The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06: Masterpieces of German Literature Translated into English. in Twenty Volumes
General
The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06: Masterpieces of German Literature Translated into English. in Twenty Volumes
German literature -- 19th century -- Translations into English; German literature -- 20th century -- Translations into English
GORA. Up, Medea, speak!
Why liest thou there so silent, staring
Blindly before thee? Rise, and speak!
O, help our sore distress!
MEDEA. My babes! My babes!
GORA. Forth must we flee ere night shall fall,
And already the twilight draweth down.
Up! Rouse thee, and gird thee for flight!
Swiftly they come to slay!
MEDEA. Alas, my children!
GORA. Nay, up! I say, unhappy one,
Nor kill me with thy cries of woe!
Hadst thou but heeded when I warned,
Still should we be at home
In Colchis, safe; thy kinsmen yet
Were living; all were well with us.
Rise up! What use are tears? Come, rise!
[MEDEA _drags herself half up and kneels on the steps._]
MEDEA. 'Twas so I knelt, 'twas so I lay
And stretched my hands for pity out
To mine own children; begged and wept
And prayed for one, for only one
Of my dear children! Death itself
Were not so bitter, as to leave
One of them here!--But to have none--!
And neither came! They turned away
With terror on their baby lips,
And fled for comfort to the breast
Of her--my bitterest enemy!
[_She springs up suddenly._]
But he,--he laughed to see, and she
Did laugh as well!
GORA. O, woe is me!
O, woe and heavy sorrow!
MEDEA. O gods, is this your vengeance, then,
Your retribution? All for love
I followed him, as wife should e'er
Follow her lord. My father died,
But was it I that slew him? No!
My brother fell. Was't, then, my hand
That dealt the stroke? I've wept for them
With heavy mourning, poured hot tears
To serve as sad libation for
Their resting-place so far away!
Ye gods! These woes so measureless
That I have suffered at your hands--
Call ye these justice,--retribution?
GORA. Thou didst leave thine own--
Thine own desert thee now!
MEDEA. Then will I visit punishment
On them, as Heaven on me!
There shall no deed of wickedness
In all the wide world scathless go!
Leave vengeance to my hand, O gods above!
GORA. Nay, think how thou mayst save thyself;
All else forget!
MEDEA. What fear is this
That makes thy heart so craven-soft?
First thou wert grim and savage, spak'st
Fierce threats of vengeance, now art full
Of fears and trembling!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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