Then me she used to help her, and so dear

  I grew, that when upon her tasks she went,

  Into all dangerous service was I sent;

  And many a time, within the woods alone,

  Have I sat watching o’er the heaps of stone

  Where dwell the giants dead; and many a time

  Have my pale lips uttered the impious rhyme

  That calls the dead from their unchanged abode;

  Till on my soul there .lay a heavy load

  Of knowledge, not without reward, for I

  No longer went in rags and misery,

  But in such bravery as there they had

  My toil-worn body now was fairly clad,

  And feared by man and maid did I become,

  And mistress of my mistress’ dreary home.

  Moreover, whether that, being dead to fear,

  All things I noted, or that somewhat dear

  I now was grown to those dread Goddesses,

  I know not; yet amidst the haunted trees

  More things I learned than my old mistress did,

  Yea, some things surely from all folk else hid,

  Whose names once spoken would unroof this hall,

  And lay Iolchos underneath a pall

  Of quick destruction; and when these were learned,

  At last my mistress all her wage had earned,

  And to the world was dead for evermore.

  But me indeed the whole house hated sore,

  First for my knowledge, next that, sooth to say,

  I, when I well had passed my evil day,

  And came to rule, spared not my fellows aught;

  Whereby this fate upon my head was brought,

  That flee I must lest worst should hap to me;

  So on my way unto the Grecian sea

  With weary heart and manifold distress,

  My feet at last thy royal pavement press.

  My lips beseech thy help, O mighty King!

  Help me, that I myself may do the thing

  I most desire, and this great gift may give

  To thee and thine, from this time forth to live

  In youth and beauty while the world goes by

  With all its vain desires and misery.

  AND if thou doubtest still, then hear me say

  The words thou spakest on a long-past day,

  When thou wert fearful, and the half-shod man

  Had come upon thee through the water wan.

  SHE ceased awhile, and therewith Pelias,

  With open mouth and eyes as fixed as glass,

  Stared at her, wondering. Then again she said:

  Awhile ago, when he thou knowest dead,

  And he thou thinkest dead, were by thy side,

  A crafty wile thou forgedst; at that tide

  Telling the tale of Theban Athamas,

  And how that Phryxus dead at Aea was.

  Thinking (and not in vain) to light the fire

  Of glorious deeds, and measureless desire

  Of fame within the hearts of men o’erbold.

  For thus thou saidst: So is the story told

  Of things that happened forty years agone,

  Nor of the Greeks has there been any one

  To set the bones of Phryxus in a tomb,

  Or mete out to the Colchian his due doom.

  So saidst thou then, and by such words didst drive

  Thy nephew in a hopeless game to strive,

  Wherefore thou deemest wisely he is dead,

  And all the words that he can say are said.

  SHE ceased again, while pale and shuddering,

  Across his eyes the crafty, fearful king

  Drew trembling hands. But yet again she spoke:

  What if the Gods by me the strong chain broke

  Of thy past deeds, ill deeds wrought not in vain,

  And thou with new desires lived yet again?

  Durst I still trust thee with my new-gained life?

  Who for the rest am not thy brother’s wife,

  Thy nephew, or thy brother. Be it so.

  Yet since the foolish hearts of men I know,

  Swear on this image of great Artemis

  That unto me thy purpose harmless is,

  Nor wilt thou do me hurt, or more or less.

  Then while thy lips the ivory image press,

  Will I call down all terrors that I know

  Upon thine head if thou shouldst break thy vow.

  Yet for thyself dost thou trust what I say,

  Or wilt thou still be dying day by day?

  Yea, said the king; yea, whosoe’er thou art,

  Needs must I trust thee, in such wise my heart

  Desireth life again when this is done.

  Give me the image, O thou fearful one,

  Who knowest all my life, who in the breath

  Wherein thou prayest help still threatenest death.

  Then on the image did she swear the king,

  But while he spoke was she still muttering,

  With glittering eyes fixed on him; but at last,

  When from from his lips the dreadful word had passed,

  She said: O King, pray that thou mayst not die

  Before the fifth day’s sun has risen on high;

  Yet on to-morrow morn shall thou behold

  This hair of mine all glittering bright as gold,

  My tottering feet firm planted on the ground,

  My grey and shrivelled arms grown white and round,

  As once, when by Ilissus’ side I trod,

  A snare of beauty to a very God,

  To young men’s eyes a fierce consuming fire.

  So saying, did she kindle fresh desire

  In the king’s fainting heart, until he thought:

  Nay, if new life hereby to me is brought,

  Withal there may be brought a lovely mate

  To share my happy days and scorn of fate.

  Then did he bid his daughters straight to go

  With that wise woman, nor spare aught to do

  That she might bid them, and they wondering,

  But in their hearts yet fearful of the thing,

  Unto the women’s chamber led her back,

  And bade her say what matters she might lack.

