Medea (1165-1245)

exulting in the gift, with many a glance at her uplifted ankle.[*] When lo! a scene of awful horror did ensue. In a moment she turned pale, reeled backwards, trembling in every limb,

and sinks upon a seat scarce soon enough to save herself from falling to the ground. An aged dame, one of her company, thinking belike it was a fit from Pan[*] or some god sent, raised a cry of prayer, till from her mouth she saw the foam-flakes issue, her eyeballs

rolling in their sockets, and all the blood her face desert; then did she raise a loud scream far different fiom her former cry. Forthwith one handmaid rushed to her father’s house, another to her new bridegroom to tell his bride’s sad fate,

and the whole house echoed with their running to and fro.

By this time would a quick walker have made the turn in a course of six plethra[*] and reached the goal, when she with one awful shriek awoke, poor sufferer, from her speechless trance and oped her closed eyes,

for against her a twofold anguish was warring. The chaplet of gold about her head was sending forth a wondrous stream of ravening flame, while the fine raiment, thy children’s gift, was preying on the hapless maiden’s fair white flesh;

and she starts from her seat in a blaze and seeks to fly, shaking her hair and head this way and that, to cast the crown therefrom; but the gold held firm to its fastenings, and the flame, as she shook her locks, blazed forth the more with double fury.

Then to the earth she sinks, by the cruel blow o’ercome, past all recognition now save to a father’s eye; for her eyes had lost their tranquil gaze, her face no more its natural look preserved, and from the crown of her head blood and fire in mingled stream ran down;

and from her bones the flesh kept peeling off beneath the gnawing of those secret drugs, e’en as when the pine-tree weeps its tears of pitch, a fearsome sight to see. And all were afraid to touch the corpse, for we were warned by what had chanced. Anon came her hapless father

unto the house, all unwitting of her doom, and stumbles o’er the dead, and loud he cried, and folding his arms about her kissed her, with words like these the while, O my poor, poor child, which of the gods hath destroyed thee thus foully? Who is robbing me of thee, old as I am and

ripe for death? O my child, alas! would I could die with thee! He ceased his sad lament, and would have raised his aged frame, but found himself held fast by the finespun robe as ivy that clings to the branches of the bay, and then ensued a fearful struggle.

He strove to rise, but she still held him back; and if ever he pulled with all his might, from off his bones his aged flesh he tore. At last he gave it up, and breathed forth his soul in awful suffering; for he could no longer master the pain.

So there they lie, daughter and aged sire, dead side by side, a grievous sight that calls for tears. And as for thee, I leave thee out of my consideration, for thyself must discover a means to escape punishment. Not now for the first time I think this human life a shadow;

yea, and without shrinking I will say that they amongst men who pretend to wisdom and expend deep thought on words do incur a serious charge of folly; for amongst mortals no man is happy; wealth may pour in and make

one luckier than another, but none can happy be.

This day the deity, it seems, will mass on Jason, as he well deserves, a heavy load of evils. Woe is thee, daughter of Creon! We pity thy sad fate, gone as thou art to Hades’ halls

as the price of thy marriage with Jason.

My friends, I am resolved upon the deed; at once will I slay my children and then leave this land, without delaying long enough to hand them over to some more savage hand to butcher.

Needs must they die in any case; and since they must, I will slay them—I, the mother that bare them. O heart of mine, steel thyself! Why do I hesitate to do the awful deed that must be done? Come, take the sword, thou wretched hand of mine!

Take it, and advance to the post whence starts thy life of sorrow! Away with cowardice! Give not one thought to thy babes, how dear they are or how thou art their mother This one brief day forget thy children dear, and after that lament; for though thou wilt slay them yet