Poetry · Merope (2/2) (2/2) (3/7)

| Aepytus | O King, all hail! I come with weighty news: Most likely, grateful; but, in all case, sure. | | Polyphontes | Speak them, that I may judge their kind myself. | | Aepytus | Accept them in one word, for good or bad: Aepytus, the Messenian prince, is dead! | | Polyphontes | Dead!⁠—and when died he? where? and by what hand? And who art thou, who bringest me such news? | | Aepytus | He perish’d in Arcadia, where he liv’d With Cypselus; and two days since he died. One of the train of Cypselus am I. | | Polyphontes | Instruct me of the manner of his death. | | Aepytus | That will I do, and to this end I came. For, being of like age, of birth not mean, The son of an Arcadian noble, I Was chosen his companion from a boy; And on the hunting-rambles which his heart, Unquiet, drove him ever to pursue Through all the lordships of the Arcadian dales, From chief to chief, I wander’d at his side, The captain of his squires, and his guard. On such a hunting-journey, three morns since, With beaters, hounds, and huntsmen, he and I Set forth from Tegea, the royal town. The prince at start seem’d sad, but his regard Clear’d with blithe travel and the morning air. We rode from Tegea, through the woods of oaks, Past Arnê spring, where Rhea gave the babe Poseidon to the shepherd-boys to hide From Saturn’s search among the new-yean’d lambs, To Mantineia, with its unbak’d walls; Thence, by the Sea-God’s Sanctuary and the tomb Whither from wintry Maenalus were brought The bones of Arcas, whence our race is nam’d, On, to the marshy Orchomenian plain, And the Stone Coffins;⁠—then, by Caphyae Cliffs, To Pheneos with its craggy citadel. There, with the chief of that hill-town, we lodg’d One night; and the next day, at dawn, far’d on By the Three Fountains and the Adder’s Hill To the Stymphalian Lake, our journey’s end, To draw the coverts on Cyllene’s side. There, on a grassy spur which bathes its root Far in the liquid lake, we sate, and drew Cates from our hunters’ pouch, Arcadian fare, Sweet chestnuts, barley-cakes, and boar’s-flesh dried: And as we ate, and rested there, we talk’d Of places we had pass’d, sport we had had, Of beasts of chase that haunt the Arcadian hills, Wild hog, and bear, and mountain-deer, and roe: Last, of our quarters with the Arcadian chiefs. For courteous entertainment, welcome warm, Sad, reverential homage, had our prince From all, for his great lineage and his woes: All which he own’d, and prais’d with grateful mind. But still over his speech a gloom there hung, As of one shadow’d by impending death; And strangely, as we talk’d, he would apply The story of spots mention’d to his own; Telling us, Arnê minded him, he too Was sav’d a babe, but to a life obscure, Which he, the seed of Hercules, dragg’d on Inglorious, and should drop at last unknown, Even as those dead unepitaph’d, who lie In the stone coffins at Orchomenus. And, then, he bade remember how we pass’d The Mantinean Sanctuary, forbid To foot of mortal, where his ancestor, Nam’d Aepytus like him, having gone in, Was blinded by the outgushing springs of brine. Then, turning westward to the Adder’s Hill⁠— Another ancestor, nam’d, too, like me, Died of a snake-bite, said he, on that brow: Still at his mountain tomb men marvel, built Where, as life ebb’d, his bearers laid him down. So he play’d on; then ended, with a smile: This region is not happy for my race. We cheer’d him; but, that moment, from the copse By the lake-edge, broke the sharp cry of hounds; The prickers shouted that the stag was gone: We sprang upon our feet, we snatch’d our spears, We bounded down the swarded slope, we plung’d Through the dense ilex-thickets to the dogs. Far in the woods ahead their music rang; And many times that morn we cours’d in ring The forests round that belt Cyllene’s side; Till I, thrown out and tired, came to halt On that same spur where we had sate at morn. And resting there to breathe, I saw below Rare, straggling hunters, foil’d by brake and crag, And the prince, single, pressing on the rear Of that unflagging quarry and the hounds. Now, in the woods far down, I saw them cross An open glade; now he was high aloft On some tall scar fring’d with dark feathery pines, Peering to spy a goat-track down the cliff, Cheering with hand, and voice, and horn his dogs. At last the cry drew to the water’s edge⁠— And through the brushwood, to the pebbly strand, Broke, black with sweat, the antler’d mountain-stag, And took the lake: two hounds alone pursued; Then came the prince⁠—he shouted and plung’d in.