The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

And now straight toward Iolchos did she go,
But as she went, a hideous, fearful change
Had come on her; from sunken eyes and strange
She gazed around; white grew her golden hair,
And seventy years her body seemed to bear;
As though the world that coppice had passed by
For half an age, and caught her presently,
When from its borders once her foot had passed.

Then she began to murmur, as she cast
From changed eyes glances on her wrinkled hands:
“O Jason! surely not for many lands,
Rich and gold-bearing lands, would I do this;
But yet with thee to gain good peace and bliss
Far greater things would I have done to-day.”

So saying, she made haste upon her way,
Until at last, when it was well-nigh night,
She reached the city walled and towered with white,
And passing by the brazen gates of it,
Forewearied, by the fountain did she sit;
Where, as she waited, came an ancient crone,
Who, groaning, set her pitcher on the stone,
And seeing the Colchian, asked her what she was.

“Mother,” Medea said, “I strive to pass

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Unto fair Athens, where dwelt long ago
My fathers, if perchance folk yet may know
Where they lie buried, that on that same stone
I may lie down and die; a hapless one,
Whom folk once called Aglaia, once called fair;
For years, long years agone, my golden hair
Went down the wind, as carelessly I strayed
Along the wet sea-beach, of nought afraid,
And there my joy was ended suddenly,
For on me fell the rovers of the sea,
And bore me bound unto the land of Thrace,
And thence to some unnamed, far northern place,
Where I, a rich man's daughter, learned to bear
Fetters and toil and scourging year by year;
Till it has happed unto me at the last,
Now that my strength for toil is overpast,
That I am free once more, if that be aught,
Whom in all wretched places death has sought,
And surely now will find. But wilt thou give
Some resting-place to me, that I may live
Until I come to Athens and my grave?
And certainly, though nought of gold I have,
In the far northland did I gather lore
Of this and that amid my labour sore;
And chiefly of this Goddess rites I know,
Whose image round my neck thou seest now,
Well-shod Diana—and a whispered word
Within her inmost temple once I heard
Concerning this: how men may grow to be
E'en as the Gods, and gain eternity,
And how the work of years may be undone.”

When she had finished, the Thessalian crone,
Filling her jar with water, turned and said:

“Surely, Athenian, I am sore afraid,
Ere thou hast learned thy lesson utterly,
And gained that new life, thou thyself wilt die;
Nor will it profit me, who am a slave

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Wishing for death, a wretched life to save:
But hearken now, if thou art wise and bold,
Then will I show thee how thou mayst earn gold
And thanks enow, by telling this thy tale
Unto rich folk, for them will it avail
To know thy secret; rise, and come with me,
And the king's daughters surely shalt thou see;
For on my road from nothing unto hell
His palace is the last lodge where I dwell,
And I am well aweary of it now,
And of my toil, thanked with hard word and blow.”

“I thank thee, mother,” said the Colchian maid,
“Nor of kings' daughters shall I be afraid,
Whose ears Latona's daughters erst have heard,
Nor trembled at the heavy dreadful word.”

Then on they passed, and as they went, the crone
Told her how Æson unto death was done,
And of the news that thither had been brought
Of those that o'er the sea that glory sought.
Namely, that when Æetes had been fain
To trap the Argo, all had been in vain,
Yet had he gone back well-nigh satisfied;
For in the night to him a voice had cried
Louder and clearer than a mortal can:
“Go back to Æa, sun-begotten man,
And there forget thy daughter and thy Fleece,
But yet be merry, for the thieves of Greece
Shall live no longer than a poor wretch may
Who lies unholpen on a lonely way
Wounded, possessing nought but many woes,—
Lo, thus it happeneth now unto thy foes!”

This, said the crone, a Colchian man had told
To Pelias, dweller in the house of gold,
And had large gifts from him; who when he knew
The certainty of this, old Æson slew
With all his house who at Iolchos were.

“So,” said she, “if, for quieting his fear

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Of the sea-rover, such things he did give,
What would his gifts be if thou mad'st him live
His life again, with none of all his name
Alive, to give him fear of death or shame?”
With that they came unto the royal house
Where Pelias dwelt, grown old and timorous,
Oppressed with blood of those that he had slain,
Desiring wealth and longer life in vain.

So there a court low-built the old crone sought,
And to her lodging the tired Colchian brought,
Where she might sleep, and gave her food and drink.
Then into sleep did wise Medea sink,
And dreamed that she herself, made ever young,
Gold-robed within some peaceful garden sung,
Like that where dwelt the wise Hesperides.
But as she walked between the smooth-stemmed trees
She saw the sea rise o'er the marble wall,
And rolling o'er, drown grass and flowers and all,
And draw on towards her, who no whit could move,
Though from the high land Jason, her own love,
Was shouting out to her, so then, at last,
She dreamed the waters over all had passed
And reached her feet, and o'er her coldly swept,
And still undrowned, beneath the waves she wept,
And still was Jason shouting to her there.

Therewith she woke, and felt the morning air
Cold on her face, because the ancient crone
Over her couch the casement had undone.
And as she oped her eyes, she heard her say:
“Awake, O guest, for yet another day
We twain must bear before we gain our rest.
But now indeed I think it to be best
That to my ladies I alone should show
That prayers and rites and wonders thou dost know,
Which thou wilt tell for gold; for sure I deem
That to us dying folk nought good doth seem,
But hoarding for the years we shall not see.

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So bide thou there, and I will come to thee
And bring thee word of what the queens may say.”

Then with these words she went upon her way,
While in her place alone Medea sat,
With eager heart, thinking of this and that,
And wishing that the glorious day were come,
When she should set her love within his home,
A king once more. So 'mid these thoughts, there came
Back to the place the wise Thessalian dame,
Who bade her rise and after her to go,
That she those marvels to the queens might show.

Therewith she brought her to a chamber where
Abode the royal maidens slim and fair,
All doing well-remembered works; of whom
White-armed Alcestis sat before the loom,
Casting the shuttle swift from hand to hand.
The while Eradne's part it was to stand
Amongst the maids who carded out the wool
And filled the gleaming ivory shuttles full.
Amphinome, meantime, her golden head
Bent o'er the spinners of the milk-white thread,
And by the growing web still set aside
The many-coloured bundles newly dyed,
Blood-red, and heavenly blue, and grassy green,
Yea, and more colours than man yet has seen
In flowery meadows midmost of the May.

Then to the royal maids the crone 'gan say:
“Behold the woman, O my mistresses,
Who 'midst the close-set gloomy northern trees
Has late learned that I told you of; and ye
Who in this royal house live happily,
May well desire such life for evermore,
Which unto me were but a burden sore.”

Therewith she left them, but folk say, indeed,
That she who spoke was nought but Saturn's seed,
In very likeness of that woman old,
Whose body soon folk came on, dead and cold,

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Within the place where she was wont to dwell.
Now how these things may be, I cannot tell,
But certainly Queen Juno's will was good
To finish that which, in the oaken wood
Anigh the Centaur's cave, she first began,
Giving good heart to the strange-nurtured man.