MEDEA. Come to me!
GORA. And why?
MEDEA. Come hither!
See! There they lay, the babes—ay, and the bride,
Bleeding, and dead! And he, the bridegroom, stood
And looked and tore his hair! A fearful sight
And ghastly!
GORA. Heaven forfend! What mean these words?
MEDEA. Ha, ha! Thou'rt struck with terror then, at last?
Nay, 'tis but empty words that I did speak.
My old, fierce will yet lives, but all my strength
Is vanished. Oh, were I Medea still—!
But no, I am no more! O Jason, why,
Why hast thou used me so? I sheltered thee,
Saved thee, and gave thee all my heart to keep;
All that was mine, I flung away for thee!
Why wilt thou cast me off, why spurn my love,
Why drive the kindly spirits from my heart
And set fierce thoughts of vengeance in their place?
I dream of vengeance, when I have no more
The power to wreak revenge! The charms I had
From my own mother, that grim Colchian queen,
From Hecate, that bound dark gods to me
To do my bidding, I have buried them,
Ay, and for love of thee!—have sunk them deep
In the dim bosom of our mother Earth;
The ebon wand, the veil of bloody hue,
Gone!—and I stand here helpless, to my foes
No more a thing of terror, but of scorn!
GORA. Then speak not of them if they'll serve thee not!
MEDEA. I know well where they lie;
For yonder on the plashy ocean-strand
I coffined them and sank them deep in earth.
'Tis but to toss away a little mold,
And they are mine! But in my inmost soul
I shudder when I think on such a venture,
And on that blood-stained Fleece. Methinks the ghosts
Of father, brother, brood upon their grave
And will not let them go. Dost thou recall
How on the pavement lay my old, gray sire
Weeping for his dead son, and cursing loud
His daughter? But lord Jason swung the Fleece
High o'er his head, with fierce, triumphant shouts!
'Twas then I swore revenge upon this traitor
Who first did slay my best-beloved, now
Would slay me, too! Had I my bloody charms
And secret magic here, I'd keep that vow!
But no, I dare not fetch them, for I fear
Lest, shining through the Fleece's golden blaze,
Mine eyes should see my father's ghostly face
Stare forth at me—and oh! I should go mad!
GORA. What wilt thou do, then?
MEDEA (wearily).
Even let them come
And slay me, if they will! I can no more!
Not one step will I stir from where I stand;
My dearest wish is death! And when he sees
Me lying dead, mayhap he'll follow me,
Deep-smitten with remorse!