 | Medea |  |
SCENE the SIXTH.
JASON and ÆSON.JASON.
Then let the tempest roar, tyrannic woman,
The billows rise in mountains o'er thy head.
ÆSON.
Well, thou hast seen her; while thy father's eye
Ak'd at the low submission of a hero,
Who with unmollify'd disdain was spurn'd.
Say, will my gentle son persist to court
The fellowship of fury, and abide
The acrimonious taunt, the settled frown,
The still-renew'd upbraiding? Will my Jason
For this to deathless obloquy abandon
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A proffer'd aid to reinstate his father,
Redeem his country, and refresh his laurels
With want of action fading?
JASON.
There, O Mars,
Thou dost provide a banquet for despair.
ÆSON.
No, for thy valour, son, a feast of glory.
Come, leave this melancholy spot. Return
With me to joy.
JASON.
I go—but never more
Speak to thy son of joy. My soul foregoes
All gentle thoughts. Its sad relief is horror
From the grim pow'r of homicide and ravage.
O that his ev'ning, lighted by the stars,
And glimpse of armour, I might turn my back
On Corinth's bulwarks; that the trumpet's clangor,
The shrill-mouth'd clarion, and the deep-ton'd horn,
The groans of slaughter, and the crash of spears
Might blend their discord for my nuptial song.
| Medea | |