Poetry · Merope (2/2) (2/2) (2/7)

| Polyphontes | I ask thee not to approve thy husband’s death, No, nor expect thee to admit the grounds, In reason good, which justified my deed: With women the heart argues, not the mind. But, for thy children’s death, I stand assoil’d: I sav’d them, meant them honour: but thy friends Rose, and with fire and sword assailed my house By night; in that blind tumult they were slain. To chance impute their deaths, then, not to me. | | Merope | Such chance as kill’d the father, kill’d the sons. | | Polyphontes | One son at least I spar’d, for still he lives. | | Merope | Tyrants think him they murder not they spare. | | Polyphontes | Not much a tyrant thy free speech displays me. | | Merope | Thy shame secures my freedom, not thy will. | | Polyphontes | Shame rarely checks the genuine tyrant’s will. | | Merope | One merit, then, thou hast: exult in that. | | Polyphontes | Thou standest out, I see, repellest peace. | | Merope | Thy sword repell’d it long ago, not I. | | Polyphontes | Doubtless thou reckonest on the help of friends. | | Merope | Not help of men, although, perhaps, of Gods. | | Polyphontes | What Gods? the Gods of concord, civil weal? | | Merope | No: the avenging Gods, who punish crime. | | Polyphontes | Beware! from thee upbraidings I receive With pity, nay, with reverence; yet, beware! I know, I know how hard it is to think That right, that conscience pointed to a deed, Where interest seems to have enjoin’d it too. Most men are led by interest; and the few Who are not, expiate the general sin, Involv’d in one suspicion with the base. Dizzy the path and perilous the way Which in a deed like mine a just man treads, But it is sometimes trodden, oh! believe it. Yet how canst thou believe it? therefore thou Hast all impunity. Yet, lest thy friends, Embolden’d by my lenience, think it fear, And count on like impunity, and rise, And have to thank thee for a fall, beware! To rule this kingdom I intend: with sway Clement, if may be, but to rule it: there Expect no wavering, no retreat, no change.⁠— And now I leave thee to these rites, esteem’d Pious, but impious, surely, if their scope Be to foment old memories of wrath. Pray, as thou pour’st libations on this tomb, To be deliver’d from thy foster’d hate, Unjust suspicion, and erroneous fear. Polyphontes* goes into the palace. The Chorus and Merope approach the tomb with their offerings. | | The Chorus | Draw, draw near to the tomb. Lay honey-cakes on its marge, Pour the libation of milk, Deck it with garlands of flowers. Tears fall thickly the while! Behold, O King from the dark House of the grave, what we do. O Arcadian hills, Send us the Youth whom ye hide, Girt with his coat for the chase, With the low broad hat of the tann’d Hunter o’ershadowing his brow: Grasping firm, in his hand Advanc’d, two javelins, not now Dangerous alone to the deer. | | Merope | What shall I bear, O lost Husband and King, to thy grave?⁠— Pure libations, and fresh Flowers? But thou, in the gloom, Discontented, perhaps, Demandest vengeance, not grief? Sternly requirest a man, Light to spring up to thy house? | | The Chorus | Vengeance, O Queen, is his due, His most just prayer: yet his house⁠— If that might soothe him below⁠— Prosperous, mighty, came back In the third generation, the way Order’d by Fate, to their home. And now, glorious, secure, Fill the wealth-giving thrones Of their heritage, Pelops’ isle. | | Merope | Suffering sent them, Death March’d with them, Hatred and Strife Met them entering their halls. For from the day when the first Heracleidae receiv’d That Delphic hest to return, What hath involv’d them, but blind Error on error, and blood? | | The Chorus | Truly I hear of a Maid Of that stock born, who bestow’d Her blood that so she might make Victory sure to her race, When the fight hung in doubt: but she now, Honour’d and sung of by all, Far on Marathon plain, Gives her name to the spring Macaria, blessed Child. | | Merope | She led the way of death. And the plain of Tegea, And the grave of Orestes⁠— Where, in secret seclusion Of his unreveal’d tomb, Sleeps Agamemnon’s unhappy, Matricidal, world-fam’d, Seven-cubit-statur’d son⁠— Sent forth Echemus, the victor, the king, By whose hand, at the Isthmus, At the Fate-denied Straits, Fell the eldest of the sons of Hercules, Hyllus, the chief of his house.⁠— Brother follow’d sister The all-wept way. | | The Chorus | Yes; but his son’s seed, wiser-counsell’d, Sail’d by the Fate-meant Gulf to their conquest; Slew their enemies’ king, Tisamenus. Wherefore accept that happier omen! Yet shall restorer appear to the race. | | Merope | Three brothers won the field, And to two did Destiny Give the thrones that they conquer’d. But the third, what delays him From his unattain’d crown?⁠ ⁠… Ah Pylades and Electra, Ever faithful, untir’d, Jealous, blood-exacting friends! Ye lie watching for the foe of your kin, In the passes of Delphi, In the temple-built gorge.