_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 Weak women with a thousandth part my wrongs, 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---- But with what eyes should I encounter there My husband, wandering with his stern compeers, Amphiaraos, or Mycenae's king, Who led the Greeks to Ilium, Agamemnon, Betray'd like him, but, not like him, avenged? Or with what voice shall I the questions meet Of my two elder sons, slain long ago, Who sadly ask me, what, if not revenge, Kept me, their mother, from their side so long? Or how reply to thee, my child last-born, Last-murder'd, who reproachfully wilt say: _Mother, I well believed thou lived'st on_ _In the detested palace of thy foe,_ _With patience on thy face, death in thy heart,_ _Counting, till I grew up, the laggard years,_ _That our joint hands might then together pay_ _To our unhappy house the debt we owe._ _My death makes my debt void, and doubles thine--_ _But down thou fleest here, and leav'st our scourge_ _Triumphant, and condemnest all our race_ _To lie in gloom, for ever unappeased._