Meropeant.9.An avenger I ask not—send me my son!The ChorusO Queen, for an avenger to appear,Thinking that so I pray'd aright, I pray'd;If I pray'd wrongly, I revoke the prayer.MeropeForgive me, maidens, if I seem too slackIn calling vengeance on a murderer's head.Impious I deem the alliance which he asks,Requite him words severe for seeming kind,And righteous, if he falls, I count his fall.With this, to those unbribed inquisitorsWho in man's inmost bosom sit and judge,The true avengers these, I leave his deed,By him shown fair, but, I believe, most foul.If these condemn him, let them pass his doom!That doom obtain effect, from Gods or men!So be it; yet will that more solace bringTo the chafed heart of Justice than to mine.To hear another tumult in these streets,To have another murder in these halls,To see another mighty victim bleed—Small comfort offers for a woman there!A woman, O my friends, has one desire:To see secure, to live with, those she loves.Can vengeance give me back the murdered? no!Can it bring home my child? Ah, if it can,I pray the Furies' ever-restless band,And pray the Gods, and pray the all-seeing sun:"Sun, who careerest through the height of Heaven,When o'er the Arcadian forests thou art come,And see'st my stripling hunter there afield,Put tightness in thy gold-embossed rein,And check thy fiery steeds, and, leaning back,Throw him a pealing word of summons down,To come, a late avenger, to the aidOf this poor soul who bare him, and his sire."If this will bring him back, be this my prayer!But Vengeance travels in a dangerous way,Double of issue, full of pits and snaresFor all who pass, pursuers and pursued—That way is dubious for a mother's prayer.Rather on thee I call, Husband beloved—May Hermes, herald of the dead, conveyMy words below to thee, and make thee hear—Bring back our son! if may be, without blood!Install him in thy throne, still without blood!Grant him to reign there wise and just like thee,More fortunate than thee, more fairly judged!This for our son; and for myself I pray,Soon, having once beheld him, to descendInto the quiet gloom, where thou art now.These words to thine indulgent ear, thy wife,I send, and these libations pour the while.[They make their offerings at the tomb.Meropethen turns to go towards the palace.The ChorusThe dead hath now his offerings duly paid.But whither go'st thou hence, O Queen, away?MeropeTo receive Arcas, who to-day should come,Bringing me of my boy the annual news.The ChorusNo certain news if like the rest it run.MeropeCertain in this, that 'tis uncertain still.The ChorusWhat keeps him in Arcadia from return?MeropeHis grandsire and his uncles fear the risk.The ChorusOf what? it lies with them to make risk none.MeropeDiscovery of a visit made by stealth.The ChorusWith arms then they should send him, not by stealth.MeropeWith arms they dare not, and by stealth they fear.The ChorusI doubt their caution little suits their ward.MeropeThe heart of youth I know; that most I fear.The ChorusI augur thou wilt hear some bold resolve.MeropeI dare not wish it; but, at least, to hearThat my son still survives, in health, in bloom;To hear that still he loves, still longs for, me,Yet, with a light uncareworn spirit, turnsQuick from distressful thought, and floats in joy—Thus much from Arcas, my old servant true,Who saved him from these murderous halls a babe,And since has fondly watch'd him night and daySave for this annual charge, I hope to hear.If this be all, I know not; but I know,These many years I live for this alone.[Meropegoes in.The Chorusstr.1.Much is there which the seaConceals from man, who cannot plumb its depths.Air to his unwing'd form denies a way,And keeps its liquid solitudes unscaled.Even earth, whereon he treads,So feeble is his march, so slow,Holds countless tracts untrod.ant.1.But more than all unplumb'd,Unscaled, untrodden, is the heart of man.More than all secrets hid, the way it keeps.Nor any of our organs so obtuse,Inaccurate, and frail,As those wherewith we try to testFeelings and motives there.str.2.Yea, and not only have we not exploredThat wide and various world, the heart of others,But even our own heart, that narrow worldBounded in our own breast, we hardly know,Of our own actions dimly trace the causes.Whether a natural obscureness, hidingThat region in perpetual cloud,Or our own want of effort, be the bar.ant.2.Therefore—while acts are from their motives judged,And to one act many most unlike motives,This pure, that guilty, may have each impell'd—Power fails us to try clearly if that causeAssign'd us by the actor be the true one;Power fails the man himself to fix distinctlyThe cause which drew him to his deed,And stamp himself, thereafter, bad or good.str.3.The most are bad, wise men have saidLet the best rule, they say again.The best, then, to dominion hath the right.Rights unconceded and denied,Surely, if rights, may be by force asserted—May be, nay should, if for the general weal.The best, then, to the throne may carve his way,And strike opposers down,Free from all guilt of lawlessness,Or selfish lust of personal power;Bent only to serve virtue,Bent to diminish wrong.ant.3.And truly, in this ill-ruled world,Well sometimes may the good desireTo give to virtue her dominion due!Well may he long to interruptThe reign of folly, usurpation ever,Though fenced by sanction of a thousand years!Well thirst to drag the wrongful ruler down;Well purpose to pen backInto the narrow path of rightThe ignorant, headlong multitude,Who blindly follow, ever,Blind leaders, to their bane!str.4.But who can say, without a fear:That best, who ought to rule, am I;The mob, who ought to obey, are these;I the one righteous, they the many bad?Who, without check of conscience, can averThat he to power makes way by arms,Sheds blood, imprisons, banishes, attaints,Commits all deeds the guilty oftenest do,Without a single guilty thought,Arm'd for right only, and the general good?ant.4.Therefore, with censure unallay'd,Therefore, with unexcepting ban,Zeus and pure-thoughted Justice brandImperious self-asserting violence;Sternly condemn the too bold man, who daresElect himself Heaven's destined arm;And, knowing well man's inmost heart infirm,However noble the committer be,His grounds however specious shown,Turn with averted eyes from deeds of blood.epode.Thus, though a woman, I was school'dBy those whom I revere.Whether I learnt their lessons well,Or, having learnt them, well applyTo what hath in this house befall'n,If in the event be any proof,The event will quickly show.