[AEPYTUS, LAIAS, _and_ ARCAS _come in with the dead body of_ POLYPHONTES, _followed by a crowd of the_ MESSENIANS. _Laias_ Sister, from this day forth thou art no more The widow of a husband unavenged, The anxious mother of an exiled son. Thine enemy is slain, thy son is king! Rejoice with us! and trust me, he who wish'd Welfare to the Messenian state, and calm, Could find no way to found them sure as this. _AEpytus_ Mother, all these approve me; but if thou Approve not too, I have but half my joy. _Merope_ O AEpytus, my son, behold, behold This iron man, my enemy and thine, This politic sovereign, lying at our feet, With blood-bespatter'd robes, and chaplet shorn! Inscrutable as ever, see, it keeps Its sombre aspect of majestic care, Of solitary thought, unshared resolve, Even in death, that countenance austere! So look'd he, when to Stenyclaros first, A new-made wife, I from Arcadia came, And found him at my husband's side, his friend, His kinsman, his right hand in peace and war, Unsparing in his service of his toil, His blood--to me, for I confess it, kind; So look'd he in that dreadful day of death; So, when he pleaded for our league but now. What meantest thou, O Polyphontes, what Desired'st thou, what truly spurr'd thee on? Was policy of state, the ascendency Of the Heracleidan conquerors, as thou said'st, Indeed thy lifelong passion and sole aim? Or did'st thou but, as cautious schemers use, Cloak thine ambition with these specious words? I know not: just, in either case, the stroke Which laid thee low, for blood requires blood; But yet, not knowing this, I triumph not Over thy corpse--triumph not, neither mourn,-- For I find worth in thee, and badness too. What mood of spirit, therefore, shall we call The true one of a man--what way of life His fix'd condition and perpetual walk? None, since a twofold colour reigns in all. But thou, my son, study to make prevail One colour in thy life, the hue of truth; That justice, that sage order, not alone Natural vengeance, may maintain thine act, And make it stand indeed the will of Heaven. Thy father's passion was this people's ease, This people's anarchy, thy foe's pretence. As the chiefs rule, my son, the people are. Unhappy people, where the chiefs themselves Are, like the mob, vicious and ignorant! So rule, that even thine enemies may fail To find in thee a fault whereon to found, Of tyrannous harshness, or remissness weak-- So rule, that as thy father thou be loved! So rule, that as his foe thou be obey'd! Take these, my son, over thine enemy's corpse Thy mother's prayers! and this prayer last of all: That even in thy victory thou show, Mortal, the moderation of a man. _AEpytus_