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THE ARGONAUTS
Bronzed with a ruder sun than ours, and
scarred |
(Rough tokens. of old battles) yet so calm
And mild (with all that vigour) that to me
Came a swift pity—the enchanter’s bane.
That I flung from me. But my subtle soul
Struck its own bosom with the sword of
thought,
So that I saw not pity, but desire!
CHORUS.
Surely a bane more potent than the first.
MEDEA.
Love is itself enchantment !
CHORUS.
Some kind god
Whispers from this a little light of hope.
MEDEA.
Only the hopeless are the happy ones.
CHORUS.
But didst thou turn him from his gleaming
goal?
Cover that shame with sweeter shame than
this?
MEDEA.
Thou knowest that his vigil was to keep,
Invoking all Olympus all the night,
And then to yoke the oxen, and to plough
The fearful furrow, sow the dreadful seed,
Smite down the armies, and assuage the
pest
Of slime thrice coiled about the sacred grove.
CHORUS.
Thy bitter love disturbed that solitude ?
MEDEA.
Not bitter, hervues. See ye yet the end?
1 ‘The hopeless are happy, like the girl
Pingala”’ (Buddhist Proverb). Pingala waited
for her lover, and mourned because he came
not. But, giving up hope at last, she regained
her cheerfulness. Cf 2 Samuel xii. 15-23.
CHORUS. ,
Our good quest ended by thy father’s hate,
And by thy own hour’s madness! This .
see.
‘MEDEA.
But if he gain the Fleece?
CHORUS.
. A blissful end.
MEDEA.
This end and that are moulded diversely.
CHORUS.
Riddle no more, nor ply with doubtful hope |
Hearts ready to rejoice and to despair
Equally minded.
MEDEA.
At the midmost hour,
His mind given up to sleepless muttering
Of charms not mine—decrees Olympian—
All on a sudden he felt fervent arms
Flung round him, and a hot sweet body’s
rush
Lithe to embrace him, and a cataract
Of amber-scented hair hissing about
His head, and in the darkness two great
eyes
Flaming above him, and the whole face filled
With fire and shapen as kisses. And those
arms
And kisses and mad movements of quick
love
Burnt up his being, and his life was lost
In woman’s love at last !
CHORUS.
Unseemly act !
Who dared thus break on meditation?
MEDEA.
CHORUS.
Surely thy passion mastered thee, O queen !