[Æpytuscomes in.ÆpytusMaidens, assure me if they told me trueWho told me that the royal house was here.The ChorusRightly they told thee, and thou art arrived.ÆpytusHere, then, it is, where Polyphontes dwells?The ChorusHe doth; thou hast both house and master right.ÆpytusMight some one straight inform him he is sought?The ChorusInform him that thyself, for here he comes.[Polyphontescomes forth, withAttendantsandGuards.ÆpytusO King, all hail! I come with weighty news;Most likely, grateful; but, in all case, sure.PolyphontesSpeak them, that I may judge their kind myself.ÆpytusAccept them in one word, for good or bad:Æpytus, the Messenian prince, is dead!PolyphontesDead!—and when died he? where? and by what hand?And who art thou, who bringest me such news?ÆpytusHe perish'd in Arcadia, where he dweltWith Cypselus; and two days since he died.One of the train of Cypselus am I.PolyphontesInstruct me of the manner of his death.ÆpytusThat will I do, and to this end I came.For, being of like age, of birth not mean,The son of an Arcadian noble, IWas chosen his companion from a boy;And on the hunting-rambles which his heart,Unquiet, drove him ever to pursueThrough all the lordships of the Arcadian dales,From chief to chief, I wander'd at his side,The captain of his squires, and his guard.On such a hunting-journey, three morns since,With beaters, hounds, and huntsmen, he and ISet forth from Tegea, the royal town.The prince at start seem'd sad, but his regardClear'd with blithe travel and the morning air.We rode from Tegea, through the woods of oaks,Past Arnê spring, where Rhea gave the babePoseidon to the shepherd-boys to hideFrom Saturn's search among the new-yean'd lambs,To Mantineia, with its unbaked walls;Thence, by the Sea-God's Sanctuary and the tombWhither from wintry Mænalus were broughtThe bones of Arcas, whence our race is named,On, to the marshy Orchomenian plain,And the Stone Coffins;—then, by Caphyæ Cliffs,To Pheneos with its craggy citadel.There, with the chief of that hill-town, we lodgedOne night; and the next day at dawn fared onBy the Three Fountains and the Adder's HillTo the Stymphalian Lake, our journey's end,To draw the coverts on Cyllenê's side.There, on a high green spur which bathes its pointFar in the liquid lake, we sate, and drewCates from our hunters' pouch, Arcadian fare,Sweet chestnuts, barley-cakes, and boar's-flesh dried;And as we ate, and rested there, we talk'dOf places we had pass'd, sport we had had,Of beasts of chase that haunt the Arcadian hills,Wild hog, and bear, and mountain-deer, and roe;Last, of our quarters with the Arcadian chiefs.For courteous entertainment, welcome warm,Sad, reverential homage, had our princeFrom all, for his great lineage and his woes;All which he own'd, and praised with grateful mind.But still over his speech a gloom there hung,As of one shadow'd by impending death;And strangely, as we talk'd, he would applyThe story of spots mention'd to his own;Telling us, Arnê minded him, he tooWas saved a babe, but to a life obscure,Which he, the seed of Heracles, dragg'd onInglorious, and should drop at last unknown,Even as those dead unepitaph'd, who lieIn the stone coffins at Orchomenus.And, then, he bade remember how we pass'dThe Mantineän Sanctuary, forbidTo foot of mortal, where his ancestor,Named Æpytus like him, having gone in,Was blinded by the outgushing springs of brine.Then, turning westward to the Adder's Hill—Another ancestor, named, too, like me,Died of a snake-bite, said he,on that brow;Still at his mountain-tomb men marvel, builtWhere, as life ebb'd, his bearers laid him down.So he play'd on; then ended, with a smile:This region is not happy for my race.We cheer'd him; but, that moment, from the copseBy the lake-edge, broke the sharp cry of hounds;The prickers shouted that the stag was gone.We sprang upon our feet, we snatch'd our spears,We bounded down the swarded slope, we plungedThrough the dense ilex-thickets to the dogs.Far in the woods ahead their music rang;And many times that morn we coursed in ringThe forests round that belt Cyllenê's side;Till I, thrown out and tired, came to haltOn that same spur where we had sate at morn.And resting there to breathe, I watch'd the chase—Rare, straggling hunters, foil'd by brake and crag,And the prince, single, pressing on the rearOf that unflagging quarry and the hounds.Now in the woods far down I saw them crossAn open glade; now he was high aloftOn some tall scar fringed with dark feathery pines,Peering to spy a goat-track down the cliff,Cheering with hand, and voice, and horn his dogs.At last the cry drew to the water's edge—And through the brushwood, to the pebbly strand,Broke, black with sweat, the antler'd mountain-stag,And took the lake. Two hounds alone pursued,Then came the prince; he shouted and plunged in.