Complete Works of William Morris, page 339
Medea turned, drawing both cloak and hood
Right close about her, lest perchance some man,
Some hind, or fisher of the water wan,
Should wonder at her visage, that indeed
Seemed little worthy of that wretched weed.
In that thick wood a little stream there was,
That here was well-nigh hidden of the grass,
And there swelled into pools both clear and deep,
Wherein the images of trees did sleep,
For it was noontide of the summer day.
To such a pool Medea took her way,
And reaching it, upon the grass laid down
Her rough grey homespun cloak and wallet brown;
And when her eyes had swept the space around,
Undid her tunic, that upon the ground
Fell huddled round her feet; nor did she spare
To strip the linen from her body fair,
And shoes from off her feet; then she drew near
The flowery edges of the streamlet clear,
And gazing down upon her image, stood,
Hearkening the drowsy murmur of the wood;
And since the wind was hushed that noon of day,
And moveless down her back the long locks lay,
Her very self an image seemed to be,
Wrought in some wondrous faint-hued ivory,
Carved by a master among cunning men.
So still she stood, that the quickwater-hen
Noted her not, as through the blue mouse-ear
He made his way; the conies drew anear,
Nibbling the grass, and from an oak-twig nigh
A thrush poured forth his song unceasingly.
But in a while, sighing, she turned away,
And, going up to where the wallet lay,
She opened it, and thence a phial drew
That seemed to be well wrought of crystal blue,
Which when she had unstopped, therefrom she poured
Into the hollow of an Indian gourd
A pale green liquor, wherefrom there arose
Such scent as o’er some poisonous valley blows,
Where nought but dull-scaled twining serpents dwell,
Nor any more now could the Colchian smell
The water-mint, the pine-trees, or the flower
Of the heaped-up sweet odorous virgin’s bower.
BUT shuddering, and with lips grown pale and wan,
She took the gourd, and with shut eyes began
Therefrom her body to anoint all o’er;
And this being done, she turned not any more
Unto the woodland brook, but hurrying,
Drew on her raiment, and made haste to sling
Her wallet round about her, nor forgot
The Tauric image, ere the lovely spot
She left unto the rabbit and the roe.
AND now straight toward Iolchos did she go,
But as she went, a hideous, fearful change
Had come on her; from sunken eyes and strange
She gazed around; white grew her golden hair,
And seventy years her body seemed to bear;
As though the world that coppice had passed by
For half an age, and caught her presently,
When from its borders once her foot had passed.
Then she began to murmur, as she cast
From changed eyes glances on her wrinkled hands:
O Jason! surely not for many lands,
Rich and gold-bearing lands, would I do this;
But yet with thee to gain good peace and bliss
Far greater things would I have done to-day.
So saying, she made haste upon her way,
Until at last, when it was well-nigh night,
She reached the city walled and towered with white,
And passing by the brazen gates of it,
Forewearied, by the fountain did she sit;
Where, as she waited, came an ancient crone,
Who, groaning, set her pitcher on the stone,
And seeing the Colchian, asked her what she was.
Mother, Medea said, I strive to pass
Unto fair Athens, where dwelt long ago
My fathers, if perchance folk yet may know
Where they lie buried, that on that same stone
I may lie down and die; a hapless one,
Whom folk once called Aglaia, once called fair;
For years, long years agone, my golden hair
Went down the wind, as carelessly I strayed
Along the wet sea-beach, of nought afraid,
And there my joy was ended suddenly,
For on me fell the rovers of the sea,
And bore me bound into the land of Thrace,
And thence to some unnamed, far northern place,
Where I, a rich man’s daughter, learned to bear
Fetters and toil and scourging year by year;
Till it has happed unto me at the last,
Now that my strength for toil is overpast,
That I am free once more, if that be aught,
Whom in all wretched places death has sought,
And surely now will find. But wilt thou give
Some resting-place to me, that I may live
Until I come to Athens and my grave ?
And certainly, though nought of gold I have,
In the far northland did I gather lore
Of this and that amid my labour sore;
And chiefly of this Goddess rites I know,
Whose image round my neck thou seest now,
Well-shod Diana; and a whispered word
Within her inmost temple once I heard
Concerning this: how men may grow to be
E’en as the Gods, and gain eternity,
And how the work of years may be undone.
