ÆpytusO suffering! O calamity! how ten,How twentyfold worse are ye, when your blowsNot only wound the sense, but kill the soul,The noble thought, which is alone the man!That I, to-day returning, find myselfOrphan'd of both my parents—by his foesMy father, by your strokes my mother slain!For this is not my mother, who dissuades,At the dread altar of her husband's tomb,His son from vengeance on his murderer;And not alone dissuades him, but comparesHis just revenge to an unnatural deed,A deed so awful, that the general tongueFluent of horrors, falters to relate it—Of darkness so tremendous, that its author,Though to his act empower'd, nay, impell'd,By the oracular sentence of the Gods,Fled, for years after, o'er the face of earth,A frenzied wanderer, a God-driven man,And hardly yet, some say, hath found a grave—With such a deed asthisthou matchest mine,Which Nature sanctions, which the innocent bloodClamours to find fulfill'd, which good men praise,And only bad men joy to see undone!O honour'd father! hide thee in thy graveDeep as thou canst, for hence no succour comes;Since from thy faithful subjects what revengeCanst thou expect, when thus thy widow fails?Alas! an adamantine strength indeed,Past expectation, hath thy murderer built;For this is the true strength of guilty kings,When they corrupt the souls of those they rule.The ChorusZeal makes him most unjust; but, in good time,Here, as I guess, the noble Laias comes.LaiasBreak off, break off your talking, and departEach to his post, where the occasion calls;Lest from the council-chamber presentlyThe King return, and find you prating here.A time will come for greetings; but to-dayThe hour for words is gone, is come for deeds.ÆpytusO princely Laias! to what purpose callsThe occasion, if our chief confederate fails?My mother stands aloof, and blames our deed.LaiasMy royal sister?... but, without some cause,I know, she honours not the dead so ill.MeropeBrother, it seems thy sister must present,At this first meeting after absence long,Not welcome, exculpation to her kin;Yet exculpation needs it, if I seek,A woman and a mother, to avertRisk from my new-restored, my only son?—Sometimes, when he was gone, I wish'd him back,Risk what he might; now that I have him here,Now that I feed mine eyes on that young face,Hear that fresh voice, and clasp that gold-lock'd head,I shudder, Laias, to commit my childTo murder's dread arena, where I sawHis father and his ill-starr'd brethren fall!I loathe for him the slippery way of blood;I ask if bloodless means may gain his end.In me the fever of revengeful hate,Passion's first furious longing to imbrueOur own right hand in the detested bloodOf enemies, and count their dying groans—If in this feeble bosom such a fireDid ever burn—is long by time allay'd,And I would now have Justice strike, not me.Besides—for from my brother and my sonI hide not even this—the reverence deep,Remorseful, tow'rd my hostile solitude,By Polyphontes never fail'd-in onceThrough twenty years; his mournful anxious zealTo efface in me the memory of his crime—Though it efface not that, yet makes me wishHis death a public, not a personal act,Treacherously plotted 'twixt my son and me;To whom this day he came to proffer peace,Treaty, and to this kingdom for my sonHeirship, with fair intent, as I believe.—For that he plots thy death, account it false;[toÆpytus.Number it with the thousand rumours vain,Figments of plots, wherewith intriguers fillThe enforcéd leisure of an exile's ear.Immersed in serious state-craft is the King,Bent above all to pacify, to rule,Rigidly, yet in settled calm, this realm;Not prone, all say, averse to bloodshed now.—So much is due to truth, even tow'rds our foe.[toLaiasDo I, then, give to usurpation grace,And from his natural rights my son debar?Not so! let him—and none shall be more promptThan I to help—raise his Messenian friends;Let him fetch succours from Arcadia, gainHis Argive or his Spartan cousins' aid;Let him do this, do aught but recommenceMurder's uncertain, secret, perilous game—And I, when to his righteous standard downFlies Victory wing'd, and Justice raisesthenHer sword, will be the first to bid it fall.If, haply, at this moment, such attemptPromise not fair, let him a little whileHave faith, and trust the future and the Gods.He may; for never did the Gods allowFast permanence to an ill-gotten throne.—These are but woman's words—yet, Laias, thouDespise them not! for, brother, thou and IWere not among the feuds of warrior-chiefs,Each sovereign for his dear-bought hour, born;But in the pastoral Arcadia rear'd,With Cypselus our father, where we sawThe simple patriarchal state of kings,Where sire to son transmits the unquestion'd crown,Unhack'd, unsmirch'd, unbloodied, and have learntThat spotless hands unshaken sceptres hold.Having learnt this, then, use thy knowledge now.The ChorusWhich way to lean I know not: bloody strokesAre never free from doubt, though sometimes due.LaiasO Merope, the common heart of manAgrees to deem some deeds so dark in guilt,That neither gratitude, nor tie of race,Womanly pity, nor maternal fear,Nor any pleader else, shall be indulgedTo breathe a syllable to bar revenge.All this, no doubt, thou to thyself hast urged—Time presses, so that theme forbear I now;Direct to thy dissuasions I reply.Blood-founded thrones, thou say'st, are insecure;Our father's kingdom, because pure, is safe.True; but what cause to our Arcadia givesIts privileged immunity from blood,But that, since first the black and fruitful EarthIn the primeval mountain-forests borePelasgus, our forefather and mankind's,Legitimately sire to son, with us,Bequeaths the allegiance of our shepherd-tribes,More loyal, as our line continues more?