  Then little did she ask unto her need,

  But fair cold water, and some fitting weed,

  And in a close-shut place to be alone,

  Because no eye must see the wonder done.

  And Oh, she said, fair women, haste ye now,

  For surely weaker every hour I grow,

  And fear to die ere I can live again.

  Then through the house they hastened, and with pain

  A brazen caldron their fair hands bore up,

  As well wrought over as a king’s gold cup.

  Which in a well-hung chamber did they set,

  And filled with clear cold water, adding yet

  New raiment wrought about with ruddy gold,

  And snowy linen wrapped in many a fold.

  Then did Medea turn unto the three,

  And said: Farewell, for no more shall ye see

  These limbs alive, or hear this feeble voice,

  For either shall my changed lips rejoice

  In my new beauty, or else stark and cold

  This wretched body shall your eyes behold.

  Wait now until six hours are over-passed,

  And if ye still shall find the door shut fast,

  Then let the men bring hammers, neither doubt

  That thence my corpse alone shall bear out.

  But if the door is open or ajar,

  Draw nigh and see how great my helpers are,

  And greet what there ye see with little fear,

  For whatsoever may have touched me here,

  By then, at least, shall no one be with me,

  And nought but this old sorceress shall ye see

  Grown young again; alas! grown young again!

  Would God that I were past the fear and pain!

  So said the Colchian; but their fearful eyes

  Turned hastily from such hid mysteries

  As there might lurk; and to their bower they gat,

  And well-nigh silent o’er the weaving sat,

  And did what things they needs must do that day,

  Until that six hours’ space had passed away.

  THEN had the sun set, and the whitening moon.

  Shone o’er the gardens where the brown bird’s tune

  Was quivering through the roses red and white,

  And sweeter smelt the sweet flowers with the night;

  But to the chamber where there lay alone

  The wise Medea, up the faint grey stone

  Two rose-trees climbed, along a trellis led,

  And with their wealth of blossoms white and red

  Another garden of the window made.

  So now the royal sisters, sore afraid,

  Each with a taper in her trembling hand,

  Before the fateful chamber-door did stand

  And heard no noise; whereon Amphinome

  Pushed at the door that yielded, and the three

  Passing with beating hearts the oaken door,

  Pressed noiseless feet upon the polished floor,

  Reddening the moonshine with their tapers’ light.

  There they beheld the caldron gleaming bright,

  And on the floor the heap of raiment rent

  That erst had hid the body old and bent;

  And there a crystal phial they beheld

  Empty, that once some wondrous liquor held;

  And by the window-side asleep they saw

  The Colchian woman, white without a flaw

  From head to heel; her round arms by her side,

  Her fair face flushed with sweet thoughts, as a bride

  Who waits the coming of some well-loved man.

  Softly she breathed, the while the moonlight ran

  In silver ripples o’er her hair of gold.

  BUT when that loveliness they did behold,

  They cried aloud for wonder, though not yet

  Her happy dreaming thoughts would she forget.

  But into spoken words her murmuring grew,

  Though of their purport nought the sisters knew,

  Since in the outland Colchian tongue she spoke;

  Then, while they waited, slowly she awoke,

  And looking round her, still with half-shut eyes,

  She said: O damsels, fain would I arise,

  I hear the morning murmur of the birds

  And lowing of released and hungry herds

  Across the meadows, sweet with vetch and bean,

  And the faint ripple of the Phasis green.

  But with that last word did she start upright,

  Shading her grey eyes from the tapers’ light,

  And said: O queens, and are ye come to me

  This eve, my triumph over time to see?

  And is my boast for nought? Behold me made

  Like the fair casket-bearer who betrayed

  The luckless man while yet the world was young.

  So saying did she speak as one who sung,

  So sweet her voice was; then she stepped adown

  From off the silken couch, and rough and brown

  They seemed beside her, fair maids though they were.

  But silently they stood, and wondered there,

  And from their hearts had flown all thoughts at last

  But that of living while the world went past.

  Then at her feet Alcestis knelt and prayed:

  O, who can see thee, Goddess, unafraid?

  Yet thou thyself hast promised life to us,

  More than man’s feeble life, and perilous,

  And if thy promise now thou makest vain,

  How can we live our thoughtless life again?

  Then, would thou ne’er hadst left thine heavenly home,

  And o’er the green Thessalian meadows come!

  THEN spoke Medea: But a few days yet

  And all eld’s fears your father shall forget;

  And when that he has gained his just reward,

  Your lives from death and danger will I guard.

  Natheless no Goddess am I, but no more

  Than a poor wanderer on from shore to shore,

  Though loved by her the swift of Goddesses,

  Who now is glancing ‘twixt the dark grey trees,

  E’en while we speak. Now leave me to my rest,

  For this new-changed body is oppressed

  By all the thoughts that round my heart will throng

  Of ancient days, and hopes forgotten long:

  Go therefore now, but come back with the sun

  To do my bidding; then shall there be done

  Another marvel ere the morn comes round,

  If ye three be dwelling above ground.