—There is a chasm rifted in the baseOf that unfooted precipice, whose rockWalls on one side the deep Stymphalian Lake;There the lake-waters, which in ages goneWash'd, as the marks upon the hills still show,All the Stymphalian plain, are now suck'd down.A headland, with one aged plane-tree crown'd,Parts from this cave-pierced cliff the shelving bayWhere first the chase plunged in; the bay is smooth,But round the headland's point a current sets,Strong, black, tempestuous, to the cavern-mouth.Stoutly, under the headland's lee, they swam;But when they came abreast the point, the raceCaught them as wind takes feathers, whirl'd them roundStruggling in vain to cross it, swept them on,Stag, dogs, and hunter, to the yawning gulph.All this, O King, not piecemeal, as to theeNow told, but in one flashing instant pass'd.While from the turf whereon I lay I sprangAnd took three strides, quarry and dogs were gone;A moment more—I saw the prince turn roundOnce in the black and arrowy race, and castAn arm aloft for help; then sweep beneathThe low-brow'd cavern-arch, and disappear.And what I could, I did—to call by criesSome straggling hunters to my aid, to rouseFishers who live on the lake-side, to launchBoats, and approach, near as we dared, the chasm.But of the prince nothing remain'd, save this,His boar-spear's broken shaft, back on the lakeCast by the rumbling subterranean stream;And this, at landing spied by us and saved,His broad-brimm'd hunter's hat, which, in the bay,Where first the stag took water, floated still.And I across the mountains brought with hasteTo Cypselus, at Basilis, this news—Basilis, his new city, which he nowNear Lycosura builds, Lycaon's town,First city founded on the earth by men.He to thee sends me on, in one thing glad,While all else grieves him, that his grandchild's deathExtinguishes distrust 'twixt him and thee.But I from our deplored mischance learn this:The man who to untimely death is doom'd,Vainly you hedge him from the assault of harm;He bears the seed of ruin in himself.The Chorus.So dies the last shoot of our royal tree!Who shall tell Merope this heavy news?PolyphontesStranger, this news thou bringest is too greatFor instant comment, having many sidesOf import, and in silence best received,Whether it turn at last to joy or woe.But thou, the zealous bearer, hast no partIn what it hath of painful, whether now,First heard, or in its future issue shown.Thou for thy labour hast deserved our bestRefreshment, needed by thee, as I judge,With mountain-travel and night-watching spent.—To the guest-chamber lead him, some one! giveAll entertainment which a traveller needs,And such as fits a royal house to show;To friends, still more, and labourers in our cause.[AttendantsconductÆpytuswithin the palace.The ChorusThe youth is gone within; alas! he bearsA presence sad for some one through those doors.PolyphontesAdmire then, maidens, how in one short hourThe schemes, pursued in vain for twenty years,Are—by a stroke, though undesired, complete—Crown'd with success, not in my way, but Heaven's!This at a moment, too, when I had urgedA last, long-cherish'd project, in my aimOf peace, and been repulsed with hate and scorn.Fair terms of reconcilement, equal rule,I offer'd to my foes, and they refused;Worse terms than mine they have obtain'd from Heaven.Dire is this blow for Merope; and IWish'd, truly wish'd, solution to our broilOther than by this death; but it hath come!I speak no word of boast, but this I say:A private loss here founds a nation's peace.[Polyphontesgoes out.The Chorusstr.Peace, who tarriest too long;Peace, with delight in thy train;Come, come back to our prayer!Then shall the revel againVisit our streets, and the soundOf the harp be heard with the pipe,When the flashing torches appearIn the marriage-train coming on,With dancing maidens and boys—While the matrons come to the doors,And the old men rise from their bench,When the youths bring home the bride.ant.Not condemn'd by my voiceHe who restores thee shall be,Not unfavour'd by Heaven.Surely no sinner the man,Dread though his acts, to whose handSuch a boon to bring hath been given.Let her come, fair Peace! let her come!But the demons long nourish'd here,Murder, Discord, and Hate,In the stormy desolate wavesOf the Thracian Sea let her leave,Or the howling outermost main![Meropecomes forth.MeropeA whisper through the palace flies of oneArrived from Tegea with weighty news:And I came, thinking to find Arcas here.Ye have not left this gate, which he must pass;Tell me—hath one not come? or, worse mischance,Come, but been intercepted by the King?The ChorusA messenger, sent from Arcadia here,Arrived, and of the King had speech but now.MeropeAh me! the wrong expectant got his news.The ChorusThe message brought was for the King design'd.MeropeHow so? was Arcas not the messenger?The ChorusA younger man, and of a different name.MeropeAnd what Arcadian news had he to tell?The ChorusLearn that from other lips, O Queen, than mine.MeropeHe kept his tale, then, for the King alone?The ChorusHis tale was meeter for that ear than thine.MeropeWhy dost thou falter, and make half reply?The ChorusO thrice unhappy, how I groan thy fate!MeropeThou frightenest and confound'st me by thy words.O were but Arcas come, all would be well?The ChorusIf so, all's well: for look, the old man speedsUp from the city tow'rd this gated hill.[Arcascomes in.MeropeNot with the failing breath and foot of ageMy faithful follower comes. Welcome, old friend!ArcasFaithful, not welcome, when my tale is told.O that my over-speed and bursting griefHad on the journey choked my labouring breath,And lock'd my speech for ever in my breast!Yet then another man would bring this news,Wherewith from end to end Arcadia rings.