This was Medea of the Fleecemen, late Her tender brother’s slayer, whose vile spells Had promised Ægeus princes of his blood. Stole from him, at the beck of that mock moon, Honor, the flood august of all his life: For he, distrustful of the oracles, Inasmuch as Trœzene flowered no hope, Now in the season of his utmost need, Subservient to the sorceress and her whims, Blasphemed, in slackened faith, and clave to her; And strangling conscience, made his thraldom fine With golden incident and public pomp, Holding by night most sumptuous festival, Feasting beside her, restless and unthroned. Now Theseus knew that wily woman’s face, Who, reading her arraignment in his eyes, Shrank close to Ægeus, voluble with fear, And urged within his palm a carven bowl, That he should bid the young wayfarer drain Health to Medea! in one envenomed draught: Which Theseus heard, alert, past harp and bell, Past intervening hubbub of rich mirth, And sprang to cower the temptress with a word. But at the instant, sprang her minions too, And riot and upbraidings dire began, Conflict, and scorn, and drunken challenging. Then leaped quicksilvered Theseus thro’ the fray, With love’s suspicion kindling in his veins, And gained that space before the startled host Whence from her couch Medea shrieked away: Limned beautiful and clear from front to feet, Shod with the shoon Ægean; and his arm Sabred with the one sword that Ægeus knew! Who, blanching ’neath roused memory’s ebb and flow, Among the wrangling merry-makers all, Clarioned ‘My own!’ and strained him to his breast. Theseus, in those fresh days of his return, Tarried not idle; but with warlike haste Bore down on the usurping lords of state, Juniors and kin of his discrownèd sire; Them, ere the morrow dwindled, he beheld Scattered as chaff from off the threshing-floor, And Ægeus, o’er the wreckage of their reign Exalted, with calm brows indiademed. Then was the sacred and sequestered prime Of liberation, benison, and peace; When the round heaven, in summer’s ministrance Rolled on its choral axle; till, at end Like to a cloudlet that assails the blue, Comely and yet with rains ingerminate, Minos the Cretan unto Athens sent His nimble princeling. In a fortnight’s span, The island lad, competing in the games, Won fairly; whereupon the envious mob Made rude revolt, and took upon itself The barbarous dishonor of his death. And vengeful Minos sailed, and razed the town, Laying the bitter forfeit in this wise: ‘Athens shall yearly proffer unto me Her virgin tribute of patrician seed, Seven youths, and maidens seven, as by lot, Wherewith to feed the ravenous Minotaur.’ Athens the peerless bowed her ashen head.