—How can your Heracleidan chiefs inspireThis awe which guards our earth-sprung, lineal kings?What permanence, what stability like ours,Whether blood flows or no, can yet investThe broken order of your Dorian thrones,Fix'd yesterday, and ten times changed since then?—Two brothers, and their orphan nephews, stroveFor the three conquer'd kingdoms of this isle;The eldest, mightiest brother, Temenus, tookArgos; a juggle to Cresphontes gaveMessenia; to those helpless Boys, the lotWorst of the three, the stony Sparta, fell.August, indeed, was the foundation here!What follow'd?—His most trusted kinsman slewCresphontes in Messenia; TemenusPerish'd in Argos by his jealous sons;The Spartan Brothers with their guardian strive.Can houses thus ill-seated, thus embroil'd,Thus little founded in their subjects' love,Practise the indulgent, bloodless policyOf dynasties long-fix'd, and honour'd long?No! Vigour and severity must chainPopular reverence to these recent lines.Be their first-founded order strict maintain'd—Their murder'd rulers terribly avenged—Ruthlessly their rebellious subjects crush'd!Since policy bids thus, what fouler deathThan thine illustrious husband's to avengeShall we select? than Polyphontes, whatMore daring and more grand offender find?Justice, my sister, long demands this blow,And Wisdom, now thou see'st, demands it too.To strike it, then, dissuade thy son no more;For to live disobedient to these two,Justice and Wisdom, is no life at all.The ChorusThe Gods, O mistress dear! the hard-soul'd man,Who spared not others, bid not us to spare.MeropeAlas! against my brother, son, and friends,One, and a woman, how can I prevail?—O brother, thou hast conquer'd; yet, I fear!Son! with a doubting heart thy mother yields;May it turn happier than my doubts portend!LaiasMeantime on thee the task of silence onlyShall be imposed; to us shall be the deed.Now, not another word, but to our act!Nephew! thy friends are sounded, and prove true.Thy father's murderer, in the public place,Performs, this noon, a solemn sacrifice;Be with him—choose the moment—strike thy blow!If prudence counsels thee to go unarm'd,The sacrificer's axe will serve thy turn.To me and the Messenians leave the rest,With the Gods' aid—and, if they give but aidAs our just cause deserves, I do not fear.[Æpytus, Laias,andArcasgo out.The Chorusstr. 1.O Son and Mother,Whom the Gods o'ershadowIn dangerous trial,With certainty of favour!As erst they shadow'dYour race's foundersFrom irretrievable woe;When the seed of LycaonLay forlorn, lay outcast,Callisto and her Boy.ant. 1.What deep-grass'd meadowAt the meeting valleys—Where clear-flowing Ladon,Most beautiful of waters,Receives the riverWhose trout are vocal,The Aroanian stream—Without home, without mother,Hid the babe, hid Arcas,The nursling of the dells?str. 2.But the sweet-smelling myrtle,And the pink-flower'd oleander,And the green agnus-castus,To the west-wind's murmur,Rustled round his cradle;And Maia rear'd him.Then, a boy, he startled,In the snow-fill'd hollowsOf high Cyllenê,The white mountain-birds;Or surprised, in the glens,The basking tortoises,Whose striped shell foundedIn the hand of HermesThe glory of the lyre.ant. 2.But his mother, Callisto,In her hiding-place of the thicketsOf the lentisk and ilexIn her rough form, fearingThe hunter on the outlook,Poor changeling! trembled.Or the children, pluckingIn the thorn-choked gulliesWild gooseberries, scared her,The shy mountain-bear!Or the shepherds, on slopesWith pale-spiked lavenderAnd crisp thyme tufted,Came upon her, stealingAt day-break through the dew.str. 3.Once, 'mid those gorges,Spray-drizzled, lonely,Unclimb'd of man—O'er whose cliffs the townsmenOf crag-perch'd NonacrisBehold in summerThe slender torrentOf Styx come dancing,A wind-blown thread—By the precipices of Khelmos,The fleet, desperate hunter,The youthful Arcas, born of Zeus,His fleeing mother,Transform'd Callisto,Unwitting follow'd—And raised his spear.ant. 3.Turning, with piteous,Distressful longing,Sad, eager eyes,Mutely she regardedHer well-known enemy.Low moans half utter'dWhat speech refused her;Tears coursed, tears human,Down those disfigured,Once human cheeks.With unutterable forebodingHer son, heart-stricken, eyed her.The Gods had pity, made them Stars.Stars now they sparkleIn the northern Heaven—The guard Arcturus,The guard-watch'd Bear.epode.So, o'er thee and thy child,Some God, Merope, now,In dangerous hour, stretches his hand.So, like a star, dawns thy son,Radiant with fortune and joy.