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

But other watchers were there on that night,
Who saw the birth of that desired light
From nigh green Cicynethus' woody shore.
For in mid-channel there, with every oar
Run out, and cable ready for the slip,
Did Jason hold his glorious storm-tossed ship,
While in the top did keen-eyed Lynceus stand,
And every man had ready to his hand
Sharp spear and painted shield and grinded sword.
Thus as they waited, suddenly the word
Rang out from Jason's mouth, and in the sea
The cable splashed, and straight the Minyæ
Unto their breasts the shaven ash-trees brought,
And, as the quivering blades the water caught,
Shouted for joy, and quickly passed the edge
Of Cicynethus, green with reed and sedge.
And whitening the dark waters of the bay,
Unto Iolchos did they take their way.

Meanwhile the Colchian woman nursed her gain,
And watched the grey dawn quicken o'er the main,
Still murmuring softly in the Colchian tongue,
While o'er her head the flickering fire yet hung,
And in the brazen caldron's lips did gleam,
Wherefrom went up a great white cloud of steam,

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To die above their heads in that fresh air.
But Pelias' daughters, writhing in despair,
Silent for dread of her, she noted nought,
Nor of the dead man laid thereby she thought.

At last came forward tall Amphinome,
And said: “O Queen, look o'er the whitening sea,
And tell us now what thing it is we lack
To bring our father's vanished breathing back
With that new life, whereof thou spak'st to us.”
So in a broken voice and piteous
She spoke; but when no answer came at all,
Nor did Medea's grey eyes on her fall,
She cried again: “O, art thou pitiless?
Wilt thou not note our measureless distress?
Wilt thou not finish that thou hast begun?
Lo, in a little while the piercing sun
Shall find us slayers of our father here.
Then if thou hast no pity, hast thou fear?
We are king's daughters still, and with us still
Are men whose hearts are set to do our will;
And if thou fall'st into the hands of these,
Thou shalt lament the gloomy northern trees
And painless death of threescore years and ten,
And little shall thy beauty help thee then.”

So cried she shrilly in her gathering ire;
But when Medea answered not, the fire
Burnt out within her heart, and on her knees
She fell, and cried: “O crown of Goddesses,
Forgive these impious words, and answer me,
Else shall I try if the green heaving sea
Will hide from all these impious blood-stained hands,
Or bear them far away to savage lands,
That know no good or evil; O speak, speak!
How can I pray thee when all words are weak?
What gifts, what worship, shall we give to thee?”

E'en as she spoke, Medea seemed to see
A twinkling light far off amidst the bay,

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Then from the suppliant hand she drew away,
Nor turned to her; but looking seaward still,
She cried: “O love! yet shalt thou have thy fill
Of wealth and power and much desired fame,
Nor shall the Grecian folk forget my name
Who dearly bought these for thee; therefore come,
And with the sun behold thy wished-for home.”

So spoke she, and no less the wretched three
Beheld that light grow greater o'er the sea,
And therewithal the grey dawn coming fast,
And from them now well-nigh all hope had passed.
But fair Alcestis, grovelling on the ground,
And crying out, cast both her arms around
Medea's knees, and panting and half-dead,
Poured forth wild words, nor knew the words she said,
While the two others, mad with their despair,
Ran wailing through the pillars here and there,
Nor knew indeed what thing had come on them,
For now, at last, fair Argo's plunging stem
Medea saw in the still gathering light,
And round about her the sea beaten white
With steady oars; then she looked down, and said:
“What! art thou praying for the newly dead,
For him who yesterday beheld the sun?
And dost thou think that I am such an one
That what the Gods have unmade I can make?
Lo! with the dead shall Pelias too awake,
And see such things as dead men's eyes may see.”

Then as Alcestis, moaning wretchedly,
Fell back upon the pavement, thus she said:
“Take comfort yet, and lift again thine head,
O foolish woman! Dost thou think that Fate
Has yet been stopped by any love or hate,
Or fear of death, or man's far-shouted fame?
And still doubt not that I, who have to name
The wise Medea, in such ways as this
Have long been struggling for a life of bliss

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I shall not gain; and thus shall all men do,
And win such wages as have happed to you.

“Rise up and gaze at what the Fates have wrought,
And all the counsels they have brought to nought
On this same morn. Hearken the dash of oars
That never more ye thought would brush these shores;
Behold the man stand on the high-raised prow
That this dead man so surely dead did know.
See how he raises in his conquering hand
The guarded marvel of the Colchian land,
Which this dead king deemed Jason's death and woe;
See how his folk ashore the grapnels throw;—
And see, and see! beneath the rising sun,
How fair a day for this land is begun.
And let King Pelias rise if now he can,
And stop the coming of the half-shod man.”