  Pious, but impious, surely, if their scope Be to foment old memories of wrath. Pray, as thou pour'st libations on this tomb, To be deliver'd from thy foster'd hate, Unjust suspicion, and erroneous fear. [Polyphontes goes into the palace. The Chorus and Merope approach the tomb with their offerings. The Chorus strophe. Draw, draw near to the tomb! Lay honey-cakes on its marge, Deck it with garlands of flowers. Tears fall thickly the while! Behold, O King from the dark House of the grave, what we do! antistrophe. O Arcadian hills, Send us the Youth whom ye hide, Girt with his coat for the chase, With the low broad hat of the tann'd Hunter o'ershadowing his brow; Grasping firm, in his hand Advanced, two javelins, not now Dangerous alone to the deer! Merope str. 1 What shall I bear, O lost Husband and King, to thy grave?— Pure libations, and fresh Flowers? But thou, in the gloom, Discontented, perhaps, Demandest vengeance, not grief? Sternly requirest a man, Light to spring up to thy house? The Chorus str. 2. Vengeance, O Queen, is his due, His most just prayer; yet his house— If that might soothe him below— Prosperous, mighty, came back In the third generation, the way Order'd by Fate, to their home; Fill the wealth-giving thrones Of their heritage, Pelops' isle. Merope ant. 1. Suffering sent them, Death March'd with them, Hatred and Strife Met them entering their halls. For from the day when the first HeracleidÆ received That Delphic hest to return, What hath involved them, but blind Error on error, and blood? The Chorus ant. 2. Truly I hear of a Maid Of that stock born, who bestow'd Her blood that so she might make Victory sure to her race, When the fight hung in doubt! but she now, Honour'd and sung of by all, Far on Marathon plain, Gives her name to the spring Macaria, blessed Child. Merope str. 3. She led the way of death. And the plain of Tegea, And the grave of Orestes— Where, in secret seclusion Of his unreveal'd tomb, Sleeps Agamemnon's unhappy, Seven-cubit-statured son— Sent forth Echemus, the victor, the king, By whose hand, at the Isthmus, At the fate-denied straits, Fell the eldest of the sons of Heracles, Hyllus, the chief of his house. Brother follow'd sister The all-wept way. The Chorus Yes; but his seed still, wiser-counsell'd, Sail'd by the fate-meant Gulf to their conquest— Slew their enemies' king, Tisamenus. Wherefore accept that happier omen! Yet shall restorer appear to the race. Merope ant. 3. Three brothers won the field, And to two did Destiny Give the thrones that they conquer'd. But the third, what delays him From his unattain'd crown?... Ah Pylades and Electra, Ever faithful, untired, Jealous, blood-exacting friends! Your sons leap upon the foe of your kin, In the passes of Delphi, In the temple-built gorge! There the youngest of the band of conquerors Perish'd, in sight of the goal. Thrice son follow'd sire The all-wept way. The Chorus str. 4. Thou tellest the fate of the last Of the three HeracleidÆ. Not of him, of Cresphontes thou shared'st the lot! A king, a king was he while he lived, Swaying the sceptre with predestined hand; And now, minister loved, Holds rule. Merope Ah me ... Ah.... The Chorus For the awful Monarchs below. Merope str. 5. Thou touchest the worst of my ills. Oh had he fallen of old At the Isthmus, in fight with his foes, By Achaian, Arcadian spear! Then had his sepulchre risen On the high sea-bank, in the sight Of either Gulf, and remain'd All-regarded afar, Noble memorial of worth Of a valiant Chief, to his own. The Chorus ant. 4. There rose up a cry in the streets O that my over-speed and bursting grief Had 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 seen The prince, in chase after a swimming stag, Swept down a chasm rifted in the cliff Which 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 messenger For the King's private ear reserves, like this In 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 mate To 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 ward Had in a father's place, he basely murder'd. 'Tis so, 'tis so, alas, for see the proof: Uncle and nephew disappear; their death Is charged against this stripling; agents, fee'd To 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 sound For 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 work While the good sleep; the workers have the day. Yes! yes! now I conceive the liberal grace Of this far-scheming tyrant, and his boon Of heirship to his kingdom for my son: He had his murderer ready, and the sword Lifted, and that unwish'd-for heirship void— A tale, meanwhile, forged for his subjects' ears— And me, henceforth sole rival with himself In their allegiance, me, in my son's death-hour, When all turn'd tow'rds me, me he would have shown To my Messenians, duped, disarm'd, despised, The willing sharer of his guilty rule, All claim to succour forfeit, to myself Hateful, 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 deeds But calm, but unresentful, I endured His offers, coldly heard them, cold repell'd? How must men think me abject, void of heart, While all this time I bear to linger on In this blood-deluged palace, in whose halls Either a vengeful Fury I should stalk, Or else not live at all!