—O honour'd Queen, thy son, my charge, is gone.The ChorusToo suddenly thou tellest such a loss.Look up, O Queen! look up, O mistress dear!Look up, and see thy friends who comfort thee.MeropeAh ... Ah ... Ah me!The ChorusAnd I, too, say, ah me!ArcasForgive, forgive the bringer of such news!MeropeBetter from thine than from an enemy's tongue.The ChorusAnd yet no enemy did this, O Queen:But the wit-baffling will and hand of Heaven.ArcasNo enemy! and what hast thou, then, heard?Swift as I came, hath falsehood been before?The ChorusA youth arrived but now—the son, he said,Of an Arcadian lord—our prince's friend—Jaded with travel, clad in hunter's garb.He brought report that his own eyes had seenThe prince, in chase after a swimming stag,Swept down a chasm rifted in the cliffWhich hangs o'er the Stymphalian Lake, and drown'd.ArcasAh me! with what a foot doth treason post,While loyalty, with all her speed, is slow!Another tale, I trow, thy messengerFor the King's private ear reserves, like thisIn one thing only, that the prince is dead.The ChorusAnd how then runs this true and private tale?ArcasAs much to the King's wish, more to his shame.This young Arcadian noble, guard and mateTo Æpytus, the king seduced with gold,And had him at the prince's side in leash,Ready to slip on his unconscious prey.He on a hunting party two days since,Among the forests on Cyllenê's side,Perform'd good service for his bloody wage;Our prince, and the good Laias, whom his wardHad in a father's place, he basely murder'd.'Tis so, 'tis so, alas, for see the proof:Uncle and nephew disappear; their deathIs charged against this stripling; agents, fee'dTo ply 'twixt the Messenian king and him,Come forth, denounce the traffic and the traitor.Seized, he escapes—and next I find him here.Take this for true, the other tale for feign'd.The ChorusThe youth, thou say'st, we saw and heard but now—ArcasHe comes to tell his prompter he hath sped.The ChorusStill he repeats the drowning story here.ArcasTo thee—that needs no Œdipus to explain.The ChorusInterpret, then; for we, it seems, are dull.ArcasYour King desired the profit of his death,Not the black credit of his murderer.That stern word "murder" had too dread a soundFor the Messenian hearts, who loved the prince.The ChorusSuspicion grave I see, but no firm proof.MeropePeace! peace! all's clear.—The wicked watch and workWhile the good sleep; the workers have the day.Yes! yes! now I conceive the liberal graceOf this far-scheming tyrant, and his boonOf heirship to his kingdom for my son:He had his murderer ready, and the swordLifted, and that unwish'd-for heirship void—A tale, meanwhile, forged for his subjects' ears—And me, henceforth sole rival with himselfIn their allegiance, me, in my son's death-hour,When all turn'd tow'rds me, me he would have shownTo my Messenians, duped, disarm'd, despised,The willing sharer of his guilty rule,All claim to succour forfeit, to myselfHateful, by each Messenian heart abhorr'd.His offers I repell'd—but what of that?If with no rage, no fire of righteous hate,Such as ere now hath spurr'd to fearful deedsWeak women with a thousandth part my wrongs,But calm, but unresentful, I enduredHis offers, coldly heard them, cold repell'd?How must men think me abject, void of heart,While all this time I bear to linger onIn this blood-deluged palace, in whose hallsEither a vengeful Fury I should stalk,Or else not live at all!—but here I haunt,A pale, unmeaning ghost, powerless to frightOr harm, and nurse my longing for my son,A helpless one, I know it—but the GodsHave temper'd me e'en thus, and, in some souls,Misery, which rouses others, breaks the spring.And even now, my son, ah me! my son,Fain would I fade away, as I have lived,Without a cry, a struggle, or a blow,All vengeance unattempted, and descendTo the invisible plains, to roam with thee,Fit denizen, the lampless under-world——But with what eyes should I encounter thereMy husband, wandering with his stern compeers,Amphiaraos, or Mycenæ's king,Who led the Greeks to Ilium, Agamemnon,Betray'd like him, but, not like him, avenged?Or with what voice shall I the questions meetOf my two elder sons, slain long ago,Who sadly ask me, what, if not revenge,Kept me, their mother, from their side so long?Or how reply to thee, my child last-born,Last-murder'd, who reproachfully wilt say:Mother, I well believed thou lived'st onIn the detested palace of thy foe,With patience on thy face, death in thy heart,Counting, till I grew up, the laggard years,That our joint hands might then together payTo our unhappy house the debt we owe.My death makes my debt void, and doubles thine—But down thou fleest here, and leav'st our scourgeTriumphant, and condemnest all our raceTo lie in gloom, for ever unappeased.What shall I have to answer to such words?—No, something must be dared; and, great as erstOur dastard patience, be our daring now!Come, ye swift Furies, who to him ye hauntPermit no peace till your behests are done;Come Hermes, who dost friend the unjustly kill'd,And can'st teach simple ones to plot and feign;Come, lightning Passion, that with foot of fireAdvancest to the middle of a deedAlmost before 'tis plann'd; come, glowing Hate;Come, baneful Mischief, from thy murky denUnder the dripping black Tartarean cliffWhich Styx's awful waters trickle down—Inspire this coward heart, this flagging arm!How say ye, maidens, do ye know these prayers?Are these words Merope's—is this voice mine?Old man, old man, thou had'st my boy in charge,And he is lost, and thou hast that to atone!Fly, find me on the instant where conferThe murderer and his impious setter-on—And ye, keep faithful silence, friends, and markWhat one weak woman can achieve alone.
Merope
ant.9.An avenger I ask not—send me my son!