⁠— There is a chasm rifted in the base Of that unfooted precipice, whose rock Walls on one side the deep Stymphalian Lake: There the lake-waters, which in ages gone Wash’d, as the marks upon the hills still show, All the Stymphalian plain, are now suck’d down. A headland, with one agèd plane-tree crown’d, Parts from this cave-pierc’d cliff the shelving bay Where first the chase plung’d in: the bay is smooth, But round the headland’s point a current sets, Strong, black, tempestuous, to the cavern-mouth. Stoutly, under the headland’s lee, they swam: But when they came abreast the point, the race Caught them, as wind takes feathers, whirl’d them round Struggling in vain to cross it, swept them on, Stag, dogs, and hunter, to the yawning gulf. All this, O King, not piecemeal, as to thee Now told, but in one flashing instant pass’d: While from the turf whereon I lay I sprang, And took three strides, quarry and dogs were gone; A moment more⁠—I saw the prince turn round Once in the black and arrowy race, and cast One arm aloft for help; then sweep beneath The low-brow’d cavern-arch, and disappear. And what I could, I did⁠—to call by cries Some straggling hunters to my aid, to rouse Fishers who live on the lake-side, to launch Boats, and approach, near as we dar’d, the chasm. But of the prince nothing remain’d, save this, His boar-spear’s broken shaft, back on the lake Cast by the rumbling subterranean stream; And this, at landing spied by us and sav’d, His broad-brimm’d hunter’s hat, which, in the bay, Where first the stag took water, floated still. And I across the mountains brought with haste To Cypselus, at Basilis, this news: Basilis, his new city, which he now Near Lycosura builds, Lycaon’s town, First city founded on the earth by men. He to thee sends me on, in one thing glad While all else grieves him, that his grandchild’s death Extinguishes distrust ’twixt him and thee. But I from our deplor’d mischance learn this⁠— The man who to untimely death is doom’d, Vainly you hedge him from the assault of harm; He bears the seed of ruin in himself. | | The Chorus. | So dies the last shoot of our royal tree! Who shall tell Merope this heavy news? | | Polyphontes | Stranger, this news thou bringest is too great For instant comment, having many sides Of import, and in silence best receiv’d, Whether it turn at last to joy or woe. But thou, the zealous bearer, hast no part In what it hath of painful, whether now, First heard, or in its future issue shown. Thou for thy labour hast deserv’d our best Refreshment, needed by thee, as I judge, With mountain-travel and night-watching spent.⁠— To the guest-chamber lead him, some one! give All entertainment which a traveller needs, And such as fits a royal house to show; To friends, still more, and labourers in our cause. Attendants* conduct Aepytus within the palace. | | The Chorus | The youth is gone within; alas! he bears A presence sad for some one through those doors. | | Polyphontes | Admire then, maidens, how in one short hour The schemes, pursued in vain for twenty years, Are by a stroke, though undesir’d, complete. Crown’d with success, not in my way, but Heaven’s! This at a moment, too, when I had urg’d A last, long-cherish’d project, in my aim Of concord, and been baffled with disdain. Fair terms of reconcilement, equal rule, I offer’d to my foes, and they refus’d: Worse terms than mine they have obtain’d from Heaven. Dire is this blow for Merope; and I Wish’d, truly wish’d, solution to our broil Other than by this death; but it hath come! I speak no word of boast, but this I say, A private loss here founds a nation’s peace. Polyphontes goes out. | | The Chorus | Peace, who tarriest too long; Peace, with Delight in thy train; Come, come back to our prayer! Then shall the revel again Visit our streets, and the sound Of the harp be heard with the pipe, When the flashing torches appear In the marriage-train coming on, With dancing maidens and boys: While the matrons come to the doors, And the old men rise from their bench, When the youths bring home the bride. Not decried by my voice He who restores thee shall be, Not unfavour’d by Heaven. Surely no sinner the man, Dread though his acts, to whose hand Such a boon to bring hath been given. Let her come, fair Peace! let her come! But the demons long nourish’d here, Murder, Discord, and Hate, In the stormy desolate waves Of the Thracian Sea let her leave, Or the howling outermost