[Polyphontescomes in.PolyphontesO Merope, the trouble on thy faceTells me enough thou know'st the news which allMessenia speaks! the prince, thy son, is dead.Not from my lips should consolation fall;To offer that, I come not; but to urge,Even after news of this sad death, our league.Yes, once again I come; I will not takeThis morning's angry answer for thy last.To the Messenian kingdom thou and IAre the sole claimants left; what cause of strifeLay in thy son is buried in his grave.Most honourably I meant, I call the GodsTo witness, offering him return and power;Yet, had he lived, suspicion, jealousy,Inevitably had surged up, perhaps,'Twixt thee and me—suspicion, that I nursedSome ill design against him; jealousy,That he enjoy'd but part, being heir to all.And he himself, with the impetuous heartOf youth, 'tis like, had never quite forgoneThe thought of vengeance on me, never quiteUnclosed his itching fingers from his sword.But thou, O Merope, though deeply wrong'd,Though injured past forgiveness, as men deem,Yet hast been long at school with thoughtful time,And from that teacher may'st have learn'd, like me,That all may be endured, and all forgiv'n—Have learn'd, that we must sacrifice the bentOf personal feeling to the public weal—Have learn'd, that there are guilty deeds, which leaveThe hand that does them guiltless; in a word,That kings live for their peoples, not themselves.This having known, let us a union found(For the last time I ask, ask earnestly)Based on pure public welfare; let us beNot Merope and Polyphontes, foesBlood-sever'd, but Messenia's King and Queen!Let us forget ourselves for those we rule!Speak! I go hence to offer sacrificeTo the Preserver Zeus; let me returnThanks to him for our amity as well.MeropeOh had'st thou, Polyphontes, still but keptThe silence thou hast kept for twenty years!PolyphontesHenceforth, if what I urge displease, I may.But fair proposal merits fair reply.MeropeAnd thou shalt have it! Yes, because thouhastFor twenty years forborne to interruptThe solitude of her whom thou hast wrong'd—That scanty grace shall earn thee this reply.—First, for our union. Trust me, 'twixt us twoThe brazen footed Fury ever stalks,Waving her hundred hands, a torch in each,Aglow with angry fire, to keep us twain.Now, for thyself. Thou com'st with well-cloak'd joy,To announce the ruin of my husband's house,To sound thy triumph in his widow's ears,To bid her share thine unendanger'd throne.To this thou would'st have answer. Take it: Fly!...Cut short thy triumph, seeming at its height;Fling off thy crown, supposed at last secure;Forsake this ample, proud Messenian realm;To some small, humble, and unnoted strand,Some rock more lonely than that Lemnian isleWhere Philoctetes pined, take ship and flee!Some solitude more inaccessibleThan the ice-bastion'd Caucasian MountChosen a prison for Prometheus, climb!There in unvoiced oblivion sink thy name,And bid the sun, thine only visitant,Divulge not to the far-off world of menWhat once-famed wretch he there did espy hid.There nurse a late remorse, and thank the Gods,And thank thy bitterest foe, that, having lostAll things but life, thou lose not life as well.PolyphontesWhat mad bewilderment of grief is this?MeropeThouart bewilder'd; the sane head is mine.PolyphontesI pity thee, and wish thee calmer mind.MeropePity thyself; none needs compassion more.PolyphontesYet, oh! could'st thou but act as reason bids!MeropeAnd in my turn I wish the same for thee.PolyphontesAll I could do to soothe thee has been tried.MeropeFor that, in this my warning, thou art paid.PolyphontesKnow'st thou then aught, that thus thou sound'st the alarm?MeropeThy crime! that were enough to make one fear.PolyphontesMy deed is of old date, and long atoned.MeropeAtoned this very day, perhaps, it is.PolyphontesMy final victory proves the Gods appeased.MeropeO victor, victor, trip not at the goal!PolyphontesHatred and passionate envy blind thine eyes.MeropeO Heaven-abandon'd wretch, that envies thee!PolyphontesThou hold'st so cheap, then, the Messenian crown?MeropeI think on what the future hath in store.PolyphontesTo-day I reign; the rest I leave to Fate.MeropeFor Fate thou wait'st not long; since, in this hour——PolyphontesWhat? for so far Fate hath not proved my foe—MeropeFate seals my lips, and drags to ruin thee.PolyphontesEnough! enough! I will no longer hearThe ill-boding note which frantic hatred soundsTo affright a fortune which the Gods secure.Once more my friendship thou rejectest; well!More for this land's sake grieve I, than mine own.I chafe not with thee, that thy hate endures,Nor bend myself too low, to make it yield.What I have done is done; by my own deed,Neither exulting nor ashamed, I stand.Why should this heart of mine set mighty storeBy the construction and report of men?Not men's good word hath made me what I am.Alone I master'd power; and alone,Since so thou wilt, I dare maintain it still.[Polyphontesgoes out.The Chorusstr. 1.Did I then waver(O woman's judgment!)Misled by seemingSuccess of crime?And ask, if sometimesThe Gods, perhaps, allow'd you,O lawless daring of the strong,O self-will recklessly indulged?ant. 1.Not time, not lightning,Not rain, not thunder,Efface the endlessDecrees of Heaven—Make Justice alter,Revoke, assuage her sentence,Which dooms dread ends to dreadful deeds,And violent deaths to violent men.str. 2.But the signal exampleOf invariableness of justiceOur glorious founderHeracles gave us,Son loved of Zeus his father—for he sinn'd,ant. 2.And the strand of Eubœa,And the promontory of Cenæum,His painful, solemnPunishment witness'd,Beheld his expiation—for he died.str. 3.O villages of ŒtaWith hedges of the wild rose!O pastures of the mountain,Of short grass, beaded with dew,Between the pine-woods