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The Chorus

The Gods, O mistress dear! the hard-soul’d man,
Who spared not others, bid not us to spare.

Merope

Alas! against my brother, son, and friends,
One, and a woman, how can I prevail?–
O brother, thou hast conquer’d; yet, I fear!
Son! with a doubting heart thy mother yields;
May it turn happier than my doubts portend!

Laias

Meantime on thee the task of silence only
Shall be imposed; to us shall be the deed.
Now, not another word, but to our act!
Nephew! thy friends are sounded, and prove true.
Thy father’s murderer, in the public place,
Performs, this noon, a solemn sacrifice;
Be with him–choose the moment–strike thy blow!
If prudence counsels thee to go unarm’d,
The sacrificer’s axe will serve thy turn.
To me and the Messenians leave the rest,
With the Gods’ aid–and, if they give but aid
As our just cause deserves, I do not fear.
[AEPYTUS, LAIAS, and ARCAS go out.

The Chorus

O Son and Mother, str. 1.
Whom the Gods o’ershadow
In dangerous trial,
With certainty of favour!
As erst they shadow’d
Your race’s founders
From irretrievable woe;
When the seed of Lycaon
Lay forlorn, lay outcast,
Callisto and her Boy.

What deep-grass’d meadow ant. 1.
At the meeting valleys–
Where clear-flowing Ladon,
Most beautiful of waters,
Receives the river
Whose trout are vocal,
The Aroanian stream–
Without home, without mother,
Hid the babe, hid Arcas,
The nursling of the dells?

But the sweet-smelling myrtle, str. 2.
And the pink-flower’d oleander,
And the green agnus-castus,
To the west-wind’s murmur,
Rustled round his cradle;
And Maia rear’d him.
Then, a boy, he startled,
In the snow-fill’d hollows
Of high Cyllene,
The white mountain-birds;
Or surprised, in the glens,
The basking tortoises,
Whose striped shell founded
In the hand of Hermes
The glory of the lyre.

But his mother, Callisto, ant. 2.
In her hiding-place of the thickets
Of the lentisk and ilex
In her rough form, fearing
The hunter on the outlook,
Poor changeling! trembled.
Or the children, plucking
In the thorn-choked gullies
Wild gooseberries, scared her,
The shy mountain-bear!
Or the shepherds, on slopes
With pale-spiked lavender
And crisp thyme tufted,
Came upon her, stealing
At day-break through the dew.

Once, ‘mid those gorges, str. 3.
Spray-drizzled, lonely,
Unclimb’d of man–
O’er whose cliffs the townsmen
Of crag-perch’d Nonacris
Behold in summer
The slender torrent
Of Styx come dancing,
A wind-blown thread–
By the precipices of Khelmos,
The fleet, desperate hunter,
The youthful Arcas, born of Zeus,
His fleeing mother,
Transform’d Callisto,
Unwitting follow’d–
And raised his spear.

Turning, with piteous, ant. 3.
Distressful longing,
Sad, eager eyes,
Mutely she regarded
Her well-known enemy.
Low moans half utter’d
What speech refused her;
Tears coursed, tears human,
Down those disfigured,
Once human cheeks.
With unutterable foreboding
Her son, heart-stricken, eyed her.
The Gods had pity, made them Stars.
Stars now they sparkle
In the northern Heaven–
The guard Arcturus,
The guard-watch’d Bear.

So, o’er thee and thy child, epode.
Some God, Merope, now,
In dangerous hour, stretches his hand.
So, like a star, dawns thy son,
Radiant with fortune and joy.

[POLYPHONTES comes in.

Polyphontes

O Merope, the trouble on thy face
Tells me enough thou know’st the news which all
Messenia speaks! the prince, thy son, is dead.
Not from my lips should consolation fall;
To offer that, I come not; but to urge,
Even after news of this sad death, our league.
Yes, once again I come; I will not take
This morning’s angry answer for thy last.
To the Messenian kingdom thou and I
Are the sole claimants left; what cause of strife
Lay in thy son is buried in his grave.
Most honourably I meant, I call the Gods
To witness, offering him return and power;
Yet, had he lived, suspicion, jealousy,
Inevitably had surged up, perhaps,
‘Twixt thee and me–suspicion, that I nursed
Some ill design against him; jealousy,
That he enjoy’d but part, being heir to all.
And he himself, with the impetuous heart
Of youth, ’tis like, had never quite forgone
The thought of vengeance on me, never quite
Unclosed his itching fingers from his sword.
But thou, O Merope, though deeply wrong’d,
Though injured past forgiveness, as men deem,
Yet hast been long at school with thoughtful time,
And from that teacher may’st have learn’d, like me,
That all may be endured, and all forgiv’n–
Have learn’d, that we must sacrifice the bent
Of personal feeling to the public weal–
Have learn’d, that there are guilty deeds, which leave
The hand that does them guiltless; in a word,
That kings live for their peoples, not themselves.
This having known, let us a union found
(For the last time I ask, ask earnestly)
Based on pure public welfare; let us be
Not Merope and Polyphontes, foes
Blood-sever’d, but Messenia’s King and Queen!
Let us forget ourselves for those we rule!
Speak! I go hence to offer sacrifice
To the Preserver Zeus; let me return
Thanks to him for our amity as well.