⁠— There the youngest of the band of conquerors Perish’d, in sight of the goal. Grandson follow’d sire The all-wept way. | | The Chorus | Thou tellest the fate of the last Of the three Heracleidae. Not of him, of Cresphontes thou shared’st the lot. A king, a king was he while he liv’d, Swaying the sceptre with predestin’d hand. And now, minister lov’d, Holds rule⁠— | | Merope | Ah me⁠ ⁠… Ah⁠ ⁠… | | The Chorus | For the awful Monarchs below. | | Merope | Thou touchest the worst of my ills. Oh had he fallen of old At the Isthmus, in fight with his foes, By Achaian, Arcadian spear! Then had his sepulchre risen On the high sea-bank, in the sight Of either Gulf, and remain’d All-regarded afar, Noble memorial of worth Of a valiant Chief, to his own. | | The Chorus | There rose up a cry in the streets From the terrified people. From the altar of Zeus, from the crowd, came a wail. A blow, a blow was struck, and he fell, Sullying his garment with dark-streaming blood: While stood o’er him a Form⁠— Some Form⁠— | | Merope | Ah me.⁠ ⁠… Ah.⁠ ⁠… | | The Chorus | Of a dreadful Presence of fear. | | Merope | More piercing the second cry rang, Wail’d from the palace within, From the Children.⁠ ⁠… The Fury to them, Fresh from their father, draws near. Ah bloody axe! dizzy blows! In these ears, they thunder, they ring, These poor ears, still:⁠—and these eyes Night and day see them fall, Fiery phantoms of death, On the fair, curl’d heads of my sons. | | The Chorus | Not to thee only hath come Sorrow, O Queen, of mankind. Had not Electra to haunt A palace defil’d by a death unaveng’d, For years, in silence, devouring her heart? But her nursling, her hope, came at last. Thou, too, rearest in hope, Far ’mid Arcadian hills, Somewhere, in safety, a nursling, a light. Yet, yet shall Zeus bring him home! Yet shall he dawn on this land! | | Merope | Him in secret, in tears, Month after month, through the slow-dragging year, Longing, listening to, I wait, I implore. But he comes not. What dell, O Erymanthus! from sight Of his mother, which of thy glades, O Lycaeus! conceals The happy hunter? He basks In youth’s pure morning, nor thinks On the blood-stain’d home of his birth. | | The Chorus | Give not thy heart to despair. No lamentation can loose Prisoners of death from the grave: But Zeus, who accounteth thy quarrel his own, Still rules, still watches, and numb’reth the hours Till the sinner, the vengeance, be ripe. Still, by Acheron stream, Terrible Deities thron’d Sit, and make ready the serpent, the scourge. Still, still the Dorian boy, Exil’d, remembers his home. | | Merope | Him if high-ruling Zeus Bring to his mother, the rest I commit, Willing, patient, to Zeus, to his care. Blood I ask not. Enough Sated, and more than enough, Are mine eyes with blood. But if this, O my comforters! strays Amiss from Justice, the Gods Forgive my folly, and work What they will!⁠—but to me give my son! | | The Chorus | Hear us and help us, Shade of our King! | | Merope | A return, O Father! give to thy boy! | | The Chorus | Send an avenger, Gods of the dead! | | Merope | An avenger I ask not: send me my son! | | The Chorus | O Queen, for an avenger to appear, Thinking that so I pray’d aright, I pray’d: If I pray’d wrongly, I revoke the prayer. | | Merope | Forgive me, maidens, if I seem too slack In calling vengeance on a murderer’s head. Impious I deem the alliance which he asks; Requite him words severe, for seeming kind; And righteous, if he falls, I count his fall. With this, to those unbrib’d inquisitors, Who in man’s inmost bosom sit and judge, The true avengers these, I leave his deed, By him shown fair, but, I believe, most foul. If these condemn him, let them pass his doom! That doom obtain effect, from Gods or men! So be it! yet will that more solace bring To the chaf’d heart of Justice than to mine.⁠— To hear another tumult in these streets, To have another murder in these halls, To see another mighty victim bleed⁠— There is small comfort for a woman here. A woman, O my friends, has one desire⁠— To see secure, to live with, those she loves. Can Vengeance give me back the murdered? no! Can it bring home my child? Ah, if it can, I pray the Furies’ ever-restless band, And pray the Gods, and pray the all-seeing Sun⁠— “Sun, who careerest through the height of Heaven, When o’er the Arcadian forests thou art come, And seest my stripling hunter there afield, Put tightness in thy gold-embossèd rein, And check thy fiery steeds, and, leaning back, Throw him a pealing word of summons down, To come, a late avenger, to the aid Of this poor soul who bare him, and his sire.” If this will bring him back, be this my prayer!⁠— But Vengeance travels in a dangerous way, Double of issue, full of pits and snares For all who pass, pursuers and pursued⁠— That way is dubious for a mother’s prayer. Rather on thee I call, Husband belov’d!⁠— May Hermes, herald of the dead, convey My words below to thee, and make thee hear.