When she had finished, the Thessalian crone,
Filling her jar. with water, turned and said:
Surely Athenian, I am-sore afraid,
Ere thou hast learned thy lesson utterly,
And gained that new life, thou thyself wilt die;
Nor will it profit me, who am a slave
Wishing for death, a wretched life to save:
But hearken now, if thou art wise and bold,
Then will I show thee how thou mayst earn gold
And thanks enow, by telling this thy tale
Unto rich folk, for them will it avail
To know thy secret; rise, and come with me,
And the king’s daughters surely shalt thou see;
For on my road from nothing unto hell
His palace is the last lodge where I dwell,
And I am well aweary of it now,
And of my toil, thanked with hard word and blow.
I thank thee, mother, said the Colchian maid,
Nor of kings’ daughters shall I be afraid,
Whose ears Latona’s daughters erst have heard,
Nor trembled at the heavy dreadful word.
THEN on they passed, and as they went, the crone
Told her how Aeson unto death was done,
And of the news that thither had been brought
Of those that o’er the sea that glory sought.
Namely, that when Aeetes had been fain
To trap the Argo, all had been in vain,
Yet had he gone back well-nigh satisfied;
For in the night to him a voice had cried
Louder and clearer than a mortal can:
Go back to Aea, sun-begotten man,
And there forget thy daughter and thy FIeece;
But yet be merry, for the thieves of Greece
Shall live no longer than a poor wretch may
Who lies unholpen on a lonely’ way
Wounded, possessing nought but many woes,
Lo, thus it happeneth now unto thy foes !
This, said the crone, a Colchian man had told
To Pelias, dweller in the house of gold,
And had large gifts from him; who when he knew
The certainty of this, old Aeson slew
With all his house who at Iolchos were.
So, said she, if, for quieting his fear
Of the sea-rover, such things he did give,
What would his gifts be if thou mad’st him live
His life again, with none of all his name
Alive, to give him fear of death or shame ?
WITH that they came unto the royal house
Where Pelias dwelt, grown old and timorous,
Oppressed with blood of those that he had slain,
Desiring wealth and longer life in vain.
So there a court low-built the old crone sought,
And to her lodging the tired Colchian brought,
Where she might sleep, and gave her food and drink.
Then into sleep did wise Medea sink,
And dreamed that she herself, made ever young,
Gold-robed within some peaceful garden sung,
Like that where dwelt the wise Hesperides.
But as she walked between the smooth-stemmed trees
She saw the sea rise o’er the marble wall,
And rolling o’er, drown grass and flowers and all,
And draw on towards her, who no whit could move,
Though from the high land Jason, her own love,
Was shouting out to her, so then, at last,
She dreamed the waters over all had passed
And reached her feet, and o’er her coldly swept,
And still undrowned, beneath the waves she wept,
And still was Jason shouting to her there.
Therewith she woke, and felt the morning air
Cold on her face, because the ancient crone
Over her couch the casement had undone.
And as she oped her eyes, she heard her say:
Awake, O guest, for yet. another day
We twain must bear before we gain our rest.
But now indeed I think it to be best
That to my ladies I alone should show
That prayers, and rites, and wonders thou dost know,
Which thou wilt tell for gold; for sure I deem
That to us dying folk nought good doth seem,
But hoarding for the years we shall riot see.
So bide thou there, and I will come to thee
And bring thee word of what the queens may say.
Then with these words she went upon her way,
While in her place alone Medea sat,
With eager heart, thinking of this and that,
And wishing that the glorious day were come,
When she should set her love within his home,
A king once more. So ‘mid these thoughts, there came
Back to the place the wise Thessalian dame,
Who bade her rise and after her to go,
That she those marvels to the queens might show.
THEREWITH she brought her to a chamber where
Abode the royal maidens slim and fair,
All doing well-remembered works; of whom
White-armed Alcestis sat before the loom,
Casting the shuttle swift from hand to hand.
The while Eradne’s part it was to stand
Amongst the maids who carded out the wool
And filled the gleaming ivory shuttles full
Amphinome, meantime, her golden head
Bent o’er the spinners of the milk~white thread,
And by the growing web still set aside
The many-coloured bundles newly dyed,
Blood-red, and heavenly blue, and grassy green,
Yea, and more colours than man yet has seen
In flowery meadows midmost of the May.
Then to the royal maids the crone ‘gan say:
Behold the woman, O my mistresses,
Who ‘midst the close-set gloomy northern trees
Has late learned that I told you of; and ye
Who in this royal house live happily,
May well desire such life for evermore,
Which unto me were but a burden sore.
Therewith she left them, but folk say, indeed,
That she who spoke was nought but Saturn’s seed,
In very likeness of that woman old,
Whose body soon folk came on, dead and cold,
Within the place where she was wont to dwell.
Now how these things may be, I cannot tell,
But certainly Queen Juno’s will was good
To finish that which, in the oaken wood
Anigh the Centaur’s cave, she first began,
Giving good heart to the strange-nurtured man.
