 | Medea |  |
14
SCENE the SEVENTH.
MEDEA, her two Children, COLCHIANS and PHÆACIANS.MEDEA.
No more, I charge you. Noble minds oppress'd
By injuries disdain the sound of comfort.
Ye fiends and furies wont to leave your flames
At my command, and tremble at my charms,
Now, now ascend and aid Medea's rage.
Give me the voice of thunder to resound
My indignation o'er the earth and heav'ns;
That I, who draw my lineage from the Sun,
Am fall'n below the basest lot of slaves:
That anguish, want, despair, contempt and shame
Are heap'd together by the hands of fate,
Whelm'd in one mass of ruin on my head,
And dash my struggling virtue to the ground.
FIRST COLCHIAN.
Why to our faithful counsels art thou deaf?
MEDEA.
Canst thou by counsel waft my exil'd feet
To my lost parents, my forsaken friends,
And native palace?—Oh! I gave him all;
To him my virgin bosom I resign'd,
For him the regal mansion of my father,
The lov'd companions of my youth deserted;
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What more could woman?—Yet he weds another.
Me he abandons, and these helpless infants
Forlorn, unshelter'd in a foreign clime,
To ev'ry outrage, ev'ry want expos'd.
Blast his perfidious head, vindictive lightnings!
Unhappy woman! canst thou in the height
Of thy despair, thy rage and indignation,
Canst thou pursue him with a heavier curse,
Than to be plung'd in woes, which equal thine?
FIRST COLCHIAN.
Though stung with just resentment, due regard
Pay to my age, fidelity and service.
A long and painful traverse from Iolcos
Hast thou endur'd, nor since thy landing here
The needful succour known of rest, or food.
MEDEA.
Talk not to me of nourishment and rest.
Food to these lips, and slumber to these eyes
Must ever now be strangers.
FIRST COLCHIAN.
By the beams
Of thy forefather never will I see
Thy wisdom bound in vassalage to passion.
Once more I warn thee, princess, to thy refuge.
This is the consecrated bow'r of Juno.
Thou underneath the hospitable shade
Sit suppliant down.
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Improvident Medea!
To raise another from destruction's depths,
To wealth, to glory raise him, yet thyself
Leave destitute and suppliant! Oh! what art thou,
Whom blinded men unerring wisdom call?
Thou couldst not pierce the thin, the airy veils,
Which from my eyes conceal'd the paths of danger;
Nor canst thou now repel th'increasing storm
Of rapid anguish, which o'erturns my peace:
Down to the endless gloom of dreary night;
Hence, let me drive thee from my inmost soul;
That nothing calm may hover nigh my heart
To cool its pain, and save me from distraction.
| Medea | |