What shall I have to answer to such words?-- No, something must be dared; and, great as erst Our dastard patience, be our daring now! Come, ye swift Furies, who to him ye haunt Permit no peace till your behests are done; Come Hermes, who dost friend the unjustly kill'd, And can'st teach simple ones to plot and feign; Come, lightning Passion, that with foot of fire Advancest to the middle of a deed Almost before 'tis plann'd; come, glowing Hate; Come, baneful Mischief, from thy murky den Under the dripping black Tartarean cliff Which Styx's awful waters trickle down-- Inspire this coward heart, this flagging arm! How say ye, maidens, do ye know these prayers? Are these words Merope's--is this voice mine? Old man, old man, thou had'st my boy in charge, And he is lost, and thou hast that to atone! Fly, find me on the instant where confer The murderer and his impious setter-on-- And ye, keep faithful silence, friends, and mark What one weak woman can achieve alone. _Arcas_ O mistress, by the Gods, do nothing rash! _Merope_ Unfaithful servant, dost thou, too, desert me? _Arcas_ I go! I go!--The King holds council--there Will I seek tidings. Take, the while, this word: Attempting deeds beyond thy power to do, Thou nothing profitest thy friends, but mak'st Our misery more, and thine own ruin sure. [ARCAS _goes out_. _The Chorus_ I have heard, O Queen, how a prince, _str._ 1. Agamemnon's son, in Mycenae, Orestes, died but in name, Lived for the death of his foes. _Merope_ Peace! _The Chorus_ What is it? _Merope_ Alas, Thou destroyest me! _The Chorus_ How? _Merope_ Whispering hope of a life Which no stranger unknown, But the faithful servant and nurse, Whose tears warrant his truth, Bears sad witness is lost. _The Chorus_ Wheresoe'er men are, there is grief. _ant._ 1. In a thousand countries, a thousand Homes, e'en now is there wail; Mothers lamenting their sons. _Merope_ Yes---- _The Chorus_ Thou knowest it? _Merope_ This, Who lives, witnesses. _The Chorus_ True. _Merope_ But is it only a fate Sure, all-common, to lose In a land of friends, by a friend, One last, murder-saved child? _The Chorus_ Ah me! _str._ 2. _Merope_ Thou confessest the prize In the rushing, thundering, mad, Cloud-enveloped, obscure, Unapplauded, unsung Race of calamity, mine? _The Chorus_ None can truly claim that Mournful preeminence, not Thou. _Merope_ Fate _gives_ it, ah me! _The Chorus_ Not, above all, in the doubts, Double and clashing, that hang---- _Merope_