Medea

  Would God no Argo e'er had winged the seas
  To Colchis through the blue Symplêgades:
  No shaft of riven pine in Pêlion's glen
  Shaped that first oar-blade in the hands of men
  Valiant, who won, to save King Pelias' vow,
  The fleece All-golden! Never then, I trow,
  Mine own princess, her spirit wounded sore
  With love of Jason, to the encastled shore
  Had sailed of old Iôlcos: never wrought
  The daughters of King Pelias, knowing not,
  To spill their father's life: nor fled in fear,
  Hunted for that fierce sin, to Corinth here
  With Jason and her babes. This folk at need
  Stood friend to her, and she in word and deed
  Served alway Jason. Surely this doth bind,
  Through all ill days, the hurts of humankind,
  When man and woman in one music move.
      But now, the world is angry, and true love
  Sick as with poison. Jason doth forsake
  My mistress and his own two sons, to make
  His couch in a king's chamber. He must wed:
  Wed with this Creon's child, who now is head
  And chief of Corinth. Wherefore sore betrayed
  Medea calleth up the oath they made,
  They two, and wakes the claspèd hands again,
  The troth surpassing speech, and cries amain
  On God in heaven to mark the end, and how
  Jason hath paid his debt.
                                             All fasting now
  And cold, her body yielded up to pain,
  Her days a waste of weeping, she hath lain,
  Since first she knew that he was false. Her eyes
  Are lifted not; and all her visage lies
  In the dust. If friends will speak, she hears no more
  Than some dead rock or wave that beats the shore:
  Only the white throat in a sudden shame
  May writhe, and all alone she moans the name
  Of father, and land, and home, forsook that day
  For this man's sake, who casteth her away.
  Not to be quite shut out from home . . . alas,
  She knoweth now how rare a thing that was!
  Methinks she hath a dread, not joy, to see
  Her children near. 'Tis this that maketh me
  Most tremble, lest she do I know not what.
  Her heart is no light thing, and useth not
  To brook much wrong. I know that woman, aye,
  And dread her! Will she creep alone to die
  Bleeding in that old room, where still is laid
  Lord Jason's bed? She hath for that a blade
  Made keen. Or slay the bridegroom and the king,
  And win herself God knows what direr thing?
  'Tis a fell spirit. Few, I ween, shall stir
  Her hate unscathed, or lightly humble her.
      Ha! 'Tis the children from their games again,
  Rested and gay; and all their mother's pain
  Forgotten! Young lives ever turn from gloom!

  Thou ancient treasure of my lady's room,
  What mak'st thou here before the gates alone,
  And alway turning on thy lips some moan
  Of old mischances? Will our mistress be
  Content, this long time to be left by thee?

  Grey guard of Jason's children, a good thrall
  Hath his own grief, if any hurt befall
  His masters. Aye, it holds one's heart! . . .
        Meseems
  I have strayed out so deep in evil dreams,
  I longed to rest me here alone, and cry
  Medea's wrongs to this still Earth and Sky.

  How? Are the tears yet running in her eyes?

  'Twere good to be like thee! . . . Her sorrow lies
  Scarce wakened yet, not half its perils wrought.

Mad spirit! . . . if a man may speak his thought
Of masters mad.—And nothing in her ears
Hath sounded yet of her last cause for tears!

What cause, old man? . . . Nay, grudge me not one word.

'Tis nothing. Best forget what thou hast heard.

Nay, housemate, by thy beard! Hold it not hid
From me. . . . I will keep silence if thou bid.

I heard an old man talking, where he sate
At draughts in the sun, beside the fountain gate,
And never thought of me, there standing still
Beside him. And he said, 'Twas Creon's will,
Being lord of all this land, that she be sent,
And with her her two sons, to banishment.
Maybe 'tis all false. For myself, I know
No further, and I would it were not so.

Jason will never bear it--his own sons
Banished,—however hot his anger runs
Against their mother!

                                      Old love burneth low
When new love wakes, men say. He is not now
Husband nor father here, nor any kin.

But this is ruin! New waves breaking in
To wreck us, ere we are righted from the old!

Well, hold thy peace. Our mistress will be told
All in good time. Speak thou no word hereof.

My babes! What think ye of your father's love?
God curse him not, he is my master still:
But, oh, to them that loved him, 'tis an ill
Friend. . . .

    And what man on earth is different? How?
Hast thou lived all these years, and learned but now
That every man more loveth his own head
Than other men's? He dreameth of the bed
Of this new bride, and thinks not of his sons.

Go: run into the house, my little ones:
All will end happily! . . . Keep them apart:
Let not their mother meet them while her heart
Is darkened. Yester night I saw a flame
Stand in her eye, as though she hated them,
And would I know not what. For sure her wrath
Will never turn nor slumber, till she hath . . .
Go: and if some must suffer, may it be
Not we who love her, but some enemy!

           Oh shame and pain: O woe is me!
           Would I could die in my misery!

        Ah, children, hark! She moves again
            Her frozen heart, her sleeping wrath.
            In, quick! And never cross her path,
        Nor rouse that dark eye in its pain;

        That fell sea-spirit, and the dire
            Spring of a will untaught, unbowed.
            Quick, now!—Methinks this weeping cloud
        Hath in its heart some thunder-fire,

        Slow gathering, that must flash ere long.
            I know not how, for ill or well,
            It turns, this uncontrollable
        Tempestuous spirit, blind with wrong.

        Have I not suffered? Doth it call
        No tears? . . . Ha, ye beside the wall
        Unfathered children, God hate you
        As I am hated, and him, too,
            That gat you, and this house and all!

        For pity! What have they to do,
            Babes, with their father's sin? Why call
            Thy curse on these? . . . Ah, children, all
        These days my bosom bleeds for you.

        Rude are the wills of princes: yea,
            Prevailing alway, seldom crossed,
            On fitful winds their moods are tossed:
        'Tis best men tread the equal way.

        Aye, not with glory but with peace
            May the long summers find me crowned:
            For gentleness—her very sound
        Is magic, and her usages.

        All wholesome: but the fiercely great
            Hath little music on his road,
            And falleth, when the hand of God
        Shall move, most deep and desolate.

             I heard a voice and a moan,
                 A voice of the eastern seas:
                 Hath she found not yet her ease?
                       Speak, O agèd one.
             For I stood afar at the gate,
                 And there came from within a cry,
             And wailing desolate.
                 Ah, no more joy have I,
             For the griefs this house doth see,
             And the love it hath wrought in me.

     There is no house! 'Tis gone. The lord
         Seeketh a prouder bed: and she
     Wastes in her chamber, not one word
         Will hear of care or charity.

            O Zeus, O Earth, O Light,
                Will the fire not stab my brain?
                    What profiteth living? Oh,
                    Shall I not lift the slow
                    Yoke, and let Life go,
            As a beast out in the night,
                To lie, and be rid of pain?

             "O Zeus, O Earth, O Light:"
               The cry of a bride forlorn
               Heard ye, and wailing born
                     Of lost delight?

            Why weariest thou this day,
                   Wild heart, for the bed abhorrèd,
            The cold bed in the clay?
            Death cometh though no man pray,
                   Ungarlanded, un-adorèd.
                          Call him not thou.

            If another's arms be now
                   Where thine have been,
                   On his head be the sin:
            Rend not thy brow!