[She has kept them hitherto at arm’s-length: but at the
touch of their hands, her resolution breaks down,
and she gathers them passionately into her arms.]

Oh, darling hand! Oh, darling mouth, and eye,

And royal mien, and bright brave faces clear,

May you be blessèd, but not here! What here

Was yours, your father stole… Ah God, the glow

Of cheek on cheek, the tender touch; and Oh,

Sweet scent of childhood… Go! Go! … Am I blind?…

Mine eyes can see not, when I look to find

Their places. I am broken by the wings

Of evil… Yea, I know to what bad things

I go, but louder than all thought doth cry

Anger, which maketh man’s worst misery.

[She follows the CHILDREN into the house.]

CHORUS. My thoughts have roamed a cloudy land,

And heard a fierier music fall

Than woman’s heart should stir withal:

And yet some Muse majestical,

Unknown, hath hold of woman’s hand,

Seeking for Wisdom—not in all;

A feeble seed, a scattered band,

Thou yet shalt find in lonely places,

Not dead amongst us, nor our faces

Turned away from the Muses’ call.

And thus my thought would speak: that she

Who ne’er hath borne a child nor known

Is nearer to felicity:

Unlit she goeth and alone,

With little understanding what

A child’s touch means of joy or woe,

And many toils she beareth not.

But they within whose garden fair

That gentle plant hath blown, they go

Deep-written all their days with care—

To rear the children, to make fast

Their hold, to win them wealth; and then

Much darkness, if the seed at last

Bear fruit in good or evil men!

And one thing at the end of all

Abideth, that which all men dread:

The wealth is won, the limbs are bred

To manhood, and the heart withal

Honest: and, lo, where Fortune smiled,

Some change, and what hath fallen? Hark!

’Tis death slow winging to the dark,

And in his arms what was thy child.

What therefore doth it bring of gain

To man, whose cup stood full before,

That God should send this one thing more

Of hunger and of dread, a door

Set wide to every wind of pain?

[MEDEA comes out alone from the house.]

MEDEA. Friends, this long hour I wait on Fortune’s eyes,

And strain my senses in a hot surmise

What passeth on that hill.—Ha! even now

There comes… ’tis one of Jason’s men, I trow.

His wild-perturbèd breath doth warrant me

The tidings of some strange calamity.

[Enter MESSENGER.]

MESSENGER. O dire and ghastly deed! Get thee away,

Medea! Fly! Nor let behind thee stay

One chariot’s wing, one keel that sweeps the seas…

MEDEA. And what hath chanced, to cause such flights as these?

MESSENGER. The maiden princess lieth—and her sire,

The king—both murdered by thy poison-fire.

MEDEA. Most happy tiding! Which thy name prefers