Studies in the Poetry of Italy, Part I. Roman

John Stuart Mill · en
Ho, all ye loyal sons who mourn the death of kings!
              Come, let us seize the worker of this hideous crime.
              Now ply your arms and raze her palace to the ground.

At this moment, though as yet unseen by those below, Medea emerges upon
the palace roof.

  _Medea._    Now, now have I regained my regal power, my sire,
              My brother! Once again the Colchians hold the spoil
              Of precious gold, and by the magic of this hour
              I am a maid once more! O heavenly powers appeased
              At length! O festal hour! O nuptial day! On! on!
              Accomplished is the guilt, but not the recompense.
              Complete the task while yet thy hands are strong to act.
              Why dost thou linger still? Why dost thou hesitate
              Upon the threshold of the deed? Thou canst perform it.
              Now wrath has died within me, and my soul is filled
              With shame and deep remorse. Ah me, what have I done,
              Wretch that I am? Wretch that thou art, well mayest thou
                mourn,
              For thou hast done it!--At that thought delirious joy
              O'ermasters me and fills my heart which fain would grieve.
              And yet, methinks, the act was almost meaningless,
              Since Jason saw it not; for naught has been performed
              If to his grief be added not the woe of sight.

  _Jason._    [_discovering her._] Lo, there she stands upon the
                lofty battlements!
              Bring torches! Fire the house! That she may fall ensnared
              By those devices she herself hath planned.

  _Medea._    [_derisively._]                                 Not so;
              But rather build a lofty pyre for these thy sons;
              Their funeral rites prepare. Already for thy bride
              And father have I done the service due the dead;
              For in their ruined palace have I buried them.
              One son of thine has met his doom; and this shall die
              Before his father's face.--

  _Jason._    By all the gods, and by the perils of our flight,
              And by our marriage bond which I have ne'er betrayed,
              I pray thee spare the boy, for he is innocent.
              If aught of sin there be, 'tis mine. Myself I give
              To be the victim. Take my guilty soul for his.

  _Medea._    'Tis for thy prayers and tears I draw, not sheathe the
                sword.
              Go now, and take thee maids for wives, thou faithless one;
              Abandon and betray the mother of thy sons.

  _Jason._    And yet, I pray thee, let one sacrifice atone.

  _Medea._    If in the blood of one my passion could be quenched,
              No vengeance had it sought. Though both my sons I slay,
              The number still is all too small to satisfy
              My boundless grief.