and the cliffs!O cliffs, left by the eagles,On that morn, when the smoke-cloudFrom the oak-built, fiercely-burning pyre,Up the precipices of Trachis,Drove them screaming from their eyries!A willing, a willing sacrifice on that dayYe witness'd, ye mountain lawns,When the shirt-wrapt, poison-blister'd HeroAscended, with undaunted heart,Living, his own funeral-pile,And stood, shouting for a fiery torch;And the kind, chance-arrived Wanderer,[30]The inheritor of the bow,Coming swiftly through the sad Trachinians,Put the torch to the pile.That the flame tower'd on high to the Heaven;Bearing with it, to Olympus,To the side of Hebe,To immortal delight,The labour-released Hero.ant. 3.O heritage of Neleus,Ill-kept by his infirm heirs!O kingdom of Messenê,Of rich soil, chosen by craft,Possess'd in hatred, lost in blood!O town, high Stenyclaros,With new walls, which the victorsFrom the four-town'd, mountain-shadow'd Doris,For their Heracles-issued princesBuilt in strength against the vanquish'd!Another, another sacrifice on this dayYe witness, ye new-built towers!When the white-robed, garland-crowned MonarchApproaches, with undoubting heart,Living, his own sacrifice-block,And stands, shouting for a slaughterous axe;And the stern, destiny-brought Stranger,The inheritor of the realm,Coming swiftly through the jocund Dorians,Drives the axe to its goal.That the blood rushes in streams to the dust;Bearing with it, to Erinnys,To the Gods of Hades,To the dead unavenged,The fiercely-required Victim.[epode.Knowing he did it, unknowing pays for it.Unknowing, unknowing,Thinking atoned-forDeeds unatonable,Thinking appeasedGods unappeasable,Lo, the ill-fated one,Standing for harbourRight at the harbour-mouthStrikes with all sail setFull on the sharp-pointedNeedle of ruin![AMessengercomes in.MessengerO honour'd Queen, O faithful followersOf your dead master's line, I bring you newsTo make the gates of this long-mournful houseLeap, and fly open of themselves for joy![noise and shouting heard.Hark how the shouting crowds tramp hitherwardWith glad acclaim! Ere they forestall my news,Accept it:—Polyphontes is no more.MeropeIs my son safe? that question bounds my care.MessengerHe is, and by the people hail'd for king.MeropeThe rest to me is little; yet, since thatMust from some mouth be heard, relate it thou.MessengerNot little, if thou saw'st what love, what zeal,At thy dead husband's name the people show.For when this morning in the public squareI took my stand, and saw the unarm'd crowdsOf citizens in holiday attire,Women and children intermix'd; and then,Group'd around Zeus's altar, all in arms,Serried and grim, the ring of Dorian lords—I trembled for our prince and his attempt.Silence and expectation held us all;Till presently the King came forth, in robeOf sacrifice, his guards clearing the wayBefore him—at his side, the prince, thy son,Unarm'd and travel-soil'd, just as he was.With him conferring the King slowly reach'dThe altar in the middle of the square,Where, by the sacrificing minister,The flower-dress'd victim stood—a milk-white bull,Swaying from side to side his massy headWith short impatient lowings. There he stopp'd,And seem'd to muse awhile, then raised his eyesTo heaven, and laid his hand upon the steer,And cried:O Zeus, let what blood-guiltinessYet stains our land be by this blood wash'd out,And grant henceforth to the Messenians peace!That moment, while with upturn'd eyes he pray'd,The prince snatch'd from the sacrificer's handThe axe, and on the forehead of the King,Where twines the chaplet, dealt a mighty blowWhich fell'd him to the earth, and o'er him stood,And shouted:Since by thee defilement came,What blood so meet as thine to wash it out?What hand to strike thee meet as mine, the handOf Æpytus, thy murder'd master's son?—But, gazing at him from the ground, the King....Is it, then, thou?he murmur'd; and with that,He bow'd his head, and deeply groan'd, and died.Till then we all seem'd stone, but then a cryBroke from the Dorian lords; forward they rush'dTo circle the prince round—when suddenlyLaias in arms sprang to his nephew's side,Crying:O ye Messenians, will ye leaveThe son to perish as ye left the sire?And from that moment I saw nothing clear;For from all sides a deluge, as it seem'dBurst o'er the altar and the Dorian lords,Of holiday-clad citizens transform'dTo armed warriors;—I heard vengeful cries,I heard the clash of weapons; then I sawThe Dorians lying dead, thy son hail'd king.And, truly, one who sees, what seem'd so strong,The power of this tyrant and his lords,Melt like a passing smoke, a nightly dream,At one bold word, one enterprising blow—Might ask, why we endured their yoke so long;But that we know how every perilous featOf daring, easy as it seems when done,Is easy at no moment but the right.The ChorusThou speakest well; but here, to give our eyesAuthentic proof of what thou tell'st our ears,The conquerors, with the King's dead body, come.[Æpytus,Laias,andArcascome in with the deadbody ofPolyphontes,followed by a crowd of theMessenians.LaiasSister, from this day forth thou art no moreThe widow of a husband unavenged,The anxious mother of an exiled son.Thine enemy is slain, thy son is king!Rejoice with us! and trust me, he who wish'dWelfare to the Messenian state, and calm,Could find no way to found them sure as this.
