Complete Works of William Morris, page 341
And fair Alcestis, bleating piteously,
Feebly he struggled; so being slain at last,
Piecemeal his members did the sisters cast
Into the seething water; then drew back
And hid their faces in their raiment black,
The while Medea midst the flickering light
Still sprinkled herbs from out her fingers white,
And in a steady voice at last did say:
O THOU that turnest night into the day,
O thou the quencher of unhallowed fire,
The scourge of hot, inordinate desire,
That wrong may still be wrong, and right be right
In all men’s eyes? A little thing I ask
Before I put an ending to my task.
Scarce had she finished, ere a low black cloud
Seemed closing o’er the forest, and aloud
Medea cried: Oh strong and terrible!
I fear thee not, do what may please thee well.
THEN as the pale Thessalians with affright
Crouched on the earth, forth leapt the lightning white
Over their shrinking heads, and therewithal
The thunder crashed, and down the rain did fall,
As though some angry deity were fain
To make a pool of that Thessalian plain.
Till in a while it ceased, and all was stilled
Except the murmur of some brook new-filled,
And dripping of the thick-leafed forest trees
As they moved gently in the following breeze.
Yet still King Pelias’ daughters feared to rise,
And with wet raiment still they hid their eyes,
And trembled, and white-armed Amphinome
Had dropped the long torch of the resin-tree,
That lay half-charred among the tall wet grass.
But unto them did wise Medea pass,
And said: O, daughters of the sea-born man,
Rise up, for now the stars are growing wan,
And the grey dawn is drawing near apace;
Nor need ye fear to see another face
Than this of mine, and all our work is done
We came to do.
Then slowly, one by one,
The sisters rose, and, fearful, drew anigh
The place where they had seen the old ram die;
And there beheld, by glimmering twilight grey,
Where on its side the brazen caldron lay,
And on the grass and flowers that hid the ground,
Half-charred extinguished brands lay all around,
But yet no token of the beast was there;
But ‘mid the brands a lamb lay, white and fair,
That now would raise his new-born head and bleat,
And now would lick the Colchian’s naked feet,
As close he nestled to her: then the three
Drew nigh unto that marvel timidly,
And gazed at him with wide eyes wondering.
Thereat Medea raised the new-changed thing
In her white arms, and smiled as one who knew,
And said: Now see ye what the Gods will do
For earthly men! Take ye this new-born beast,
And hope to sit long ages at the feast,
And this your youth and loveliness to keep
When all that ye have known are laid asleep.
Yet steel your hearts to do a fearful thing,
Ere this can happen; for unto the king
Your hands must do what they have done to-night
To this same beast. And now, to work aright
What yet is needful to this mystery,
Will be four days’ full heavy toil for me.
Take heed that silence, too, on this ye keep,
Or else a bitter harvest shall ye reap.
So said she, willing well indeed to know,
Before the promised sign she dared to show,
What honour Pelias in Iolchos had,
And if his death should make his people sad.
BUT now they turned back on their homeward way,
Fleeing before the coming of the day;
Nor yet the flinty way their feet did feel,
Nor their wet limbs the wind, that ‘gan to steal
From out the north-west ere the sun did rise.
And swiftly though they went, yet did their eyes
Behold no more than eyes of those that dream
The crumbling edges of the swirling stream,
Or fallen tree-trunks, or the fallow rough.
But Juno sent them feeling just enough
By the lone ways to come unto the town
And fair-walled palace, and to lay them down
Upon their fragrant beds, that stood forlorn
Of their white bodies, waiting for the morn
In chambers close-shut from the dying night.
BUT since Medea fain would know aright
What the folk willed to Pelias in the town,
Early next day she did on her the brown
And ragged raiment, and the sisters told
That she must find the place where herbs were sold,
And there buy this and that; therewith she went
About the town, seeming crook-back’d and bent;
And, hidden in her mantle and great hood,
Within the crowded market-place she stood,
And marked the talk of all the busy folk,
And ever found that under Pelias’ yoke
All people groaned: and therefore with good heart
She set herself to work out all her part.
For, going back, till the fifth day was gone
She dwelt within her chamber all alone,
Except that now and then the sisters came
To bring her food; and whiles they saw a flame,
Strange-coloured, burning on the heath, while she
Was bending o’er it, muttering wearily,
And whiles they saw her bent o’er parchment strange,
And letters that they knew not; but no change
They ever saw upon her lovely face.
