Bidding him, “See thou beware of thine offspring’s secret guile,
And the plots of thy seed, and the curse of their crafty iniquity;”
For which cause also he sent them, even as they craved, oversea,
By their father’s behest, to Achaia a long way:—yet there came
On his soul no shadow of fear of his daughters, lest these should frame
Treason: no fear of his son Absyrtus his heart had chilled;
But he said, “In the children of Chalkiopê shall the curse be fulfilled.”
And bodings of awful revenge on the strangers foamed on his lip
In his fury; for loudly he threatened to hale to the flames their ship
And her crew, that none through the meshes of ruin’s net might slip.
But Argus had gone to the halls of Aiêtes the while, and with speech
Of manifold pleading now did the prince his mother beseech
To pray to Medea to help them; yea, and herself theretofore
Was full of the selfsame thought, but the fear on her soul lay sore
Lest haply fate should withstand, and in vain she should speak her fair,
For her dread of her father’s deadly wrath; or if to her prayer
She should yield, yet all should be brought to light, and her deeds laid bare.
Now the maiden had cast her down on her couch, and slumber deep
Of her anguish relieved her; but straightway dreams came haunting her sleep,
Such visions dark and deceitful as trouble the anguish-distraught.
For it seemed that the stranger had taken upon him the task; but she thought
That it was not the Fleece of the Ram that he longed to win for a prize,
Nor yet for the sake of this had he fared in any wise
To Aiêtes’ city, but only to lead her, his wedded wife,
Unto his home; and she dreamed that herself did wrestle in strife
With the bulls, and exceeding lightly the mighty labour she wrought.
Howbeit thereafter her parents set their promise at naught,
For that not to their child, but to him, was the challenge to yoke that team.
Wherefore contention of wrangling clashed through her troubled dream
’Twixt her sire and the strangers: and lo, in her hand the decision they laid,
That the issue should follow her will, and the thoughts of the heart of the maid.
And straightway the stranger she chose: all reverence thrust she aside
For her parents; and measureless anguish seized them, and loud they cried
In their fury, and sleep forsook her at that heart-thrilling sound.
And all a-quiver with fear she upstarted: she stared all round
On the walls of her chamber; her fluttering spirit back to her breast
Scarce drew she: the words like a panic-struck throng through her pale lips pressed:
“O wretched I!—how nightmare visions my spirit appal!
I fear me lest awful ills from the heroes’ voyage befall:
And my heart, my heart for the stranger is tossed in a storm of dismay.
Let him woo some girl in his own Achaia far away,
And be maidenhood mine, and mine in the house of my parents to stay!
Yet—yet—though mine heart be by love made reckless, the desperate deed
I will try not unbid by my sister—never!—except she plead
With Medea to help in the toil, in her anguish of fear for the sake
Of her sons: this might peradventure assuage my sore heart-ache.”
She spake, and she rose from her bed, and she opened her chamber door
Barefooted, in vesture of linen alone; and she yearned full sore
To go to her sister, and over the threshold stole the maid:
Yet lingering—lingering—long at the door of the chamber she stayed
Held by her shame. Then backward in sudden panic she fled,
And into her bower she darted, and shrank to the shadows in dread.
And backward and forward her purposeless feet ever paced in vain;
For whenso she braced her to go, shame fettered her feet with its chain,
And ever as shame plucked back, bold passion spurred her amain.
Thrice she essayed, thrice stayed she; but now at the fourth essay
Down on her bed on her face did she cast her, and writhing she lay.
And as when some bride in her desolate bower for her lord maketh moan,
Unto whom her brethren and parents espoused her a little agone;
And for shame and for thinking on him awhile she cannot face
The eyes of her handmaids, but silent she sits in a secret place.
Some doom hath destroyed him, or ever the crown of their desire
Was attained of these: and there in her chamber, with heart on fire
Stilly she sitteth and weepeth, beholding her couch left lorn;
Stilly—for fear of the mock of the women, the laugh of their scorn
Like her did Medea make moan: but with sob and with broken cry
While yet she lamented, it chanced one heard as she passed thereby,
Which had been from a child a handmaid tending her lady’s bower
So she told it to Chalkiopê: now she sat in the selfsame hour
With her sons, devising to win her sister to help their need;
And she hearkened the strange tale told of the handmaid with diligent heed,
Neither put it lightly aside; but she hastened in startled dismay
Forth of her bower and on to the bower where the maiden lay
Anguish-racked, while her frenzied fingers tore each cheek.
And her eyes all drowned in tears she beheld, and thus did she speak:
“Ah me, Medea, ah me!—and why art thou weeping so?
What hath befallen?—how came to thine heart this terrible woe?
Is it some disease heaven-sent that hath suddenly smitten thy frame?
Or what, hast thou heard some deadly threat from our father that came
Touching me and my sons? Would God I had never so much as seen
My parents’ home, nor the town, but my dwelling afar had been
At the ends of the earth, where never was heard the Kolchian name!”
She spake: but Medea’s cheeks flushed crimson; and maiden shame
From the answer she yearned full sore to render withheld her long.
And now was the word awake, and fluttered upon her tongue,
And backward anon to her breast it flew like a startled bird.
And often she parted her lovely lips to utter the word;
Yet fainted her voice on the threshold of speech: but at last of her guile
Thus spake she—and ever the bold Loves thrust her onward the