Æpytus
O suffering! O calamity! how ten,How twentyfold worse are ye, when your blowsNot only wound the sense, but kill the soul,The noble thought, which is alone the man!That I, to-day returning, find myselfOrphan'd of both my parents—by his foesMy father, by your strokes my mother slain!For this is not my mother, who dissuades,At the dread altar of her husband's tomb,His son from vengeance on his murderer;And not alone dissuades him, but comparesHis just revenge to an unnatural deed,A deed so awful, that the general tongueFluent of horrors, falters to relate it—Of darkness so tremendous, that its author,Though to his act empower'd, nay, impell'd,By the oracular sentence of the Gods,Fled, for years after, o'er the face of earth,A frenzied wanderer, a God-driven man,And hardly yet, some say, hath found a grave—With such a deed asthisthou matchest mine,Which Nature sanctions, which the innocent bloodClamours to find fulfill'd, which good men praise,And only bad men joy to see undone!O honour'd father! hide thee in thy graveDeep as thou canst, for hence no succour comes;Since from thy faithful subjects what revengeCanst thou expect, when thus thy widow fails?Alas! an adamantine strength indeed,Past expectation, hath thy murderer built;For this is the true strength of guilty kings,When they corrupt the souls of those they rule.
The Chorus
Zeal makes him most unjust; but, in good time,Here, as I guess, the noble Laias comes.
Laias
Break off, break off your talking, and departEach to his post, where the occasion calls;Lest from the council-chamber presentlyThe King return, and find you prating here.A time will come for greetings; but to-dayThe hour for words is gone, is come for deeds.
Æpytus
O princely Laias! to what purpose callsThe occasion, if our chief confederate fails?My mother stands aloof, and blames our deed.
Laias
My royal sister?... but, without some cause,I know, she honours not the dead so ill.
Merope
Brother, it seems thy sister must present,At this first meeting after absence long,Not welcome, exculpation to her kin;Yet exculpation needs it, if I seek,A woman and a mother, to avertRisk from my new-restored, my only son?—Sometimes, when he was gone, I wish'd him back,Risk what he might; now that I have him here,Now that I feed mine eyes on that young face,Hear that fresh voice, and clasp that gold-lock'd head,I shudder, Laias, to commit my childTo murder's dread arena, where I sawHis father and his ill-starr'd brethren fall!I loathe for him the slippery way of blood;I ask if bloodless means may gain his end.In me the fever of revengeful hate,Passion's first furious longing to imbrueOur own right hand in the detested bloodOf enemies, and count their dying groans—If in this feeble bosom such a fireDid ever burn—is long by time allay'd,And I would now have Justice strike, not me.Besides—for from my brother and my sonI hide not even this—the reverence deep,Remorseful, tow'rd my hostile solitude,By Polyphontes never fail'd-in onceThrough twenty years; his mournful anxious zealTo efface in me the memory of his crime—Though it efface not that, yet makes me wishHis death a public, not a personal act,Treacherously plotted 'twixt my son and me;To whom this day he came to proffer peace,Treaty, and to this kingdom for my sonHeirship, with fair intent, as I believe.—For that he plots thy death, account it false;
[toÆpytus.
Number it with the thousand rumours vain,Figments of plots, wherewith intriguers fillThe enforcéd leisure of an exile's ear.Immersed in serious state-craft is the King,Bent above all to pacify, to rule,Rigidly, yet in settled calm, this realm;Not prone, all say, averse to bloodshed now.—So much is due to truth, even tow'rds our foe.
[toLaias
Do I, then, give to usurpation grace,And from his natural rights my son debar?Not so! let him—and none shall be more promptThan I to help—raise his Messenian friends;Let him fetch succours from Arcadia, gainHis Argive or his Spartan cousins' aid;Let him do this, do aught but recommenceMurder's uncertain, secret, perilous game—And I, when to his righteous standard downFlies Victory wing'd, and Justice raisesthenHer sword, will be the first to bid it fall.If, haply, at this moment, such attemptPromise not fair, let him a little whileHave faith, and trust the future and the Gods.He may; for never did the Gods allowFast permanence to an ill-gotten throne.—These are but woman's words—yet, Laias, thouDespise them not! for, brother, thou and IWere not among the feuds of warrior-chiefs,Each sovereign for his dear-bought hour, born;But in the pastoral Arcadia rear'd,With Cypselus our father, where we sawThe simple patriarchal state of kings,Where sire to son transmits the unquestion'd crown,Unhack'd, unsmirch'd, unbloodied, and have learntThat spotless hands unshaken sceptres hold.Having learnt this, then, use thy knowledge now.
The Chorus
Which way to lean I know not: bloody strokesAre never free from doubt, though sometimes due.