The Chorus
O Queen, for an avenger to appear,Thinking that so I pray'd aright, I pray'd;If I pray'd wrongly, I revoke the prayer.
Merope
Forgive me, maidens, if I seem too slackIn calling vengeance on a murderer's head.Impious I deem the alliance which he asks,Requite him words severe for seeming kind,And righteous, if he falls, I count his fall.With this, to those unbribed inquisitorsWho in man's inmost bosom sit and judge,The true avengers these, I leave his deed,By him shown fair, but, I believe, most foul.If these condemn him, let them pass his doom!That doom obtain effect, from Gods or men!So be it; yet will that more solace bringTo the chafed heart of Justice than to mine.To hear another tumult in these streets,To have another murder in these halls,To see another mighty victim bleed—Small comfort offers for a woman there!A woman, O my friends, has one desire:To see secure, to live with, those she loves.Can vengeance give me back the murdered? no!Can it bring home my child? Ah, if it can,I pray the Furies' ever-restless band,And pray the Gods, and pray the all-seeing sun:"Sun, who careerest through the height of Heaven,When o'er the Arcadian forests thou art come,And see'st my stripling hunter there afield,Put tightness in thy gold-embossed rein,And check thy fiery steeds, and, leaning back,Throw him a pealing word of summons down,To come, a late avenger, to the aidOf this poor soul who bare him, and his sire."If this will bring him back, be this my prayer!But Vengeance travels in a dangerous way,Double of issue, full of pits and snaresFor all who pass, pursuers and pursued—That way is dubious for a mother's prayer.Rather on thee I call, Husband beloved—May Hermes, herald of the dead, conveyMy words below to thee, and make thee hear—Bring back our son! if may be, without blood!Install him in thy throne, still without blood!Grant him to reign there wise and just like thee,More fortunate than thee, more fairly judged!This for our son; and for myself I pray,Soon, having once beheld him, to descendInto the quiet gloom, where thou art now.These words to thine indulgent ear, thy wife,I send, and these libations pour the while.
[They make their offerings at the tomb.Meropethen turns to go towards the palace.
The Chorus
The dead hath now his offerings duly paid.But whither go'st thou hence, O Queen, away?
Merope
To receive Arcas, who to-day should come,Bringing me of my boy the annual news.
The Chorus
No certain news if like the rest it run.
Merope
Certain in this, that 'tis uncertain still.
The Chorus
What keeps him in Arcadia from return?
Merope
His grandsire and his uncles fear the risk.
The Chorus
Of what? it lies with them to make risk none.
Merope
Discovery of a visit made by stealth.
The Chorus
With arms then they should send him, not by stealth.
Merope
With arms they dare not, and by stealth they fear.
The Chorus
I doubt their caution little suits their ward.
Merope
The heart of youth I know; that most I fear.
The Chorus
I augur thou wilt hear some bold resolve.
Merope
I dare not wish it; but, at least, to hearThat my son still survives, in health, in bloom;To hear that still he loves, still longs for, me,Yet, with a light uncareworn spirit, turnsQuick from distressful thought, and floats in joy—Thus much from Arcas, my old servant true,Who saved him from these murderous halls a babe,And since has fondly watch'd him night and daySave for this annual charge, I hope to hear.If this be all, I know not; but I know,These many years I live for this alone.
[Meropegoes in.
The Chorus
str.1.Much is there which the seaConceals from man, who cannot plumb its depths.Air to his unwing'd form denies a way,And keeps its liquid solitudes unscaled.Even earth, whereon he treads,So feeble is his march, so slow,Holds countless tracts untrod.
ant.1.But more than all unplumb'd,Unscaled, untrodden, is the heart of man.More than all secrets hid, the way it keeps.Nor any of our organs so obtuse,Inaccurate, and frail,As those wherewith we try to testFeelings and motives there.
str.2.Yea, and not only have we not exploredThat wide and various world, the heart of others,But even our own heart, that narrow worldBounded in our own breast, we hardly know,Of our own actions dimly trace the causes.Whether a natural obscureness, hidingThat region in perpetual cloud,Or our own want of effort, be the bar.
ant.2.Therefore—while acts are from their motives judged,And to one act many most unlike motives,This pure, that guilty, may have each impell'd—Power fails us to try clearly if that causeAssign'd us by the actor be the true one;Power fails the man himself to fix distinctlyThe cause which drew him to his deed,And stamp himself, thereafter, bad or good.
str.3.The most are bad, wise men have saidLet the best rule, they say again.The best, then, to dominion hath the right.Rights unconceded and denied,Surely, if rights, may be by force asserted—May be, nay should, if for the general weal.The best, then, to the throne may carve his way,And strike opposers down,Free from all guilt of lawlessness,Or selfish lust of personal power;Bent only to serve virtue,Bent to diminish wrong.
ant.3.And truly, in this ill-ruled world,Well sometimes may the good desireTo give to virtue her dominion due!Well may he long to interruptThe reign of folly, usurpation ever,Though fenced by sanction of a thousand years!Well thirst to drag the wrongful ruler down;Well purpose to pen backInto the narrow path of rightThe ignorant, headlong multitude,Who blindly follow, ever,Blind leaders, to their bane!
str.4.But who can say, without a fear:That best, who ought to rule, am I;The mob, who ought to obey, are these;I the one righteous, they the many bad?Who, without check of conscience, can averThat he to power makes way by arms,Sheds blood, imprisons, banishes, attaints,Commits all deeds the guilty oftenest do,Without a single guilty thought,Arm'd for right only, and the general good?
ant.4.Therefore, with censure unallay'd,Therefore, with unexcepting ban,Zeus and pure-thoughted Justice brandImperious self-asserting violence;Sternly condemn the too bold man, who daresElect himself Heaven's destined arm;And, knowing well man's inmost heart infirm,However noble the committer be,His grounds however specious shown,Turn with averted eyes from deeds of blood.
epode.Thus, though a woman, I was school'dBy those whom I revere.Whether I learnt their lessons well,Or, having learnt them, well applyTo what hath in this house befall'n,If in the event be any proof,The event will quickly show.