BUT at the last, she, mindful of the place
Where lay fair Argo’s glorious battered keel,
And that dread hidden forest of bright steel,
Said to Eradne, when her food she brought
Upon the sixth morn: Sister, I have thought
How best to carry out the mystery
That is so dear at heart to thee and me,
And find that this night must the thing be done;
So seek a place where we may be alone,
High up, and looking southward o’er the bay,
Thither ere midnight must ye steal away,
And under a huge caldron set dry brands.
And that being done, take sharp swords in your hands,
And while I watch the sea and earth and air,
Go ye to Pelias’ well-hung chamber fair;
Therein your deed ye may most surely do,
If ye will work the way I counsel you.
Therewith a phial in her hand she set,
And said: Who tasteth this will soon forget
Both life and death, and for no noise will wake
In two days’ space; therefore this phial take,
And with the king’s drink see ye mingle it,
As well ye may, and let his servants sit
O’er wine so honied at the feast to-night.
Then certes shall their sleep not be so light,
That bare feet pattering quick across the floor,
Or unused creaking of an open door,
Shall rouse them; though no deadly drug it is,
But bringer of kind sleep and dreamy bliss.
But now, what think’st thou? Are your hearts so good,
That ye will dare to shed your father’s blood
That he may live for ever? then is he
The luckiest of all men. Or else if ye
Draw back now after all my prayers and tears,
Then were it best that ye should end your fears
By burning me with quick fire ere to-night.
And yet not thus should ye lead lives aright,
And free from fear; because the sandaled queen
Doth ever keep a memory fresh and green
For all her faithful servants: ye did see
Late in the green-wood how she loveth me.
Therefore be wise, and when to-night ye draw
The sharp-edged steel, glittering without a flaw,
Cast fear and pity from you. Pity him
I bid you rather, who, with shrunken limb
And sunken eyes, remembers well the days
When in the ranks of war he garnered praise,
Which unarmed, feeble, as his last year ends,
Babbling amongst the elders now he spends.
Such shall not Pelias be, but rather now
The breath of new days past misdeeds shall blow
Adown the wind, and, taught by his old life,
Shall he live honoured, free from fear or strife.
Fear not, Eradne said, our will to-night,
For all thy bidding will we do outright,
Since still a Goddess thou dost seem to be
To us poor strugglers with mortality.
And for the secret spot this night we need,
Close to the sea a place. I know indeed,
Upon the outskirts of this palace fair;
And on this night of all nights, close by there
My father sleeps, as oft his custom is,
When he is fain a Mysian girl to kiss,
Sea-rovers sold to him three months agone.
There after midnight we shall be alone
Beyond all doubt; for this sea-watching wall
Was once the wind-swept and deep-hallowed hall
Of some strange God whose name is clean forgot,
And, as folk think, ill spirits haunt the spot:
So all men fear it sore; but fear indeed
Is dead within us since the way ye lead.
She ceased, and from the Colchian won much praise,
And promises of many happy days.
Then as upon the door she laid her hand,
Medea said: When midnight hides the land,
Come here to me, and bring me to that place;
Then look the last upon your father’s face
As ye have known it for these eighteen years,
Furrowed by eld and drawn by many fears;
But when ye come, in such gear be ye clad
As in the wood that other night ye had.
Then did Eradne leave her, and the day
Through sunshine and through shadow passed away.
BUT with the midnight came the sisters three,
To lead her to that temple by the sea,
And in black raiment had they hurried there,
With naked feet, and unadorned loose hair,
E’en as that other night they sped the work;
But in each bosom hidden now did lurk
The trenchant steel wherewith to do the deed.
Of these Alcestis trembled like the reed
Set midmost of some quickly running stream,
But with strange fire Eradne’s eyes did gleam,
And a bright flush was burning on her cheek,
As still her fingers the sharp steel did seek;
While tall Amphinome, grown pale and white
Beyond all measure, gazed into the night
With steady eyes, as with the queen they went
To that lone place to work out their intent.
SO when all courts and corridors were passed,
Unto the ancient fane they came at last,
And found it twofold; for below there stood
Square marble pillars, huge, and red as blood,
And wrought all o’er with fretting varying much;
Heavy they were, and nowise like to such
As men built in the lands Medea knew,
Or in the countries fate had led her through:
But they, set close and thick, aloft did hold
A well-wrought roof, where yet gleamed scraps of gold,
That once told tales of Gods none living praise;
And on this roof some king of later days
Had built another temple long before
The Minyae came adown unto that shore
From fair Orchomenus, of whose rites indeed
And to what Gods the victim then did bleed,
Men knew but little; but therein there rose
Fair slim white pillars set in goodly rows,
And garlanded with brazen fruit and flowers,
That gleaming once, through lapse of many hours,
Now with black spirals wrapt the pillars white.