  THEN, trembling, they unto their chamber passed,

  But, they being gone, she made the strong door fast,

  And soon in deep sleep on the couch she lay

  Until the golden sun brought back the day;

  Nor could she fail, arising, to be glad

  That once again her own fair form she had,

  And as the fresh air met her pleasantly,

  She smiled, her image in the bath to see

  That had been lost since at the noon she stood

  Beside the still pool in the lonely wood;

  And she rejoiced her combed-out hair to bind,

  And feel the linen in the morning wind

  Fluttering about in kissing side and limb,

  And it was sweet about her ankles slim

  To make the gemmed thongs of the sandals meet,

  With rosy fingers touching her soft feet.

  BUT she being clad, there came the ladies three,

  Who seemed by her but handmaidens to be;

  And such indeed they were, as dumb with awe

  In the fresh morn that loveliness they saw.

  Then said Medea: Hail Thessalians, hail!

  Surely to-day your prayer shall nowise fail,

  For I am fain to do the whole world good.

  But now take heed: is there some close dark wood

  Anigh the town? thither will we to-night,

  And in that place, hidden from all men’s sight,

  Shall ye see wonders passing human thought.

  But thither, by your hands there must be brought

  Some ancient beast at very point to die,

  That ye may see how loved an one am I

  By dreadful Gods; there, too, before the eve

  A mighty brazen caldron must ye leave,

  And nigh the place there must not fail to be

  Some running stream to help our mystery.

  Moreover She, the helpful and the kind,

  Whose name I name not, willeth not to find

  The robes of kings and queens upon her slaves;

  Therefore, if ye would please the one who saves,

  This night must ye be clad in smocks of black,

  And all adornment must your bodies lack,

  Nor must there be a fillet on your hair,

  And the hard road must feel your feet all bare.

  Lady, Eradne said, all shall be done

  Nor wilt thou yet have had beneath the sun

  More faithful servants than we are to thee;

  But wilt thou not the king my father see,

  And gladden him, that he may give thee things.

  Such as the heart desires, the spoil of kings?

  Nay, said Medea, much have I to think

  Ere the hot sun beneath the sea shall sink,

  And much to call to mind, and for your sake

  Unto my Helper many a prayer to make.

  WITH that they went, and she, being left alone,

  Took up the image of the Swift-foot One,

  Which for a hidden casket served her well,

  And wherein things were laid right strange to tell,

  Divers whereof she handled, and the while

  She muttered charms learned in the river-isle.

  But at the noontide did they bring her food,

  Saying that all was ready in the wood,

  And that the night alone they waited now,

  Ere unto them those marvels she might show.

  Therefore Medea bade them come again

  When all the house of peaceful sleep was fain,

  And nought was stirring: so at dead of night

  They came to her in black apparel dight,

  Bearing like raiment for the Colchian,

  Who did it on before their faces wan

  And troubled eyes; then out of gates they stole,

  Setting their faces to the wished-for goal.

  NOW nigh Anaurus a blind pathway leads

  Betwixt the yellow corn and whispering reeds,

  The home of many a shy quick-diving bird;

  Thereby they passed, and as they went they heard

  Splashing of fish, and ripple of the stream;

  And once they saw across the water’s gleam

  The black boat of some fisher of the night,

  And from the stream had drawn back in affright

  But that the Colchian whispered: Wise be ye,

  Thessalian sisters, yet with certainty

  Make onward to the wood, for who indeed,

  Beholding our pale faces and black weed,

  Would come the nigher to us? Would not he

  Think that some dread things we must surely be,

  And tremble till we passed? Haste, for the night

  Is young no more, and danger comes with light.

  Then on they passed, and soon they reached the wood,

  And straight made for the midst of it, where stood

  An old horned ram bound fast unto a tree,

  Which the torch-bearer, tall Amphinome,

  Showed to Medea, and not far therefrom

  Unto a brazen caldron did they come,

  Hidden with green boughs; then Medea bade

  That by their hands a high pile should be made

  Of fallen wood, and all else fit to burn;

  Which done, unto the caldron did they turn

  And bore it to the river, and did strain

  Their fair round arms to bear it back again

  When it was filled, and raised it on the pile;

  And then with hands unused to service vile

  Lit up the fire, the while Medea took

  Dried herbs from out her wallet, which she shook

  Into the caldron; till at last a cloud

  Rose up therefrom and the dark trees did shroud.

  Then did she bid them the old ram to lead

  Up to the caldron’s side, and with good heed

  To quench his just departing feeble life;

  So in his throat Eradne thrust the knife,

  While in the white arms of Amphinome

 

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