[Æpytuscomes in.
Æpytus
Maidens, assure me if they told me trueWho told me that the royal house was here.
The Chorus
Rightly they told thee, and thou art arrived.
Æpytus
Here, then, it is, where Polyphontes dwells?
The Chorus
He doth; thou hast both house and master right.
Æpytus
Might some one straight inform him he is sought?
The Chorus
Inform him that thyself, for here he comes.
[Polyphontescomes forth, withAttendantsandGuards.
Æpytus
O King, all hail! I come with weighty news;Most likely, grateful; but, in all case, sure.
Polyphontes
Speak them, that I may judge their kind myself.
Æpytus
Accept them in one word, for good or bad:Æpytus, the Messenian prince, is dead!
Polyphontes
Dead!—and when died he? where? and by what hand?And who art thou, who bringest me such news?
Æpytus
He perish'd in Arcadia, where he dweltWith Cypselus; and two days since he died.One of the train of Cypselus am I.
Polyphontes
Instruct me of the manner of his death.
Æpytus
That will I do, and to this end I came.For, being of like age, of birth not mean,The son of an Arcadian noble, IWas chosen his companion from a boy;And on the hunting-rambles which his heart,Unquiet, drove him ever to pursueThrough all the lordships of the Arcadian dales,From chief to chief, I wander'd at his side,The captain of his squires, and his guard.On such a hunting-journey, three morns since,With beaters, hounds, and huntsmen, he and ISet forth from Tegea, the royal town.The prince at start seem'd sad, but his regardClear'd with blithe travel and the morning air.We rode from Tegea, through the woods of oaks,Past Arnê spring, where Rhea gave the babePoseidon to the shepherd-boys to hideFrom Saturn's search among the new-yean'd lambs,To Mantineia, with its unbaked walls;Thence, by the Sea-God's Sanctuary and the tombWhither from wintry Mænalus were broughtThe bones of Arcas, whence our race is named,On, to the marshy Orchomenian plain,And the Stone Coffins;—then, by Caphyæ Cliffs,To Pheneos with its craggy citadel.There, with the chief of that hill-town, we lodgedOne night; and the next day at dawn fared onBy the Three Fountains and the Adder's HillTo the Stymphalian Lake, our journey's end,To draw the coverts on Cyllenê's side.There, on a high green spur which bathes its pointFar in the liquid lake, we sate, and drewCates from our hunters' pouch, Arcadian fare,Sweet chestnuts, barley-cakes, and boar's-flesh dried;And as we ate, and rested there, we talk'dOf places we had pass'd, sport we had had,Of beasts of chase that haunt the Arcadian hills,Wild hog, and bear, and mountain-deer, and roe;Last, of our quarters with the Arcadian chiefs.For courteous entertainment, welcome warm,Sad, reverential homage, had our princeFrom all, for his great lineage and his woes;All which he own'd, and praised with grateful mind.But still over his speech a gloom there hung,As of one shadow'd by impending death;And strangely, as we talk'd, he would applyThe story of spots mention'd to his own;Telling us, Arnê minded him, he tooWas saved a babe, but to a life obscure,Which he, the seed of Heracles, dragg'd onInglorious, and should drop at last unknown,Even as those dead unepitaph'd, who lieIn the stone coffins at Orchomenus.And, then, he bade remember how we pass'dThe Mantineän Sanctuary, forbidTo foot of mortal, where his ancestor,Named Æpytus like him, having gone in,Was blinded by the outgushing springs of brine.Then, turning westward to the Adder's Hill—Another ancestor, named, too, like me,Died of a snake-bite, said he,on that brow;Still at his mountain-tomb men marvel, builtWhere, as life ebb'd, his bearers laid him down.So he play'd on; then ended, with a smile:This region is not happy for my race.We cheer'd him; but, that moment, from the copseBy the lake-edge, broke the sharp cry of hounds;The prickers shouted that the stag was gone.We sprang upon our feet, we snatch'd our spears,We bounded down the swarded slope, we plungedThrough the dense ilex-thickets to the dogs.Far in the woods ahead their music rang;And many times that morn we coursed in ringThe forests round that belt Cyllenê's side;Till I, thrown out and tired, came to haltOn that same spur where we had sate at morn.And resting there to breathe, I watch'd the chase—Rare, straggling hunters, foil'd by brake and crag,And the prince, single, pressing on the rearOf that unflagging quarry and the hounds.Now in the woods far down I saw them crossAn open glade; now he was high aloftOn some tall scar fringed with dark feathery pines,Peering to spy a goat-track down the cliff,Cheering with hand, and voice, and horn his dogs.At last the cry drew to the water's edge—And through the brushwood, to the pebbly strand,Broke, black with sweat, the antler'd mountain-stag,And took the lake. Two hounds alone pursued,Then came the prince; he shouted and plunged in.