Laias
O Merope, the common heart of manAgrees to deem some deeds so dark in guilt,That neither gratitude, nor tie of race,Womanly pity, nor maternal fear,Nor any pleader else, shall be indulgedTo breathe a syllable to bar revenge.All this, no doubt, thou to thyself hast urged—Time presses, so that theme forbear I now;Direct to thy dissuasions I reply.Blood-founded thrones, thou say'st, are insecure;Our father's kingdom, because pure, is safe.True; but what cause to our Arcadia givesIts privileged immunity from blood,But that, since first the black and fruitful EarthIn the primeval mountain-forests borePelasgus, our forefather and mankind's,Legitimately sire to son, with us,Bequeaths the allegiance of our shepherd-tribes,More loyal, as our line continues more?—How can your Heracleidan chiefs inspireThis awe which guards our earth-sprung, lineal kings?What permanence, what stability like ours,Whether blood flows or no, can yet investThe broken order of your Dorian thrones,Fix'd yesterday, and ten times changed since then?—Two brothers, and their orphan nephews, stroveFor the three conquer'd kingdoms of this isle;The eldest, mightiest brother, Temenus, tookArgos; a juggle to Cresphontes gaveMessenia; to those helpless Boys, the lotWorst of the three, the stony Sparta, fell.August, indeed, was the foundation here!What follow'd?—His most trusted kinsman slewCresphontes in Messenia; TemenusPerish'd in Argos by his jealous sons;The Spartan Brothers with their guardian strive.Can houses thus ill-seated, thus embroil'd,Thus little founded in their subjects' love,Practise the indulgent, bloodless policyOf dynasties long-fix'd, and honour'd long?No! Vigour and severity must chainPopular reverence to these recent lines.Be their first-founded order strict maintain'd—Their murder'd rulers terribly avenged—Ruthlessly their rebellious subjects crush'd!Since policy bids thus, what fouler deathThan thine illustrious husband's to avengeShall we select? than Polyphontes, whatMore daring and more grand offender find?Justice, my sister, long demands this blow,And Wisdom, now thou see'st, demands it too.To strike it, then, dissuade thy son no more;For to live disobedient to these two,Justice and Wisdom, is no life at all.
The Chorus
The Gods, O mistress dear! the hard-soul'd man,Who spared not others, bid not us to spare.
Merope
Alas! against my brother, son, and friends,One, and a woman, how can I prevail?—O brother, thou hast conquer'd; yet, I fear!Son! with a doubting heart thy mother yields;May it turn happier than my doubts portend!
Laias
Meantime on thee the task of silence onlyShall be imposed; to us shall be the deed.Now, not another word, but to our act!Nephew! thy friends are sounded, and prove true.Thy father's murderer, in the public place,Performs, this noon, a solemn sacrifice;Be with him—choose the moment—strike thy blow!If prudence counsels thee to go unarm'd,The sacrificer's axe will serve thy turn.To me and the Messenians leave the rest,With the Gods' aid—and, if they give but aidAs our just cause deserves, I do not fear.[Æpytus, Laias,andArcasgo out.
The Chorus
str. 1.O Son and Mother,Whom the Gods o'ershadowIn dangerous trial,With certainty of favour!As erst they shadow'dYour race's foundersFrom irretrievable woe;When the seed of LycaonLay forlorn, lay outcast,Callisto and her Boy.
ant. 1.What deep-grass'd meadowAt the meeting valleys—Where clear-flowing Ladon,Most beautiful of waters,Receives the riverWhose trout are vocal,The Aroanian stream—Without home, without mother,Hid the babe, hid Arcas,The nursling of the dells?
str. 2.But the sweet-smelling myrtle,And the pink-flower'd oleander,And the green agnus-castus,To the west-wind's murmur,Rustled round his cradle;And Maia rear'd him.Then, a boy, he startled,In the snow-fill'd hollowsOf high Cyllenê,The white mountain-birds;Or surprised, in the glens,The basking tortoises,Whose striped shell foundedIn the hand of HermesThe glory of the lyre.
ant. 2.But his mother, Callisto,In her hiding-place of the thicketsOf the lentisk and ilexIn her rough form, fearingThe hunter on the outlook,Poor changeling! trembled.Or the children, pluckingIn the thorn-choked gulliesWild gooseberries, scared her,The shy mountain-bear!Or the shepherds, on slopesWith pale-spiked lavenderAnd crisp thyme tufted,Came upon her, stealingAt day-break through the dew.
str. 3.Once, 'mid those gorges,Spray-drizzled, lonely,Unclimb'd of man—O'er whose cliffs the townsmenOf crag-perch'd NonacrisBehold in summerThe slender torrentOf Styx come dancing,A wind-blown thread—By the precipices of Khelmos,The fleet, desperate hunter,The youthful Arcas, born of Zeus,His fleeing mother,Transform'd Callisto,Unwitting follow'd—And raised his spear.
ant. 3.Turning, with piteous,Distressful longing,Sad, eager eyes,Mutely she regardedHer well-known enemy.Low moans half utter'dWhat speech refused her;Tears coursed, tears human,Down those disfigured,Once human cheeks.With unutterable forebodingHer son, heart-stricken, eyed her.The Gods had pity, made them Stars.Stars now they sparkleIn the northern Heaven—The guard Arcturus,The guard-watch'd Bear.
epode.So, o'er thee and thy child,Some God, Merope, now,In dangerous hour, stretches his hand.So, like a star, dawns thy son,Radiant with fortune and joy.
[Polyphontescomes in.