BUT, she being gone, fair-limbed Amphinome
Said: Reverend mother, welcome here ye be.
And in return for thy so hard-earned lore
That thou wilt teach us, surely never-more
Shall thou do labour whiles thou dwellest here,
But unto us shalt thou be lief and dear
As though thou wert the best of all our blood.
But, pondering awhile, Medea stood,
Then answered: Lady, I am now grown old,
And but small gift to me were heaps of gold,
Or rest itself, for that the tomb shall give;
I say all things are nought, unless I live
So long henceforward, that I need not think
When into nothing I at last must sink;
But take me now unto the mighty king
That rules this land, and there by everything
That he holds sacred, let him swear to me
That I shall live in peace and liberty
Till quiet death upon my head is brought;
But this great oath being made, things shall be wrought
By me, that never can be paid with gold;
For I will make that young which is grown old,
And that alive that ye have seen lie dead.
THEN much they wondered at the words she said,
And from th’e loom did fair Alcestis rise,
And tall Amphinome withdrew her eyes
From the fair spinners, and Eradne left
The carding of the fine wool for the weft.
Then said Eradne: Mother, fear not thou,
Surely our father is good man enow,
And will not harm thee: natheless, he will swear
By whatsoever thing he holdeth dear,
Nor needst thou have a doubt of him at all.
Come, for he sitteth now within the hall.
WITH that, she took her shoes from off the ground,
And round her feet the golden strings she bound,
As did her sisters, and fair cloaks they threw
About them, and their royal raiment drew
Through golden girdles, gemmed and richly wrought,
And forth with them the Colchian maid they brought.
But as unto the royal hall they turned,
Within their hearts such hot desire burned
For lengthening out the life they knew so sweet,
That scarce they felt the ground beneath their feet,
And through the marble court long seemed the way.
BUT when they reached the place, glittering and gay
With all the slain man’s goods, and saw the king
Wearing his royal crown and mystic ring,
And clad in purple, and his wearied face,
Anxious and cruel, gaze from Aeson’s place,
A little thing it seemed to slay him there,
As one might slay the lion in his lair,
Bestrewn with bones of beast, and man, and maid.
Then as he turned to them, Alcestis said:
O lord and father, here we bring to thee
A wise old woman, come from over sea,
Who ‘mid the gloomy, close-set northern trees
Has heard the words of reverend Goddesses
I dare not name aloud; therefore she knows
Why this thing perishes, and that thing grows,
And what to unborn creatures must befall,
And this, the very chiefest thing of all,
To make the old man live his life again,
And all the lapse of years but nought and vain:
But we, when these strange things of her we heard,
Trembled before her, and were sore afeard,
In midst of all our measureless desire
Within thy veins and ours to set new fire,
And with thee live for many a happy day,
Whilst all about us passes soon away.
NOW paler grew the king’s face as they spake,
And ‘mid strange hopes his heart began to quake,
As sighing, he fell on thought of other days
Now long gone by, when he was winning praise:
He thinketh: If indeed I might not die,
Then would I lay aside all treachery,
And here should all folk live without alarm,
For to no man would I do any harm,
Whatso might hap, but I would bring again
The golden age, free from all fear and pain.
But through his heart there shot a pang of fear,
As to the queen he said: Why art thou here,
Since thou hast mastered this all-saving art,
Keeping but vagant life for thine own part
Of what thou boastest with the Gods to share?
Thou, but a dying woman, nowise fair.
Pelias, she said, far from the north I come,
But in Erectheus’ city was my home,
Where being alone, upon a luckless day,
By the sea-rovers was I snatched away,
And in their long-ship, with bound, helpless hands,
Was brought to Thrace, and thence to northern lands,
Of one of which I scarcely know the name,
Nor could your tongue the uncouth letters frame.
There had I savage masters, and must learn
With aching back to bend above the quern;
There must I learn how the poor craftsman weaves,
Nor earn his wages; and the barley-sheaves
Must bind in August; and across the snow,
Unto the frozen river must I go,
When the white winter lay upon the land,
And therewithal must I dread many a hand,
And writhe beneath the whistle of the whip.
Mid toils like these my youth from me did slip,
Uncomforted, through lapse of wretched years,
Till I forgot the use of sobs and tears,
And like a corpse about my labour went,
Grown old before my time, and worn and bent.
And then at last this good to me betid,
That my wise mistress strove to know things hid
From mortal men, and doubted all the rest,
B’abblers and young, who in our fox’s nest
Dwelt through the hideous changes of the year:
