(ToMerope)
I sought thee, Merope; I find thee thus,As I have ever found thee; bent to keep,By sad observances and public grief,A mournful feud alive, which else would die.I blame thee not, I do thy heart no wrong!Thy deep seclusion, thine unyielding gloom,Thine attitude of cold, estranged reproach,These punctual funeral honours, year by yearRepeated, are in thee, I well believe,Courageous, faithful actions, nobly dared.But, Merope, the eyes of other menRead in these actions, innocent in thee,Perpetual promptings to rebellious hope,War-cries to faction, year by year renew'd,Beacons of vengeance, not to be let die.And me, believe it, wise men gravely blame,And ignorant men despise me, that I standPassive, permitting thee what course thou wilt.Yes, the crowd mutters that remorseful fearAnd paralysing conscience stop my arm,When it should pluck thee from thy hostile way.All this I bear, for, what I seek, I know:Peace, peace is what I seek, and public calm;Endless extinction of unhappy hates,Union cemented for this nation's weal.And even now, if to behold me here,This day, amid these rites, this black-robed train,Wakens, O Queen! remembrance in thy heartToo wide at variance with the peace I seek—I will not violate thy noble grief,The prayer I came to urge I will defer.
Merope
This day, to-morrow, yesterday, alikeI am, I shall be, have been, in my mindTow'rd thee; toward thy silence as thy speech.Speak, therefore, or keep silence, which thou wilt.
Polyphontes
Hear me, then, speak; and let this mournful day,The twentieth anniversary of strife,Henceforth be honour'd as the date of peace.Yes, twenty years ago this day beheldThe king Cresphontes, thy great husband, fall;It needs no yearly offerings at his tombTo keep alive that memory in my heart—It lives, and, while I see the light, will live.For we were kinsmen—more than kinsmen—friends;Together we had grown, together lived;Together to this isle of Pelops cameTo take the inheritance of Heracles,Together won this fair Messenian land—Alas, that, how to rule it, was our broil!He had his counsel, party, friends—I mine;He stood by what he wish'd for—I the same;I smote him, when our wishes clash'd in arms—He had smit me, had he been swift as I.But while I smote him, Queen, I honour'd him;Me, too, had he prevail'd, he had not scorn'd.Enough of this! Since that, I have maintain'dThe sceptre—not remissly let it fall—And I am seated on a prosperous throne;Yet still, for I conceal it not, fermentsIn the Messenian people what remainsOf thy dead husband's faction—vigorous once,Now crush'd but not quite lifeless by his fall.And these men look to thee, and from thy grief—Something too studiously, forgive me, shown—Infer thee their accomplice; and they sayThat thou in secret nurturest up thy son,Him whom thou hiddest when thy husband fell,To avenge that fall, and bring them back to power.Such are their hopes—I ask not if by theeWillingly fed or no—their most vain hopes;For I have kept conspiracy fast-chain'dTill now, and I have strength to chain it still.But, Merope, the years advance;—I standUpon the threshold of old age, alone,Always in arms, always in face of foes.The long repressive attitude of ruleLeaves me austerer, sterner, than I would;Old age is more suspicious than the freeAnd valiant heart of youth, or manhood's firmUnclouded reason; I would not declineInto a jealous tyrant, scourged with fears,Closing in blood and gloom his sullen reign.The cares which might in me with time, I feel,Beget a cruel temper, help me quell!The breach between our parties help me close!Assist me to rule mildly; let us joinOur hands in solemn union, making friendsOur factions with the friendship of their chiefs.Let us in marriage, King and Queen, uniteClaims ever hostile else, and set thy son—No more an exile fed on empty hopes,And to an unsubstantial title heir,But prince adopted by the will of power,And future king—before this people's eyes.Consider him! consider not old hates!Consider, too, this people, who were dearTo their dead king, thy husband—yea, too dear,For that destroy'd him. Give them peace! thou can'st.O Merope, how many noble thoughts,How many precious feelings of man's heart,How many loves, how many gratitudes,Do twenty years wear out, and see expire!Shall they not wear one hatred out as well?
Merope
Thou hast forgot, then, who I am who hear,And who thou art who speakest to me? IAm Merope, thy murder'd master's wife;And thou art Polyphontes, first his friend,And then ... his murderer. These offending tearsThat murder moves; this breach that thou would'st closeWas by that murder open'd; that one child(If still, indeed, he lives) whom thou would'st seatUpon a throne not thine to give, is heir,Because thou slew'st his brothers with their father.Who can patch union here? What can there beBut everlasting horror 'twixt us two,Gulfs of estranging blood? Across that chasmWho can extend their hands?... Maidens, take backThese offerings home! our rites are spoil'd to-day.
Polyphontes
Not so; let these Messenian maidens markThe fear'd and blacken'd ruler of their race,Albeit with lips unapt to self-excuse,Blow off the spot of murder from his name.—Murder!—but whatismurder? When a wretchFor private gain or hatred takes a life,We call it murder, crush him, brand his name.But when, for some great public cause, an armIs, without love or hate, austerely raisedAgainst a power exempt from common checks,Dangerous to all, to be but thus annull'd—Ranks any man with murder such an act?With grievous deeds, perhaps; with murder, no!Find then such cause, the charge of murder falls—Be judge thyself if it abound not here.All know how weak the eagle, Heracles,Soaring from his death-pile on Œta, leftHis puny, callow eaglets; and what trials—Infirm protectors, dubious oraclesConstrued awry, misplann'd invasions—woreThree generations of his offspring out;Hardly the fourth, with grievous loss, regain'dTheir fathers' realm, this isle, from Pelops named.Who made that triumph, though deferr'd, secure?Who, but the kinsmen of the royal broodOf Heracles, scarce Heracleidæ lessThan they? these, and the Dorian lords, whose kingÆgimius gave our outcast house a homeWhen Thebes, when Athens dared not; who in armsThrice issued with us from their pastoral vales,And shed their blood like water in our cause?Such were the dispossessors; of what stampWere they we dispossessed?—of us I speak,Who to Messenia with thy husband came;I speak not now of Argos, where his brother,Not now of Sparta, where his nephews reign'd.—What we found here were tribes of fame obscure,Much turbulence, and little constancy,Precariously ruled by foreign lordsFrom the Æolian stock of Neleus sprung,A house once great, now dwindling in its sons.Such were the conquer'd, such the conquerors; whoHad most thy husband's confidence? ConsultHis acts! the wife he chose was—full of virtues—But an Arcadian princess, more akinTo his new subjects than to us; his friendsWere the Messenian chiefs; the laws he framedWere aim'd at their promotion, our decline.And, finally, this land, then half-subdued,Which from one central city's guarded seatAs from a fastness in the rocks our scantHandful of Dorian conquerors might have curb'd,He parcell'd out in five confederate states,Sowing his victors thinly through them all,Mere prisoners, meant or not, among our foes.If this was fear of them, it shamed the king;If jealousy of us, it shamed the man.Long we refrain'd ourselves, submitted long,Construed his acts indulgently, revered,Though found perverse, the blood of Heracles;Reluctantly the rest—but, against all,One voice preach'd patience, and that voice was mine!At last it reach'd us, that he, still mistrustful,Deeming, as tyrants deem, our silence hate,Unadulating grief conspiracy,Had to this city, Stenyclaros, call'dA general assemblage of the realm,With compact in that concourse to deliver,For death, his ancient to his new-made friends.Patience was thenceforth self destruction. I,I his chief kinsman, I his pioneerAnd champion to the throne, I honouring mostOf men the line of Heracles, preferr'dThe many of that lineage to the one;What his foes dared not, I, his lover, dared;I at that altar, where mid shouting crowdsHe sacrificed, our ruin in his heart,To Zeus, before he struck his blow, struck mine—Struck once, and awed his mob, and saved this realm.Murder let others call this, if they will;I, self-defence and righteous execution.
Merope
Alas, how fair a colour can his tongue,Who self-exculpates, lend to foulest deeds!Thy trusting lord didst thou, his servant, slay;Kinsman, thou slew'st thy kinsman; friend, thy friend—This were enough; but let me tell thee, too,Thou hadst no cause, as feign'd, in his misrule.For ask at Argos, asked in Lacedæmon,Whose people, when the Heracleidæ came,Were hunted out, and to Achaia fled,Whether is better, to abide alone,A wolfish band, in a dispeopled realm,Or conquerors with conquer'd to uniteInto one puissant folk, as he design'd?These sturdy and unworn Messenian tribes,Who shook the fierce Neleidæ on their throne,Who to the invading Dorians stretch'd a hand,And half bestow'd, half yielded up their soil—He would not let his savage chiefs alight,A cloud of vultures, on this vigorous race,Ravin a little while in spoil and blood,Then, gorged and helpless, be assail'd and slain.He would have saved you from your furious selves,Not in abhorr'd estrangement let you stand;He would have mix'd you with your friendly foes,Foes dazzled with your prowess, well inclinedTo reverence your lineage, more, to obey;So would have built you, in a few short years,A just, therefore a safe, supremacy.For well he knew, what you, his chiefs, did not—How of all human rules the over-tenseAre apt to snap; the easy-stretch'd endure.O gentle wisdom, little understood!O arts above the vulgar tyrant's reach!O policy too subtle far for senseOf heady, masterful, injurious men!This good he meant you, and for this he died!Yet not for this—else might thy crime in partBe error deem'd—but that pretence is vain.For, if ye slew him for supposed misrule,Injustice to his kin and Dorian friends,Why with the offending father did ye slayTwo unoffending babes, his innocent sons?Why not on them have placed the forfeit crown,Ruled in their name, and train'd them to your will?Hadtheymisruled? hadtheyforgot their friends,Forsworn their blood? ungratefully hadtheyPreferr'd Messenian serfs to Dorian lords?No! but to thy ambition their poor livesWere bar—and this, too, was their father's crime.That thou might'st reign he died, not for his faultEven fancied; and his death thou wroughtest chief!For, if the other lords desired his fallHotlier than thou, and were by thee kept back,Why dost thou only profit by his death?Thy crown condemns thee, while thy tongue absolves.And now to me thou tenderest friendly league,And to my son reversion to thy throne!Short answer is sufficient; league with thee,For me I deem such impious; and for himExile abroad more safe than heirship here.
Polyphontes
I ask thee not to approve thy husband's death,No, nor expect thee to admit the grounds,In reason good, which justified my deed.With women the heart argues, not the mind.But, for thy children's death, I stand assoil'd—I saved them, meant them honour; but thy friendsRose, and with fire and sword assailed my houseBy night; in that blind tumult they were slain.To chance impute their deaths, then, not to me.
Merope
Such chance as kill'd the father, kill'd the sons.
Polyphontes
One son at least I spared, for still he lives.
Merope
Tyrants think him they murder not they spare.
Polyphontes
Not much a tyrant thy free speech displays me.
Merope
Thy shame secures my freedom, not thy will.
Polyphontes
Shame rarely checks the genuine tyrant's will.
Merope
One merit, then, thou hast; exult in that.
Polyphontes
Thou standest out, I see, repellest peace.
Merope
Thy sword repell'd it long ago, not I.
Polyphontes
Doubtless thou reckonest on the help of friends.
Merope
Not help of men, although, perhaps, of Gods.
Polyphontes
What Gods? the Gods of concord, civil weal?
Merope
No! the avenging Gods, who punish crime.
Polyphontes
Beware! from thee upbraidings I receiveWith pity, nay, with reverence; yet, beware!I know, I know how hard it is to thinkThat right, that conscience pointed to a deed,Where interest seems to have enjoin'd it too.Most men are led by interest; and the fewWho are not, expiate the general sin,Involved in one suspicion with the base.Dizzy the path and perilous the wayWhich in a deed like mine a just man treads,But it is sometimes trodden, oh! believe it.Yet howcanstthou believe it? therefore thouHast all impunity. Yet, lest thy friends,Embolden'd by my lenience, think it fear,And count on like impunity, and rise,And have to thank thee for a fall, beware!To rule this kingdom I intend; with swayClement, if may be, but to rule it—thereExpect no wavering, no retreat, no change.And now I leave thee to these rites, esteem'dPious, but impious, surely, if their scopeBe to foment old memories of wrath.Pray, as thou pour'st libations on this tomb,To be deliver'd from thy foster'd hate,Unjust suspicion, and erroneous fear.
[Polyphontesgoes into the palace.The ChorusandMeropeapproach the tomb with theirofferings.
The Chorus
strophe.Draw, draw near to the tomb!Lay honey-cakes on its marge,Pour the libation of milk,Deck it with garlands of flowers.Tears fall thickly the while!Behold, O King from the darkHouse of the grave, what we do!
antistrophe.O Arcadian hills,Send us the Youth whom ye hide,Girt with his coat for the chase,With the low broad hat of the tann'dHunter o'ershadowing his brow;Grasping firm, in his handAdvanced, two javelins, not nowDangerous alone to the deer!
Merope
str.1What shall I bear, O lostHusband and King, to thy grave?—Pure libations, and freshFlowers? But thou, in the gloom,Discontented, perhaps,Demandest vengeance, not grief?Sternly requirest a man,Light to spring up to thy house?
The Chorus
str.2.Vengeance, O Queen, is his due,His most just prayer; yet his house—If that might soothe him below—Prosperous, mighty, came backIn the third generation, the wayOrder'd by Fate, to their home;And now, glorious, secure,Fill the wealth-giving thronesOf their heritage, Pelops' isle.
Merope
ant.1.Suffering sent them, DeathMarch'd with them, Hatred and StrifeMet them entering their halls.For from the day when the firstHeracleidæ receivedThat Delphic hest to return,What hath involved them, but blindError on error, and blood?
The Chorus
ant.2.Truly I hear of a MaidOf that stock born, who bestow'dHer blood that so she might makeVictory sure to her race,When the fight hung in doubt! but she now,Honour'd and sung of by all,Far on Marathon plain,Gives her name to the springMacaria, blessed Child.
Merope
str.3.She led the way of death.And the plain of Tegea,And the grave of Orestes—Where, in secret seclusionOf his unreveal'd tomb,Sleeps Agamemnon's unhappy,Matricidal, world-famed,Seven-cubit-statured son—Sent forth Echemus, the victor, the king,By whose hand, at the Isthmus,At the fate-denied straits,Fell the eldest of the sons of Heracles,Hyllus, the chief of his house.Brother follow'd sisterThe all-wept way.
The Chorus
Yes; but his seed still, wiser-counsell'd,Sail'd by the fate-meant Gulf to their conquest—Slew their enemies' king, Tisamenus.Wherefore accept that happier omen!Yet shall restorer appear to the race.
Merope
ant.3.Three brothers won the field,And to two did DestinyGive the thrones that they conquer'd.But the third, what delays himFrom his unattain'd crown?...Ah Pylades and Electra,Ever faithful, untired,Jealous, blood-exacting friends!Your sons leap upon the foe of your kin,In the passes of Delphi,In the temple-built gorge!There the youngest of the band of conquerorsPerish'd, in sight of the goal.Thrice son follow'd sireThe all-wept way.
The Chorus
str.4.Thou tellest the fate of the lastOf the three Heracleidæ.Not of him, of Cresphontes thou shared'st the lot!A king, a king was he while he lived,Swaying the sceptre with predestined hand;And now, minister loved,Holds rule.
Merope
Ah me ... Ah....
The Chorus
For the awful Monarchs below.
Merope
str.5.Thou touchest the worst of my ills.Oh had he fallen of oldAt the Isthmus, in fight with his foes,By Achaian, Arcadian spear!Then had his sepulchre risenOn the high sea-bank, in the sightOf either Gulf, and remain'dAll-regarded afar,Noble memorial of worthOf a valiant Chief, to his own.
The Chorus
ant.4.There rose up a cry in the streetsFrom the terrified people.From the altar of Zeus, from the crowd, came a wail.A blow, a blow was struck, and he fell,Sullying his garment with dark-streaming blood;While stood o'er him a Form—Some Form
Merope
Ah me.... Ah....
The Chorus
Of a dreadful Presence of fear.
Merope
ant.5.More piercing the second cry rang,Wail'd from the palace within,From the Children.... The Fury to them,Fresh from their father, draws near.Ah bloody axe! dizzy blows!In these ears, they thunder, they ring,These poor ears, still! and these eyesNight and day see them fall,Fiery phantoms of death,On the fair, curl'd heads of my sons.
The Chorus
str.6.Not to thee only hath comeSorrow, O Queen, of mankind.Had not Electra to hauntA palace defiled by a death unavenged,For years, in silence, devouring her heart?But her nursling, her hope, came at last.Thou, too, rearest in hope,Far 'mid Arcadian hills,Somewhere, for vengeance, a champion, a light.Soon, soon shall Zeus bring him home!Soon shall he dawn on this land!
Merope
str.7.Him in secret, in tears,Month after month, I awaitVainly. For he, in the glensOf Lycæus afar,A gladsome hunter of deer,Basks in his morning of youth,Spares not a thought to his home.
The Chorus
ant.6.Give not thy heart to despair.No lamentation can loosePrisoners of death from the grave;But Zeus, who accounteth thy quarrel his own,Still rules, still watches, and numb'reth the hoursTill the sinner, the vengeance, be ripe.Still, by Acheron stream,Terrible Deities thronedSit, and eye grimly the victim unscourged.Still, still the Dorian boy,Exiled, remembers his home.
Merope
ant.7.Him if high-ruling ZeusBring to me safe, let the restGo as it will! But if thisClash with justice, the GodsForgive my folly, and workVengeance on sinner and sin—Only to me give my child!
The Chorus
str.8.Hear us and help us, Shade of our King!
Merope
str.9.A return, O Father! give to thy boy!
The Chorus
ant.8.Send an avenger, Gods of the dead!