Collected Works (Vol. II)

ACTUS TERTIUS 103 And his face blanched a moment, as behold- ing Some Fate, some distant grief. catching sight Now of the glory of his gain, he seemed Caught in an ecstasy, treading the earth As in a brighter dream than Aphrodite Sent ever to a man, he turned himself (We could not see him for the golden flame Burning about him !) moving hitherward. But I took horse and hasted, since reward May greet such tidings, and for joy to see Your joy exceed my joy. Then, MEDEA. Reward indeed Awaits thee from such folk as us, who stand In fear of life, when great Aeetes hears This news, and how. all came. MESSENGER. My lady’s smile Is the reward I sought, not place nor gold. MEDEA. Thou hast it, child. SECOND MESSENGER, The hero is at hand. CHORUS. O happy of mortals! O fronter of fear, The impassable portals ! Ye heavens, give ear ! Our song shall be rolled in the praise of the gold, and its glory be told where the heavenly fold rejoices to hold the stars in its sphere. O hero Tolchian ! Warrior king ! From the kingdom Colchian The Fleece dos bring ! Our song shall be sung and its melody flung where the Lyre and the Tongue are fervid and young, all islands among where the Sirens sing. Thou bearest, strong shoulder, The sunbright fleece ! Glow swifter and bolder And brighter—and cease ! O glory of light! O woven of night! O shining and bright! O dream of de- light! How splendid the sight for the dwellers of Greece ! Gained is the guerdon ! The prize is won. The fleecy burden,. The soul of the sun! The toil is over; the days discover high joys that hover of lover and lover, and fates above her are fallen and done. JASON. Queen of this people! O my heart’s desire Spotless, the Lady of my love, and friends By whose heroic ardours I am found Victor at last, well girded with the spoil Of life in gleaming beauty, and this prize Thrice precious, my Medea—all is won! Needs only now the favouring kiss of Eurus, Bright-born of Eos, to fulfil for us The last of all the labours, to inspire The quick-raised sail, and fill that flushing gold With thrice desiréd breath, that once again Our prow plunge solemn in the Argive waters To strains of music—victory at peace Mingling with sweeter epithalamy— To tell our friends how happy was the quest. MEDEA. But not those strains of music, though divine From Orpheus’ winged lyre, exalt at all Our joy to joy, beyond all music’s power! CHORUS. I fear Aeetes, and the Pelian guile. JASON. Fear is but failure, herald of distress ! ; MEDEA What virtue lives there in the coward’s hrate?