Polyphontes
O Merope, the trouble on thy faceTells me enough thou know'st the news which allMessenia speaks! the prince, thy son, is dead.Not from my lips should consolation fall;To offer that, I come not; but to urge,Even after news of this sad death, our league.Yes, once again I come; I will not takeThis morning's angry answer for thy last.To the Messenian kingdom thou and IAre the sole claimants left; what cause of strifeLay in thy son is buried in his grave.Most honourably I meant, I call the GodsTo witness, offering him return and power;Yet, had he lived, suspicion, jealousy,Inevitably had surged up, perhaps,'Twixt thee and me—suspicion, that I nursedSome ill design against him; jealousy,That he enjoy'd but part, being heir to all.And he himself, with the impetuous heartOf youth, 'tis like, had never quite forgoneThe thought of vengeance on me, never quiteUnclosed his itching fingers from his sword.But thou, O Merope, though deeply wrong'd,Though injured past forgiveness, as men deem,Yet hast been long at school with thoughtful time,And from that teacher may'st have learn'd, like me,That all may be endured, and all forgiv'n—Have learn'd, that we must sacrifice the bentOf personal feeling to the public weal—Have learn'd, that there are guilty deeds, which leaveThe hand that does them guiltless; in a word,That kings live for their peoples, not themselves.This having known, let us a union found(For the last time I ask, ask earnestly)Based on pure public welfare; let us beNot Merope and Polyphontes, foesBlood-sever'd, but Messenia's King and Queen!Let us forget ourselves for those we rule!Speak! I go hence to offer sacrificeTo the Preserver Zeus; let me returnThanks to him for our amity as well.
Merope
Oh had'st thou, Polyphontes, still but keptThe silence thou hast kept for twenty years!
Polyphontes
Henceforth, if what I urge displease, I may.But fair proposal merits fair reply.
Merope
And thou shalt have it! Yes, because thouhastFor twenty years forborne to interruptThe solitude of her whom thou hast wrong'd—That scanty grace shall earn thee this reply.—First, for our union. Trust me, 'twixt us twoThe brazen footed Fury ever stalks,Waving her hundred hands, a torch in each,Aglow with angry fire, to keep us twain.Now, for thyself. Thou com'st with well-cloak'd joy,To announce the ruin of my husband's house,To sound thy triumph in his widow's ears,To bid her share thine unendanger'd throne.To this thou would'st have answer. Take it: Fly!...Cut short thy triumph, seeming at its height;Fling off thy crown, supposed at last secure;Forsake this ample, proud Messenian realm;To some small, humble, and unnoted strand,Some rock more lonely than that Lemnian isleWhere Philoctetes pined, take ship and flee!Some solitude more inaccessibleThan the ice-bastion'd Caucasian MountChosen a prison for Prometheus, climb!There in unvoiced oblivion sink thy name,And bid the sun, thine only visitant,Divulge not to the far-off world of menWhat once-famed wretch he there did espy hid.There nurse a late remorse, and thank the Gods,And thank thy bitterest foe, that, having lostAll things but life, thou lose not life as well.
Polyphontes
What mad bewilderment of grief is this?
Merope
Thouart bewilder'd; the sane head is mine.
Polyphontes
I pity thee, and wish thee calmer mind.
Merope
Pity thyself; none needs compassion more.
Polyphontes
Yet, oh! could'st thou but act as reason bids!
Merope
And in my turn I wish the same for thee.
Polyphontes
All I could do to soothe thee has been tried.
Merope
For that, in this my warning, thou art paid.
Polyphontes
Know'st thou then aught, that thus thou sound'st the alarm?
Merope
Thy crime! that were enough to make one fear.
Polyphontes
My deed is of old date, and long atoned.
Merope
Atoned this very day, perhaps, it is.
Polyphontes
My final victory proves the Gods appeased.
Merope
O victor, victor, trip not at the goal!
Polyphontes
Hatred and passionate envy blind thine eyes.
Merope
O Heaven-abandon'd wretch, that envies thee!
Polyphontes
Thou hold'st so cheap, then, the Messenian crown?
Merope
I think on what the future hath in store.
Polyphontes
To-day I reign; the rest I leave to Fate.
Merope
For Fate thou wait'st not long; since, in this hour——
Polyphontes
What? for so far Fate hath not proved my foe—
Merope
Fate seals my lips, and drags to ruin thee.
Polyphontes
Enough! enough! I will no longer hearThe ill-boding note which frantic hatred soundsTo affright a fortune which the Gods secure.Once more my friendship thou rejectest; well!More for this land's sake grieve I, than mine own.I chafe not with thee, that thy hate endures,Nor bend myself too low, to make it yield.What I have done is done; by my own deed,Neither exulting nor ashamed, I stand.Why should this heart of mine set mighty storeBy the construction and report of men?Not men's good word hath made me what I am.Alone I master'd power; and alone,Since so thou wilt, I dare maintain it still.
[Polyphontesgoes out.
The Chorus
str. 1.Did I then waver(O woman's judgment!)Misled by seemingSuccess of crime?And ask, if sometimesThe Gods, perhaps, allow'd you,O lawless daring of the strong,O self-will recklessly indulged?
ant. 1.Not time, not lightning,Not rain, not thunder,Efface the endlessDecrees of Heaven—Make Justice alter,Revoke, assuage her sentence,Which dooms dread ends to dreadful deeds,And violent deaths to violent men.
str. 2.But the signal exampleOf invariableness of justiceOur glorious founderHeracles gave us,Son loved of Zeus his father—for he sinn'd,
ant. 2.And the strand of Eubœa,And the promontory of Cenæum,His painful, solemnPunishment witness'd,Beheld his expiation—for he died.
