 | Medea |  |
SCENE the TENTH.
COLCHIANS and PHÆACIANS.A COLCHIAN.
[Cretics.]
Native floods rough with ice,
Rushing down mountain-sides,
Whirling thence broken rocks;
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Your discordant waves, that sweep
Harshly o'er their flinty beds,
Yield a more alluring sound,
Than the gently-trilling notes
Of the tender Grecian lyre,
Or the swelling strain diffus'd
From the music-breathing flute.
[Cretics.]
Native groves hoar with frost,
Caverns deep fill'd with night,
Shagged clifts, horror's seat;
[Trochaics.]
Oh! to these desiring eyes
Lovely is your gloom, which lives
In remembrance ever dear.
You are brighter, than my thoughts,
Which despondency o'erclouds,
And in these perfidious climes
Expectation cheats no more.
A PHÆACIAN.
[Cretics.]
Torrents swel, tempests rage,
Danger frowns, pain devours,
Grief consumes, man betrays;
[Trochaics.]
Such our doom in ev'ry clime:
Yet among the thorns of life
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And Credulity, her child,
Still with kind imposture smooths
Heaving trouble, and imparts
Moments, which suspend despair.
[Cretics.]
Goddess bland, soothing hope,
In thy smile I confide,
And believe, Jason comes.
[Trochaics.]
All, I see, delights my eye;
Ev'ry sound enchants my ear;
Those rude-featur'd crags are gay;
[Turning to the sea.
Winds in notes harmonious blow;
Hoarsest billows murmur joy;
And my long-forsaken home
Wakes the plaintive muse no more.
| Medea | |