—There is a chasm rifted in the baseOf that unfooted precipice, whose rockWalls on one side the deep Stymphalian Lake;There the lake-waters, which in ages goneWash'd, as the marks upon the hills still show,All the Stymphalian plain, are now suck'd down.A headland, with one aged plane-tree crown'd,Parts from this cave-pierced cliff the shelving bayWhere first the chase plunged in; the bay is smooth,But round the headland's point a current sets,Strong, black, tempestuous, to the cavern-mouth.Stoutly, under the headland's lee, they swam;But when they came abreast the point, the raceCaught them as wind takes feathers, whirl'd them roundStruggling in vain to cross it, swept them on,Stag, dogs, and hunter, to the yawning gulph.All this, O King, not piecemeal, as to theeNow told, but in one flashing instant pass'd.While from the turf whereon I lay I sprangAnd took three strides, quarry and dogs were gone;A moment more—I saw the prince turn roundOnce in the black and arrowy race, and castAn arm aloft for help; then sweep beneathThe low-brow'd cavern-arch, and disappear.And what I could, I did—to call by criesSome straggling hunters to my aid, to rouseFishers who live on the lake-side, to launchBoats, and approach, near as we dared, the chasm.But of the prince nothing remain'd, save this,His boar-spear's broken shaft, back on the lakeCast by the rumbling subterranean stream;And this, at landing spied by us and saved,His broad-brimm'd hunter's hat, which, in the bay,Where first the stag took water, floated still.And I across the mountains brought with hasteTo Cypselus, at Basilis, this news—Basilis, his new city, which he nowNear Lycosura builds, Lycaon's town,First city founded on the earth by men.He to thee sends me on, in one thing glad,While all else grieves him, that his grandchild's deathExtinguishes distrust 'twixt him and thee.But I from our deplored mischance learn this:The man who to untimely death is doom'd,Vainly you hedge him from the assault of harm;He bears the seed of ruin in himself.
The Chorus.
So dies the last shoot of our royal tree!Who shall tell Merope this heavy news?
Polyphontes
Stranger, this news thou bringest is too greatFor instant comment, having many sidesOf import, and in silence best received,Whether it turn at last to joy or woe.But thou, the zealous bearer, hast no partIn what it hath of painful, whether now,First heard, or in its future issue shown.Thou for thy labour hast deserved our bestRefreshment, needed by thee, as I judge,With mountain-travel and night-watching spent.—To the guest-chamber lead him, some one! giveAll entertainment which a traveller needs,And such as fits a royal house to show;To friends, still more, and labourers in our cause.
[AttendantsconductÆpytuswithin the palace.
The Chorus
The youth is gone within; alas! he bearsA presence sad for some one through those doors.
Polyphontes
Admire then, maidens, how in one short hourThe schemes, pursued in vain for twenty years,Are—by a stroke, though undesired, complete—Crown'd with success, not in my way, but Heaven's!This at a moment, too, when I had urgedA last, long-cherish'd project, in my aimOf peace, and been repulsed with hate and scorn.Fair terms of reconcilement, equal rule,I offer'd to my foes, and they refused;Worse terms than mine they have obtain'd from Heaven.Dire is this blow for Merope; and IWish'd, truly wish'd, solution to our broilOther than by this death; but it hath come!I speak no word of boast, but this I say:A private loss here founds a nation's peace.
[Polyphontesgoes out.
The Chorus
str.Peace, who tarriest too long;Peace, with delight in thy train;Come, come back to our prayer!Then shall the revel againVisit our streets, and the soundOf the harp be heard with the pipe,When the flashing torches appearIn the marriage-train coming on,With dancing maidens and boys—While the matrons come to the doors,And the old men rise from their bench,When the youths bring home the bride.
ant.Not condemn'd by my voiceHe who restores thee shall be,Not unfavour'd by Heaven.Surely no sinner the man,Dread though his acts, to whose handSuch a boon to bring hath been given.Let her come, fair Peace! let her come!But the demons long nourish'd here,Murder, Discord, and Hate,In the stormy desolate wavesOf the Thracian Sea let her leave,Or the howling outermost main!
[Meropecomes forth.
Merope
A whisper through the palace flies of oneArrived from Tegea with weighty news:And I came, thinking to find Arcas here.Ye have not left this gate, which he must pass;Tell me—hath one not come? or, worse mischance,Come, but been intercepted by the King?
The Chorus
A messenger, sent from Arcadia here,Arrived, and of the King had speech but now.
Merope
Ah me! the wrong expectant got his news.
The Chorus
The message brought was for the King design'd.
Merope
How so? was Arcas not the messenger?
The Chorus
A younger man, and of a different name.
Merope
And what Arcadian news had he to tell?
The Chorus
Learn that from other lips, O Queen, than mine.
Merope
He kept his tale, then, for the King alone?
The Chorus
His tale was meeter for that ear than thine.
Merope
Why dost thou falter, and make half reply?
The Chorus
O thrice unhappy, how I groan thy fate!
Merope
Thou frightenest and confound'st me by thy words.O were but Arcas come, all would be well?
The Chorus
If so, all's well: for look, the old man speedsUp from the city tow'rd this gated hill.
[Arcascomes in.
Merope
Not with the failing breath and foot of ageMy faithful follower comes. Welcome, old friend!
Arcas
Faithful, not welcome, when my tale is told.O that my over-speed and bursting griefHad on the journey choked my labouring breath,And lock'd my speech for ever in my breast!Yet then another man would bring this news,Wherewith from end to end Arcadia rings.—O honour'd Queen, thy son, my charge, is gone.
The Chorus
Too suddenly thou tellest such a loss.Look up, O Queen! look up, O mistress dear!Look up, and see thy friends who comfort thee.
