But an Arcadian princess, more akin To his new subjects than to us; his friends Were the Messenian chiefs; the laws he framed Were aim'd at their promotion, our decline. And, finally, this land, then half-subdued, Which from one central city's guarded seat As from a fastness in the rocks our scant Handful of Dorian conquerors might have curb'd, He parcell'd out in five confederate states, Sowing his victors thinly through them all, Mere prisoners, meant or not, among our foes. If this was fear of them, it shamed the king; If jealousy of us, it shamed the man. Long we refrain'd ourselves, submitted long, Construed his acts indulgently, revered, Though found perverse, the blood of Heracles; Reluctantly the rest--but, against all, One voice preach'd patience, and that voice was mine! At last it reach'd us, that he, still mistrustful, Deeming, as tyrants deem, our silence hate, Unadulating grief conspiracy, Had to this city, Stenyclaros, call'd A general assemblage of the realm, With compact in that concourse to deliver, For death, his ancient to his new-made friends. Patience was thenceforth self destruction. I, I his chief kinsman, I his pioneer And champion to the throne, I honouring most Of men the line of Heracles, preferr'd The many of that lineage to the one; What his foes dared not, I, his lover, dared; I at that altar, where mid shouting crowds He sacrificed, our ruin in his heart, To Zeus, before he struck his blow, struck mine-- Struck once, and awed his mob, and saved this realm. Murder let others call this, if they will; I, self-defence and righteous execution. _Merope_