—but here I haunt, A pale, unmeaning ghost, powerless to fright Or harm, and nurse my longing for my son, A helpless one, I know it—but the Gods Have 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 descend To the invisible plains, to roam with thee, Fit denizen, the lampless under-world—& draw, if rightly used; Advising us a course which would, indeed, If follow'd, make their succour slack and null. A people is no army, train'd to fight, A passive engine, at their general's will; And, if so used, proves, as thou say'st, unsure. A people, like a common man, is dull, Is lifeless, while its heart remains untouch'd; A fool can drive it, and a fly may scare. When it admires and loves, its heart awakes: Then irresistibly it lives, it works; It is ten thousand fiery wills in one. Now I, if I invite them to run risk Of life for my advantage, and myself, Who chiefly profit, run no more than they— How shall I rouse their love, their ardour so? But, if some signal, unassisted stroke, Dealt at my own sole risk, before their eyes, Announces me their rightful prince return'd— The undegenerate blood of Heracles— The daring claimant of a perilous throne— How might not such a sight as this revive Their loyal passion tow'rd my father's house, Kindle their hearts, make them no more a mob, A craven mob, but a devouring fire? Then might I use them, then, for one who thus Spares not himself, themselves they will not spare. Haply, had but one daring soul stood forth To rally them and lead them to revenge, When my great father fell, they had replied! Alas! our foe alone stood forward then. And thou, my mother, hadst thou made a sign— Hadst thou, from thy forlorn and captive state Of widowhood in these polluted halls, Thy prison-house, raised one imploring cry— Who knows but that avengers thou hadst found? But mute thou sat'st, and each Messenian heart In thy despondency desponded too. Enough of this!—Though not a finger stir To succour me in my extremest need; Though all free spirits in this land were dead, And only slaves and tyrants left alive; Yet for me, mother, I had liefer die Of a protected exile any more. Hate, duty, interest, passion call one way; Here stand I now, and the attempt shall be. The Chorus Prudence is on the other side; but deeds Condemn'd by prudence have sometimes gone well. Merope Not till the ways of prudence all are tried, And tried in vain, the turn of rashness comes. Thou leapest to thy deed, and hast not ask'd Thy kinsfolk and thy father's friends for aid. Æpytus And to what friends should I for aid apply? Merope The royal race of Temenus, in Argos—— Æpytus That house, like ours, intestine murder maims. Merope Thy Spartan cousins, Procles and his brother—— Æpytus Love a won cause, but not a cause to win. Merope My father, then, and his Arcadian chiefs— Æpytus Mean still to keep aloof from Dorian broil. Merope Wait, then, until sufficient help appears. Æpytus Orestes in MycenÆ had no more. Merope He to fulfil an order raised his hand. Æpytus What order more precise had he than I? Merope Apollo peal'd it from his Delphian cave. Æpytus A mother's murder needed hest divine. Merope He had a hest, at least, and thou hast none. Æpytus The Gods command not where the heart speaks clear. Merope Thou wilt destroy, I see, thyself and us. Æpytus O suffering! O calamity! how ten, How twentyfold worse are ye, when your blows Not only wound the sense, but kill the soul, The noble thought, which is alone the man! That I, to-day returning, find myself Orphan'd of both my parents—by his foes My 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 compares His just revenge to an unnatural deed, A deed so awful, that the general tongue Fluent 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 as this thou matchest mine, Which Nature sanctions, which the innocent blood Clamours to find fulfill'd, which good men praise, And only bad men joy to see undone! O honour'd father! hide thee in thy grave Deep as thou ca >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-cloud Up the precipices of Trachis, Drove them screaming from their eyries! A willing, a willing sacrifice on that day Ye witness'd, ye mountain lawns, When the shirt-wrapt, poison-blister'd Hero Ascended, with undaunted heart, Living, his own funeral-pile, And stood, shouting for a fiery torch; And the kind, chance-arrived Wanderer, 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 victors From the four-town'd, mountain-shadow'd Doris, For their Heracles-issued princes Built in strength against the vanquish'd! Another, another sacrifice on this day Ye witness, ye new-built towers! When the white-robed, garland-crowned Monarch Approaches, with undoubting heart, 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-for Deeds unatonable, Thinking appeased Gods unappeasable, Lo, the ill-fated one, Standing for harbour Right at the harbour-mouth Strikes with all sail set Full on the sharp-pointed Needle of ruin! [A Messenger comes in. Messenger O honour'd Queen, O faithful followers Of your dead master's line, I bring you news To make the gates of this long-mournful house Leap, and fly open of themselves for joy! [noise and shouting heard. Hark how the shouting crowds tramp hitherward 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 that Must 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 square I took my stand, and saw the unarm'd crowds Of 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 robe Of sacrifice, his guards clearing the way Before 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'd The altar in the middle of the square, Where, by the sacrificing minister, The flower-dress'd victim stood—a milk-white bull, With short impatient lowings. There he stopp'd, And seem'd to muse awhile, then raised his eyes To heaven, and laid his hand upon the steer, And cried: O Zeus, let what blood-guiltiness Yet 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 hand The axe, and on the forehead of the King, Where twines the chaplet, dealt a mighty blow Which 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 hand Of 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 cry Broke from the Dorian lords; forward they rush'd To circle the prince round—when suddenly Laias in arms sprang to his nephew's side, Crying: O ye Messenians, will ye leave The son to perish as ye left the sire? And from that moment I saw nothing clear; For from |
|