Merope
Ah ... Ah ... Ah me!
The Chorus
And I, too, say, ah me!
Arcas
Forgive, forgive the bringer of such news!
Merope
Better from thine than from an enemy's tongue.
The Chorus
And yet no enemy did this, O Queen:But the wit-baffling will and hand of Heaven.
Arcas
No enemy! and what hast thou, then, heard?Swift as I came, hath falsehood been before?
The Chorus
A youth arrived but now—the son, he said,Of an Arcadian lord—our prince's friend—Jaded with travel, clad in hunter's garb.He brought report that his own eyes had seenThe prince, in chase after a swimming stag,Swept down a chasm rifted in the cliffWhich hangs o'er the Stymphalian Lake, and drown'd.
Arcas
Ah me! with what a foot doth treason post,While loyalty, with all her speed, is slow!Another tale, I trow, thy messengerFor the King's private ear reserves, like thisIn one thing only, that the prince is dead.
The Chorus
And how then runs this true and private tale?
Arcas
As much to the King's wish, more to his shame.This young Arcadian noble, guard and mateTo Æpytus, the king seduced with gold,And had him at the prince's side in leash,Ready to slip on his unconscious prey.He on a hunting party two days since,Among the forests on Cyllenê's side,Perform'd good service for his bloody wage;Our prince, and the good Laias, whom his wardHad in a father's place, he basely murder'd.'Tis so, 'tis so, alas, for see the proof:Uncle and nephew disappear; their deathIs charged against this stripling; agents, fee'dTo ply 'twixt the Messenian king and him,Come forth, denounce the traffic and the traitor.Seized, he escapes—and next I find him here.Take this for true, the other tale for feign'd.
The Chorus
The youth, thou say'st, we saw and heard but now—
Arcas
He comes to tell his prompter he hath sped.
The Chorus
Still he repeats the drowning story here.
Arcas
To thee—that needs no Œdipus to explain.
The Chorus
Interpret, then; for we, it seems, are dull.
Arcas
Your King desired the profit of his death,Not the black credit of his murderer.That stern word "murder" had too dread a soundFor the Messenian hearts, who loved the prince.
The Chorus
Suspicion grave I see, but no firm proof.
Merope
Peace! peace! all's clear.—The wicked watch and workWhile the good sleep; the workers have the day.Yes! yes! now I conceive the liberal graceOf this far-scheming tyrant, and his boonOf heirship to his kingdom for my son:He had his murderer ready, and the swordLifted, and that unwish'd-for heirship void—A tale, meanwhile, forged for his subjects' ears—And me, henceforth sole rival with himselfIn their allegiance, me, in my son's death-hour,When all turn'd tow'rds me, me he would have shownTo my Messenians, duped, disarm'd, despised,The willing sharer of his guilty rule,All claim to succour forfeit, to myselfHateful, by each Messenian heart abhorr'd.His offers I repell'd—but what of that?If with no rage, no fire of righteous hate,Such as ere now hath spurr'd to fearful deedsWeak women with a thousandth part my wrongs,But calm, but unresentful, I enduredHis offers, coldly heard them, cold repell'd?How must men think me abject, void of heart,While all this time I bear to linger onIn this blood-deluged palace, in whose hallsEither a vengeful Fury I should stalk,Or else not live at all!—but here I haunt,A pale, unmeaning ghost, powerless to frightOr harm, and nurse my longing for my son,A helpless one, I know it—but the GodsHave temper'd me e'en thus, and, in some souls,Misery, which rouses others, breaks the spring.And even now, my son, ah me! my son,Fain would I fade away, as I have lived,Without a cry, a struggle, or a blow,All vengeance unattempted, and descendTo the invisible plains, to roam with thee,Fit denizen, the lampless under-world——But with what eyes should I encounter thereMy husband, wandering with his stern compeers,Amphiaraos, or Mycenæ's king,Who led the Greeks to Ilium, Agamemnon,Betray'd like him, but, not like him, avenged?Or with what voice shall I the questions meetOf my two elder sons, slain long ago,Who sadly ask me, what, if not revenge,Kept me, their mother, from their side so long?Or how reply to thee, my child last-born,Last-murder'd, who reproachfully wilt say:Mother, I well believed thou lived'st onIn the detested palace of thy foe,With patience on thy face, death in thy heart,Counting, till I grew up, the laggard years,That our joint hands might then together payTo our unhappy house the debt we owe.My death makes my debt void, and doubles thine—But down thou fleest here, and leav'st our scourgeTriumphant, and condemnest all our raceTo lie in gloom, for ever unappeased.What shall I have to answer to such words?—No, something must be dared; and, great as erstOur dastard patience, be our daring now!Come, ye swift Furies, who to him ye hauntPermit no peace till your behests are done;Come Hermes, who dost friend the unjustly kill'd,And can'st teach simple ones to plot and feign;Come, lightning Passion, that with foot of fireAdvancest to the middle of a deedAlmost before 'tis plann'd; come, glowing Hate;Come, baneful Mischief, from thy murky denUnder the dripping black Tartarean cliffWhich Styx's awful waters trickle down—Inspire this coward heart, this flagging arm!How say ye, maidens, do ye know these prayers?Are these words Merope's—is this voice mine?Old man, old man, thou had'st my boy in charge,And he is lost, and thou hast that to atone!Fly, find me on the instant where conferThe murderer and his impious setter-on—And ye, keep faithful silence, friends, and markWhat one weak woman can achieve alone.