After that All is confusion; from all sides surged up The people, cursing, weeping. ’Thwart the din Each other moment the strained ear might catch Medea’s name, or Jason’s, or the King’s; And women wailed out “Glaukê” through their tears. Then sudden came a pause; the angry roar Died down into a murmur; and the throng Grew still, and rolled aside like a clov’n sea. And Jason strode between them till he reached His own home’s threshold where the twain lay dead, Long gazed he on their faces; then he turned To the hush’d people; turned to them and spake: (His face was whiter than the dead’s, his eyes Like to a creature’s that has looked on Hell) “Where is the woman?” Lo, and when they sought Medea, no eye beheld her. And no man Had looked upon her since that moment’s space When steel had flashed and blood foamed in the air. Then Jason stood erect and spake again: “Let no man seek this woman; blood enough Has stained our city. Let the furies rend Her guilty soul; nor we pollute our hands With her accursèd body....” ÆGEUS. Cease, my friend; It is enough. You judged this thing aright; This woman was dark and evil in her soul; Black to her fiend-heart’s root; a festering plague In our fair city’s midst. NIKIAS. Spake I not true? [_Night; outside the city._ MEDEA _leaning against a rock_.] Here let me rest; beyond men’s eyes, beyond The city’s hissing hate. Why am I here? Why have I fled from death? There’s sun on the earth, And in the shades no sun;--thus much I know; And sunlight’s good. Wake I, or do I sleep? I’m weary, weary; once I dream’d a dream Of one that strove and wept and yearned for love In a fair city. She was blind indeed. They say the woman had a fiend at heart, And afterwards--Hush, hush, I dream’d a dream. How cold the air blows; how the night grows dark, Wrapping me round in blackness. Darker too Grows the deep night within. I cannot see; I grope with weary hands; my hands are sore With fruitless striving. I have fought with the Fates And I am vanquished utterly. The Fates Yield not to strife; nay, nor to many prayers. Their ways are dark. One climbs the tree and grasps A handful of dead leaves; another walks, Heedless, beneath the branches, and the fruit Falls mellow at his feet. This is the end: I have dash’d my heart against a rock; the blood Is drain’d and flows no more; and all my breast Is emptied of its tears. Thus go I forth Into the deep, dense heart of the night--alone. _Sinfonia Eroica._ (TO SYLVIA.) [Illustration: text decoration]