 | Medea |  |
SCENE the SEVENTH.
MEDEA, and HECATÉ rising in long, black garments, with a wreath of snakes, and oaken boughs on her head, and a torch in her hand.MEDEA.
O my propitious and congenial goddess,
Who thy mysterious science hast diffus'd
Of potent herbs, and necromantic songs
Through my capacious bosom, who so long
Hast been assistant to Medea's triumphs,
Now thou behold'st me vanquish'd by despair.
HECATÉ.
I know thy suff'rings, daughter; but to close
The wounds of anguish, and asswage despair
Is not the task of hell.
MEDEA.
Then give me vengeance.
53
On whom?
MEDEA.
Creüsa?—No?—My high revenge
O'erleaps a trifling maid. Old Æson—No.
He is my hero's father. But for Creon. . . . .
HECATÉ.
The hour is nigh, when yonder flood will rage,
This rock be loosen'd, and its structures nod;
Then shall the fury, discord, and red zeal
Thrice steep'd in Stygian fires avenge thy wrongs.
Farewel.
MEDEA.
A moment stay—My yielding heart
Must ask—Will Jason ever more be kind.
HECATÉ.
Search not thy fate.
MEDEA.
Unfold it, I enjoin thee
By him, thou dread'st, by Demogorgon's name.
HECATÉ.
Against thyself, unhappy, thou prevail'st.
Ere night's black wheels begin their gloomy course,
What, thou dost love, shall perish by thy rage,
Nor thou be conscious, when the stroke is giv'n;
Then a despairing wand'rer must thou trace
The paths of sorrow in remotest climes.
| Medea | |