str. 3.O villages of ŒtaWith hedges of the wild rose!O pastures of the mountain,Of short grass, beaded with dew,Between the pine-woods and the cliffs!O cliffs, left by the eagles,On that morn, when the smoke-cloudFrom the oak-built, fiercely-burning pyre,Up the precipices of Trachis,Drove them screaming from their eyries!A willing, a willing sacrifice on that dayYe witness'd, ye mountain lawns,When the shirt-wrapt, poison-blister'd HeroAscended, with undaunted heart,Living, his own funeral-pile,And stood, shouting for a fiery torch;And the kind, chance-arrived Wanderer,[30]The inheritor of the bow,Coming swiftly through the sad Trachinians,Put the torch to the pile.That the flame tower'd on high to the Heaven;Bearing with it, to Olympus,To the side of Hebe,To immortal delight,The labour-released Hero.
ant. 3.O heritage of Neleus,Ill-kept by his infirm heirs!O kingdom of Messenê,Of rich soil, chosen by craft,Possess'd in hatred, lost in blood!O town, high Stenyclaros,With new walls, which the victorsFrom the four-town'd, mountain-shadow'd Doris,For their Heracles-issued princesBuilt in strength against the vanquish'd!Another, another sacrifice on this dayYe witness, ye new-built towers!When the white-robed, garland-crowned MonarchApproaches, with undoubting heart,Living, his own sacrifice-block,And stands, shouting for a slaughterous axe;And the stern, destiny-brought Stranger,The inheritor of the realm,Coming swiftly through the jocund Dorians,Drives the axe to its goal.That the blood rushes in streams to the dust;Bearing with it, to Erinnys,To the Gods of Hades,To the dead unavenged,The fiercely-required Victim.
[epode.Knowing he did it, unknowing pays for it.Unknowing, unknowing,Thinking atoned-forDeeds unatonable,Thinking appeasedGods unappeasable,Lo, the ill-fated one,Standing for harbourRight at the harbour-mouthStrikes with all sail setFull on the sharp-pointedNeedle of ruin!
[AMessengercomes in.
Messenger
O honour'd Queen, O faithful followersOf your dead master's line, I bring you newsTo make the gates of this long-mournful houseLeap, and fly open of themselves for joy![noise and shouting heard.Hark how the shouting crowds tramp hitherwardWith glad acclaim! Ere they forestall my news,Accept it:—Polyphontes is no more.
Merope
Is my son safe? that question bounds my care.
Messenger
He is, and by the people hail'd for king.
Merope
The rest to me is little; yet, since thatMust from some mouth be heard, relate it thou.
Messenger
Not little, if thou saw'st what love, what zeal,At thy dead husband's name the people show.For when this morning in the public squareI took my stand, and saw the unarm'd crowdsOf citizens in holiday attire,Women and children intermix'd; and then,Group'd around Zeus's altar, all in arms,Serried and grim, the ring of Dorian lords—I trembled for our prince and his attempt.Silence and expectation held us all;Till presently the King came forth, in robeOf sacrifice, his guards clearing the wayBefore him—at his side, the prince, thy son,Unarm'd and travel-soil'd, just as he was.With him conferring the King slowly reach'dThe altar in the middle of the square,Where, by the sacrificing minister,The flower-dress'd victim stood—a milk-white bull,Swaying from side to side his massy headWith short impatient lowings. There he stopp'd,And seem'd to muse awhile, then raised his eyesTo heaven, and laid his hand upon the steer,And cried:O Zeus, let what blood-guiltinessYet stains our land be by this blood wash'd out,And grant henceforth to the Messenians peace!That moment, while with upturn'd eyes he pray'd,The prince snatch'd from the sacrificer's handThe axe, and on the forehead of the King,Where twines the chaplet, dealt a mighty blowWhich fell'd him to the earth, and o'er him stood,And shouted:Since by thee defilement came,What blood so meet as thine to wash it out?What hand to strike thee meet as mine, the handOf Æpytus, thy murder'd master's son?—But, gazing at him from the ground, the King....Is it, then, thou?he murmur'd; and with that,He bow'd his head, and deeply groan'd, and died.Till then we all seem'd stone, but then a cryBroke from the Dorian lords; forward they rush'dTo circle the prince round—when suddenlyLaias in arms sprang to his nephew's side,Crying:O ye Messenians, will ye leaveThe son to perish as ye left the sire?And from that moment I saw nothing clear;For from all sides a deluge, as it seem'dBurst o'er the altar and the Dorian lords,Of holiday-clad citizens transform'dTo armed warriors;—I heard vengeful cries,I heard the clash of weapons; then I sawThe Dorians lying dead, thy son hail'd king.And, truly, one who sees, what seem'd so strong,The power of this tyrant and his lords,Melt like a passing smoke, a nightly dream,At one bold word, one enterprising blow—Might ask, why we endured their yoke so long;But that we know how every perilous featOf daring, easy as it seems when done,Is easy at no moment but the right.
The Chorus
Thou speakest well; but here, to give our eyesAuthentic proof of what thou tell'st our ears,The conquerors, with the King's dead body, come.
[Æpytus,Laias,andArcascome in with the deadbody ofPolyphontes,followed by a crowd of theMessenians.
Laias
Sister, from this day forth thou art no moreThe widow of a husband unavenged,The anxious mother of an exiled son.Thine enemy is slain, thy son is king!Rejoice with us! and trust me, he who wish'dWelfare to the Messenian state, and calm,Could find no way to found them sure as this.