Cease, my friend;
It is enough. You judged this thing aright;
This woman was dark and evil in her soul;
Black to her fiend-heart’s root; a festering plague
In our fair city’s midst.
Nikias.
Spake I not true?
[Night; outside the city. Medea leaning against a rock.]
Here let me rest; beyond men’s eyes, beyond
The city’s hissing hate. Why am I here?
Why have I fled from death? There’s sun on the earth,
And in the shades no sun;—thus much I know;
And sunlight’s good.
Wake I, or do I sleep?
I’m weary, weary; once I dream’d a dream
Of one that strove and wept and yearned for love
In a fair city. She was blind indeed.
They say the woman had a fiend at heart,
And afterwards—Hush, hush, I dream’d a dream.
How cold the air blows; how the night grows dark,
Wrapping me round in blackness. Darker too
Grows the deep night within. I cannot see;
I grope with weary hands; my hands are sore
With fruitless striving. I have fought with the Fates
And I am vanquished utterly. The Fates
Yield not to strife; nay, nor to many prayers.
Their ways are dark.
One climbs the tree and grasps
A handful of dead leaves; another walks,
Heedless, beneath the branches, and the fruit
Falls mellow at his feet.
This is the end:
I have dash’d my heart against a rock; the blood
Is drain’d and flows no more; and all my breast
Is emptied of its tears.
Thus go I forth
Into the deep, dense heart of the night—alone.
Sinfonia Eroica.
(TO SYLVIA.)
My Love, my Love, it was a day in June,
A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon;
And all the eager people thronging came
To that great hall, drawn by the magic name
Of one, a high magician, who can raise
The spirits of the past and future days,
And draw the dreams from out the secret breast,
Giving them life and shape.
I, with the rest,
Sat there athirst, atremble for the sound;
And as my aimless glances wandered round,
Far off, across the hush’d, expectant throng,
I saw your face that fac’d mine.
Clear and strong
Rush’d forth the sound, a mighty mountain stream;
Across the clust’ring heads mine eyes did seem
By subtle forces drawn, your eyes to meet.
Then you, the melody, the summer heat,
Mingled in all my blood and made it wine.
Straight I forgot the world’s great woe and mine;
My spirit’s murky lead grew molten fire;
Despair itself was rapture.
Ever higher,
Stronger and clearer rose the mighty strain;
Then sudden fell; then all was still again,
And I sank back, quivering as one in pain.
Brief was the pause; then, ’mid a hush profound,
Slow on the waiting air swell’d forth a sound
So wondrous sweet that each man held his breath;
A measur’d, mystic melody of death.
Then back you lean’d your head, and I could note
The upward outline of your perfect throat;
And ever, as the music smote the air,
Mine eyes from far held fast your body fair.
And in that wondrous moment seem’d to fade
My life’s great woe, and grow an empty shade
Which had not been, nor was not.
And I knew
Not which was sound, and which, O Love, was you.
To Sylvia.
