no untrained hand I bringTo execute my deeds.
But now, by what approach,
Or by what weapon wilt thou threat the treacherous foe?
Deep hidden in my secret heart have I conceived
A purpose which I dare not utter. O I fear
That in my foolish madness I have gone too far.—
I would that children had been born to him of this
My hated rival. Still, since she hath gained his heart,
His children too are hers.—
That punishment would be most fitting and deserved.
Yes, now I see the final deed of crime, and thou,
My soul, must face it. You, who once were called my sons,
Must pay the penalty of these your father's crimes.—
My heart with horror melts, a numbing chill pervades
My limbs, and all my soul is filled with sinking fear.
Now wrath gives place, and, heedless of my husband's sins,
The tender mother-instinct quite possesses me.
And could I shed my helpless children's blood? Not so,
O say not so, my maddened heart! Far from my hand
And thought be that unnamable and hideous deed!
What sin have they that shedding of their wretched blood
Would wash away?
Their sin—that Jason is their sire,
And, deeper guilt, that I have borne them. Let them die;
They are not mine.—Nay, nay, they are my own, my sons,
And with no spot of guilt.—Full innocent they are,
'Tis true: my brother too was innocent. O soul,
Why dost thou hesitate? Why flow these streaming tears
While with contending thoughts my wavering heart is torn?
And waves, to stormy waves opposed, the sea invade,
And to their lowest sands the briny waters boil:
With such a storm my heart is tossed. Hate conquers love,
And love puts impious hate to flight. O yield thee, grief,
To love! Then come, my sons, sole comfort of my heart,
Come cling within thy mother's close embrace. Unharmed
Your sire may keep you, while your mother holds you too.
But she remembers, even as she embraces her children, that this is her last embrace.
But flight and exile drive me forth! And even now
My children must be torn away with tears and cries.—
Then let them die to Jason since they're lost to me.
Once more has hate resumed her sway, and passion's fire
Is hot within my soul. Now fury, as of yore,
Reseeks her own. Lead on, I follow to the end!
I would that I had borne twice seven sons, the boast
Of Niobe! But all too barren have I been.
Still will my two sufficient be to satisfy
My brother and my sire.
She suddenly falls distraught, as one who sees a dreadful vision.
But whither hastes that throng
Of furies? What their quest? What mean their brandished
fires?
Whom threats this hellish host with horrid, bloody brands?
I hear the writhing lash of serpents huge resound.
Whom seeks Magæra with her deadly torch?—Whose shade
Comes gibbering there with scattered limbs?—It is my
brother!
Revenge he seeks; and we will grant his quest. Then come,
Within my heart plunge all your torches—rend me—burn!
For lo, my bosom open to your fury's stroke.
O brother, bid those vengeful goddesses depart
And go in peace down to the lowest shades of Hell.
And do thou leave me to myself, and let this hand
That slew thee with the sword now offer sacrifice
Unto thy shade.
Roused to the point of action by this vision, and still at the very pitch of frenzy, she plunges her dagger into the first of her sons. (The poet thus violates the canons of the classical drama in representing deeds of blood upon the stage.)
But now hoarse shouts and the quick tramping of many feet are heard; and well does Medea know their meaning.
What sudden uproar meets my ear?
'Tis Corinth's citizens on my destruction bent.
Unto the palace roof I'll mount, and there complete
This bloody sacrifice.
[To her other son.] Do thou come hence with me; But thee, poor senseless corse, within mine arms I'll bear. Now gird thyself, my heart, with strength. Nor must this deed Lose all its just renown because in secret done; But to the public eye my hand must be approved.
Medea disappears within, leading one son, terrified and reluctant, and bearing the body of her other child in her arms. Jason and a crowd of Corinthian citizens rush upon the stage. Stopping in front of his own palace, he shouts:
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
