fall o'erwhelm
her hapless babes.
Creon.
Then go in peace; for I to them
A father's place will fill, and take them to my breast.
Medea.
Now by the fair hopes born upon this wedding day,
And by thy hopes of lasting sovereignty secure
From changeful fate's assault, I pray thee grant from flight
A respite brief, while I upon my children's lips
A mother's kiss imprint, perchance the last.
Creon.
A time
Thou seek'st for treachery.
Medea.
What fraud can be devised
In one short hour?
Creon.
To those on mischief bent, be sure,
The briefest time is fraught with mischief's fatal power.
Medea.
Dost thou refuse me, then, one little space for tears?
Creon.
Though deep-ingrafted fear would fain resist thy plea,
A single day I'll give thee ere my sentence holds.
Medea.
Too gracious thou. But let my respite further shrink,
And I'll depart content.
Creon.
Thy life shall surely pay
The forfeit if to-morrow's sun beholds thee still
In Corinth.
But the voice of Hymen calls away
To solemnize the rites of this his festal day.
Creon goes out toward his palace. Medea remains gazing darkly after him for a few moments, and then takes her way in the opposite direction.
The chorus sings in reminiscent strain of the old days before the Argo's voyage, the simple innocent life of the golden age when each man was content to dwell within the horizon of his birth; the impious rash voyage of the Argonauts, their dreadful experiences in consequence, their wild adventure's prize of fatal gold and more fatal Colchian sorceress; their dark forebodings of the consequences in after years, when the sea shall be a highway, and all hidden places of the world laid bare. Medea comes rushing in bent upon using for vengeance the day which Creon has granted her. The nurse tries in vain to restrain her.
Nurse.
My foster daughter, whither speedest thou abroad?
O stay, I pray thee, and restrain thy passion's force.
But Medea hastens by without answering or noticing her. The nurse, looking after her, reflects in deep distress:
As some wild bacchanal, whose fury's raging fire
The god inflames, now roams distraught on Pindus' snows,
And now on lofty Nysa's rugged slopes; so she
Now here, now there, with frenzied step is hurried on,
Her face revealing every mark of stricken woe,
With flushing cheek and sighs deep drawn, wild cries
and tears,
And laughter worse than tears. In her a medley strange
Of doubts and fears is seen, and overtopping wrath,
Bewailings, bitter groans of anguish.—Whither tends
This overburdened soul? What mean her frenzied threats?
When will the foaming wave of fury spend itself?
No common crime, I fear, no easy deed of ill
She meditates. Herself she will outvie. For well
I recognize the wonted marks of rage. Some deed
Is threatening, wild, profane and hideous. Behold,
Her face betrays her madness. O ye gods, may these
Our fears prove vain forebodings!
Our own imaginations and our fears keep pace with those of the devoted nurse, and we listen in fearful silence while Medea, communing with her tortured soul, reveals the depth of suffering and hate into which she has been plunged.
Medea.
For thy hate, poor soul,
Dost thou a measure seek? Let it be deep as love.
And shall I tamely view the wedding torches' glare?
And shall this day go uneventful by, this day
So hardly won, so grudgingly bestowed? Nay, nay;
While, poised upon her heights, the central earth shall
bear
The heavens up; while seasons run their endless round,
And sands unnumbered lie; while days and nights and sun
And stars in due procession pass; while round the pole
The ocean-fearing bears revolve, and tumbling streams
Flow downward to the sea: my grief shall never cease
To seek revenge, and shall forever grow. What rage
Of savage beast can equal mine? What Scylla famed?
What sea-engulfing pool? What burning Ætna placed
On impious Titan's heaving breast? No torrent stream,
Nor storm-tossed sea, nor breath of flame fanned by
the gale,
Can check or equal my wild storm of rage. My will
Is set on limitless revenge!
But this wild rage can lead nowhere. She struggles to calm her terrible passion to still more terrible reason and resolve.
Will Jason say
He feared the power of Creon and Acastus' wrath?—
True love is proof against the fear of man. But grant
He was compelled to yield, and pledged his hand in fear:
He might at least have sought his wife with one last word
Of comfort and farewell. But this, though brave in heart,
He feared to do. The cruel terms of banishment
Could Creon's son-in-law not soften? No. One day
Alone was given for last farewell to both my babes.
But time's short space I'll not bewail; though brief in
hours,
In consequence it stretches out eternally.
This day shall see a deed that ne'er shall be forgot.—
But now I'll go and pray the gods, and move high heaven
But I shall work my will!
As Medea hastens from the scene, Jason himself enters; and now we hear from his own lips the fatal dilemma in which he finds himself. Regard for his marriage vows, love for his children, and fear of death at the hands of Creon—all are at variance and must be faced. It is the usual tragedy of fate.
Jason.
O heartless fate, if frowns or smiles bedeck thy brow!
How often are thy cures far worse than the disease
They seek to cure! If, now, I wish to keep the troth
I plighted to my lawful bride, my life must pay
The forfeit; if I