MEDEA. The night is falling, stars are climbing high, Shedding their kindly beams on all below-- The same that shone there yestere'en, as though All things today were as they were before. And yet 'twixt now and yesterday there yawns A gulf, as wide as that which sunders joy Made perfect and grim death! How change-less e'er Is Nature--and man's life and happiness How fitful, fleeting! When I tell the tale Of my unhappy life, it is as though I listened, while another told it me, And now would stop him: "Nay, that cannot be, My friend! This woman here, that harbors dark And murderous thoughts--how can she be the same That once, long years agone, on Colchis' strand Trod, free and happy, 'neath these very stars, As pure, as mild, as free from any sin As new-born child upon its mother's breast?" Where goes she, then? She seeks the peasant's hut To comfort the poor serf, whose little crops Were trampled by her father's huntsmen late, And brings him gold to ease his bitter heart. Why trips she down the forest-path? She hastes To meet her brother who is waiting there In some green copse. Together then they wend Homeward their way along the well-known path, Like twin-stars shining through the forest-gloom. Another draweth nigh; his brow is crowned With coronet of gold; he is the King, Their royal father, and he lays his hand In blessing on their heads, and names them both His joy, his dearest treasure.--Welcome, then, Most dear and friendly faces! Are ye come To comfort me in this my loneliness? Draw nearer, nearer yet! I fain would look Into your eyes! Dear brother, dost thou smile So friendly on me? Ah, how fair thou art, My heart's best treasure! But my father's face Is sober, earnest; yet he loves me still, Yea, loveth his good daughter! [_She springs up suddenly._]