The Spartan Brothers with their guardian strive. Can houses thus ill-seated, thus embroil'd, Thus little founded in their subjects' love, Practise the indulgent, bloodless policy Of dynasties long-fix'd, and honour'd long? No! Vigour and severity must chain Popular reverence to these recent lines. Be their first-founded order strict maintain'd-- Their murder'd rulers terribly avenged-- Ruthlessly their rebellious subjects crush'd! Since policy bids thus, what fouler death Than thine illustrious husband's to avenge Shall we select? than Polyphontes, what More daring and more grand offender find? Justice, my sister, long demands this blow, And Wisdom, now thou see'st, demands it too. To strike it, then, dissuade thy son no more; For to live disobedient to these two, Justice and Wisdom, is no life at all. _The Chorus_ The Gods, O mistress dear! the hard-soul'd man, Who spared not others, bid not us to spare. _Merope_ Alas! against my brother, son, and friends, One, and a woman, how can I prevail?-- O brother, thou hast conquer'd; yet, I fear! Son! with a doubting heart thy mother yields; May it turn happier than my doubts portend! _Laias_ Meantime on thee the task of silence only Shall be imposed; to us shall be the deed. Now, not another word, but to our act! Nephew! thy friends are sounded, and prove true. Thy father's murderer, in the public place, Performs, this noon, a solemn sacrifice; Be with him--choose the moment--strike thy blow! If prudence counsels thee to go unarm'd, The sacrificer's axe will serve thy turn. To me and the Messenians leave the rest, With the Gods' aid--and, if they give but aid As our just cause deserves, I do not fear. [AEPYTUS, LAIAS, _and_ ARCAS _go out_. _The Chorus_ O Son and Mother, _str_. 1. Whom the Gods o'ershadow In dangerous trial, With certainty of favour! As erst they shadow'd Your race's founders From irretrievable woe; When the seed of Lycaon Lay forlorn, lay outcast, Callisto and her Boy. What deep-grass'd meadow _ant_. 1. At the meeting valleys-- Where clear-flowing Ladon, Most beautiful of waters, Receives the river Whose trout are vocal, The Aroanian stream-- Without home, without mother, Hid the babe, hid Arcas, The nursling of the dells? But the sweet-smelling myrtle, _str_. 2. And the pink-flower'd oleander, And the green agnus-castus, To the west-wind's murmur, Rustled round his cradle; And Maia rear'd him. Then, a boy, he startled, In the snow-fill'd hollows Of high Cyllene, The white mountain-birds; Or surprised, in the glens, The basking tortoises, Whose striped shell founded In the hand of Hermes The glory of the lyre.