But this fair fane was open to the night
On one side only, toward the restless sea;
And there a terrace, wrought full cunningly,
Clear of the pillars hung above the sand.
Now went those maids, groping with outstretched hand.
Betwixt the pillars of the undercroft,
Until they reached a stair that led aloft
Into the windy, long-deserted fane
Of younger days; but when their feet did gain.
The open space above the murmuring sea,
In whispers did the queens of Thessaly
Show to the Colchian where the great pile was,
Built ‘neath a vessel of bright polished brass,
And many water-jars there stood around;
And as they spoke, to them the faint low sound
Of their own whispered voices seemed as loud
As shouts that break from out the armed crowd
Of warriors ready for the fight. But she
Spoke with no lowered voice, and said: O ye!:
Be brave to-night, and thenceforth have no fear
Of God or man since ye to me are dear.
Light up the torches, for whoe’er may wake,
And note their stars the solid sea-night break.
Will think they light but ghosts of men long dead.
Then presently the pine-bough flared out red,
And lighted up the smile upon her face
And the tall pillars of the holy place,
And the three sisters gazing at her there,
Wild-looking, with the sea-wind in their hair,
And scant black raiment driven from their feet.
But when her eyes their fearful eyes did meet,
With wild appealing glances as for aid,
Some little pity touched the Colchian maid,
Some vague regret for their sad destiny.
But to herself she said: So must it be,
And to such misery shall such a king
Lead wife and child, and every living thing
That trusts him. Then she said, Leave me alone,
But ye, go do the deed that best were done
Ere any streak of dawn makes grey the sky.
And come to me when ye have seen him lie
Dead to his old life of misdeeds and woe.
THEN voiceless from the torchlight did they go
Into the darkness, and she, left alone,
Laid by the torches till the deed was done
Within the pillars, and turned back again
With eager eyes to gaze across the main,
But nothing she beheld by that starlight
But on the beach the line of breakers white,
And here and there, above the unlit grey,
Some white-topped billow dotting the dark bay.
Then, sighing, did she turn herself around
And looked down toward the plot of unused ground,
Whereby they passed into that fateful place,
And gazed thereon with steadfast wary face,
And there the pavement, whitened by the wind,
Betwixt the turf she saw, and nigh it, twined
About a marble image carelessly,
A white wild-rose, and the grey boundary
Of wind-beat stone, through whose unhinged door
Their stealthy feet had passed a while before.
Nought else she saw for a long dreary hour,
For all things lay asleep in bed or bower,
Or in the little-lighted mountain caves,
Or ‘neath the swirling streams and toppling waves.
SHE trembled then, for in the eastern sky
A change came, telling of the dawning nigh,
And with swift footsteps she began to pace
Betwixt the narrow limits of the place;
But as she turned round toward the close once more
Her eyes beheld the pavement by the door
Hid by some moving mass; then joyfully
She waved her white arms toward the murmuring sea,
And listened trembling, and although the sound
Of breakers that the sandy sea-beach ground
Was loud in the still night, yet could she hear
Sounds like the shuffling steps of those that bear
Some heavy thing, and as she gazed, could see
The thin black raiment of the sisters three
Blown out, and falling backward as they bent
Over some burden and right slowly went;
And ‘twixt their arms could she behold the gleam
Of gold or gems, or silver-broidered seam,
Till all was hidden by the undercroft.
And then she heard them struggling bear aloft
That dreadful burden, and then went to meet,
With beating heart, their slow ascending feet,
Taking a half-burnt torch within her hand.
There by its light did she behold them stand
Breathless upon the first stone of that fane,
And with no word she beckoned them again
To move on toward the terrace o’er the sea,
And, turning, went before them silently.
AND so at last the body down they laid
Close by the caldron, and Eradne said:
O thou, our life and saviour! linger not,
We pray thee now! Because our hearts are hot
To see our father look with other eyes
Upon the sea, the green earth, and the skies,
And praise us for this seeming impious deed.
Medea hearkened not; she saw the weed
Which erst she saw all glittering in the hall,
And that same mantle as a funeral pall
Which she had seen laid over either knee,
The wonder of King Aeson’s treasury,
Which wise Phoenicians for much fire-wrought gold
And many oxen, years agone had sold
To Aeson, when folk called him king and lord.
Then to the head she went, and with no word
The white embroidered linen cloth that lay
Over the dead man’s face she drew away,