Main. Merope comes forth. | | Merope | A whisper through the palace flies of one Arriv’d from Tegea with weighty news; And I came, thinking to find Arcas here. Ye have not left this gate, which he must pass” Tell me⁠—hath one not come? or, worse mischance, Come, but been intercepted by the King? | | The Chorus | A messenger, sent from Arcadia here, Arriv’d, and of the King had speech but now. | | Merope | Ah me! the wrong expectant got his news. | | The Chorus | The message brought was for the King design’d. | | Merope | How so? was Arcas not the messenger? | | The Chorus | A younger man, and of a different name. | | Merope | And what Arcadian news had he to tell? | | The Chorus | Learn that from other lips, O Queen, than mine. | | Merope | He kept his tale, then, for the King alone? | | The Chorus | His tale was meeter for that ear than thine. | | Merope | Why dost thou falter, and make half reply? | | The Chorus | O thrice unhappy, how I groan thy fate! | | Merope | Thou frightenest and confound’st me by thy words. O were but Arcas come, all would be well! | | The Chorus | If so, all’s well: for look, the old man speeds Up from the city tow’rds this gated hill. Arcas* comes in. | | Merope | Not with the failing breath and foot of age My faithful follower comes. Welcome, old friend! | | Arcas | Faithful, not welcome, when my tale is told. O that my over-speed and bursting grief Had on the journey chok’d my labouring breath, And lock’d my speech for ever in my breast! Yet then another man would bring this news.⁠— O honour’d Queen, thy son, my charge, is gone. | | The Chorus | Too suddenly thou tellest such a loss. Look up, O Queen! look up, O mistress dear! Look up, and see thy friends who comfort thee. | | Merope | Ah⁠ ⁠… Ah⁠ ⁠… Ah me! | | The Chorus | And I, too, say, ah me! | | Arcas | Forgive, forgive the bringer of such news! | | Merope | Better from thine than from an enemy’s tongue. | | The Chorus | And yet no enemy did this, O Queen: But the wit-baffling will and hand of Heaven. | | Arcas | No enemy! and what hast thou, then, heard? Swift as I came, hath Falsehood been before? | | The Chorus | A youth arriv’d but now, the son, he said, Of an Arcadian lord, our prince’s friend, Jaded with travel, clad in hunter’s garb. He brought report that his own eyes had seen The prince, in chase after a swimming stag, Swept down a chasm rifted in the cliff Which hangs o’er the Stymphalian Lake, and drown’d. | | Arcas | Ah me! with what a foot doth Treason post, While Loyalty, with all her speed, is slow! Another tale, I trow, thy messenger For the King’s private ear reserves, like this In one thing only, that the prince is dead. | | The Chorus | And how then runs this true and private tale? | | Arcas | As much to the King’s wish, more to his shame. This young Arcadian noble, guard and mate To Aepytus, the king seduc’d with gold, And had him at the prince’s side in leash, Ready to slip on his unconscious prey. He on a hunting party three days since, Among the forests on Cyllene’s side, Perform’d good service for his bloody wage; The prince, and the good Laias, whom his ward Had in a father’s place, he basely murder’d. Take this for true, the other tale for feign’d. | | The Chorus | And this perfidious murder who reveal’d? | | Arcas | The faithless murderer’s own, no other tongue. | | The Chorus | Did conscience goad him to denounce himself? | | Arcas | To Cypselus at Basilis he brought This strange unlikely tale, the prince was drown’d. | | The Chorus | But not a word appears of murder here. | | Arcas | Examin’d close, he own’d this story false. Then evidence came⁠—his comrades of the hunt, Who saw the prince and Laias last with him, Never again in lifes⁠—next, agents, fee’d To ply ’twixt the Messenian king and him, Spoke, and reveal’d that traffic, and the traitor. So charg’d, he stood dumb-founder’d: Cypselus, On this suspicion, cast him into chains. Thence he escap’d⁠—and next I find him here. | | The Chorus | His presence with the King, thou mean’st, implies⁠— | | Arcas | He comes to tell his prompter he hath sped. | | The Chorus | Still he repeats the drowning story here. | | Arcas | To thee⁠—that needs no Oedipus to explain. | | The Chorus | Interpret, then; for we, it seems, are dull. | | Arcas | Your King desired the profit of his death, Not the black credit of his murderer. That stern word “murder” had too dread a sound For the Messenian hearts, who lov’d the prince. | | The Chorus | Suspicion grave I see, but no firm proof. |