⁠— Bring back our son! if may be, without blood! Install him in thy throne, still without blood! Grant him to reign there wise and just like thee, More fortunate than thee, more fairly judg’d! This for our son: and for myself I pray, Soon, having once beheld him, to descend Into the quiet gloom, where thou art now. These words to thine indulgent ear, thy wife, I send, and these libations pour the while. They make their offerings at the tomb. Merope then goes towards the palace. | | The Chorus | The dead hath now his offerings duly paid. But whither go’st thou hence, O Queen, away? | | Merope | To receive Arcas, who to-day should come, Bringing me of my boy the annual news. | | The Chorus | No certain news if like the rest it run. | | Merope | Certain in this, that ’tis uncertain still. | | The Chorus | What keeps him in Arcadia from return? | | Merope | His grandsire and his uncles fear the risk. | | The Chorus | Of what? it lies with them to make risk none. | | Merope | Discovery of a visit made by stealth. | | The Chorus | With arms then they should send him, not by stealth. | | Merope | With arms they dare not, and by stealth they fear. | | The Chorus | I doubt their caution little suits their ward. | | Merope | The heart of youth I know; that most I fear. | | The Chorus | I augur thou wilt hear some bold resolve. | | Merope | I dare not wish it; but, at least, to hear That my son still survives, in health, in bloom; To hear that still he loves, still longs for, me, Yet, with a light uncareworn spirit, turns Quick from distressful thought, and floats in joy⁠— Thus much from Arcas, my old servant true, Who sav’d him from these murderous halls a babe, And since has fondly watch’d him night and day Save for this annual charge, I hope to hear. If this be all, I know not; but I know, These many years I live for this alone. Merope goes in. | | The Chorus | Much is there which the Sea Conceals from man, who cannot plumb its depths. Air to his unwing’d form denies a way, And keeps its liquid solitudes unscal’d. Even Earth, whereon he treads, So feeble is his march, so slow, Holds countless tracts untrod. But more than all unplumb’d, Unscaled, untrodden, is the heart of Man. More than all secrets hid, the way it keeps. Nor any of our organs so obtuse, Inaccurate, and frail, As those with which we try to test Feelings and motives there. Yea, and not only have we not explor’d That wide and various world, the heart of others, But even our own heart, that narrow world Bounded in our own breast, we hardly know, Of our own actions dimly trace the causes. Whether a natural obscureness, hiding That region in perpetual cloud, Or our own want of effort, be the bar. Therefore⁠—while acts are from their motives judged, And to one act many most unlike motives, This pure, that guilty, may have each impell’d⁠— Power fails us to try clearly if that cause Assign’d us by the actor be the true one: Power fails the man himself to fix distinctly The cause which drew him to his deed, And stamp himself, thereafter, bad or good. The most are bad, wise men have said Let the best rule, they say again. The best, then, to dominion hath the right. Rights unconceded and denied, Surely, if rights, may be by force asserted⁠— May be, nay should, if for the general weal. The best, then, to the throne may carve his way, And hew opposers down, Free from all guilt of lawlessness, Or selfish lust of personal power: Bent only to serve Virtue, Bent to diminish wrong. And truly, in this ill-rul’d world, Well sometimes may the good desire To give to Virtue her dominion due. Well may he long to interrupt The reign of Folly, usurpation ever, Though fenc’d by sanction of a thousand years. Well thirst to drag the wrongful ruler down; Well purpose to pen back Into the narrow path of right, The ignorant, headlong multitude, Who blindly follow ever, Blind leaders, to their bane. But who can say, without a fear: That best, who ought to rule, am I; The mob, who ought to obey, are these; I the one righteous, they the many bad?⁠— Who, without check of conscience, can aver That he to power makes way by arms, Sheds blood, imprisons, banishes, attaints, Commits all deeds the guilty oftenest do, Without a single guilty thought, Arm’d for right only, and the general good? Therefore, with censure unallay’d, Therefore, with unexcepting ban, Zeus and pure-thoughted Justice brand Imperious self-asserting Violence. Sternly condemn the too bold man, who dares Elect himself Heaven’s destin’d arm. And, knowing well man’s inmost heart infirm, However noble the committer be, His grounds however specious shown, Turn with averted eyes from deeds of blood. Thus, though a woman, I was school’d By those whom I revere. Whether I learnt their lessons well, Or, having learnt them, well apply To what hath in this house befall’n, If in the event be any proof, The event will quickly show. Aepytus comes in. | | Aepytus | Maidens, assure me if they told me true Who told me that the royal house was here. | | The Chorus | Rightly they told thee, and thou art arriv’d. | | Aepytus | Here, then, it is, where Polyphontes dwells? | | The Chorus | He doth: thou hast both house and master right. | | Aepytus | Might some one straight inform him he is sought? | | The Chorus | Inform him that thyself, for here he comes. Polyphontes comes forth, with Attendants and Guards*. |