The Greatest Christmas Books of All Time. Люси Мод Монтгомери

      Messenger.

       By gifts, the common snare of kings.

      Chorus.

       What harm could lurk in them?

      Messenger.

       In equal doubt I stand;

       And, though my eyes proclaim the dreadful deed is done,

       I scarce can trust their witness.

      Chorus.

       What the mode of death?

      Messenger.

       Devouring flames consume the palace at the will

       Of her who sent them; there complete destruction reigns,

       While men do tremble for the very city's doom.

      Chorus.

       Let water quench the fire.

      Messenger.

       Nay, here is added wonder:

       The copious streams of water feed the deadly flames; And opposition only fans their fiery rage To whiter heat. The very bulwarks feel their power.

      Medea has entered meanwhile, and has heard enough to be assured that her magic has been successful. The nurse, seeing her, and fearing for her mistress, exclaims:

      O haste thee, leave this land of Greece in headlong

       flight!

      Medea.

       Thou bidst me speed my flight? Nay, rather, had I fled,

       I should return for this. Strange bridal rites I see!

      But now, forgetful of all around her, she becomes absorbed in her own meditations. And here follows a masterful description of the struggle of conflicting passions in a human soul. The contending forces are mother-love and the passionate hate of an outraged wife. And when the mother-love is at last vanquished, we may be sure that all the woman is dead in her, and she becomes what the closing scene of the play portrays—an incarnate fury.

      Medea.

       Why dost thou falter, O my soul? 'Tis well begun;

       But still how small a portion of thy just revenge

       Is that which gives thee present joy? Not yet has love

       Been banished from thy maddened heart if 'tis enough

       That Jason widowed be. Pursue thy vengeful quest

       To acts as yet unknown, and steel thyself for these.

       Away with every thought and fear of God and man;

       Too lightly falls the rod that pious hands upbear.

       Give passion fullest sway; exhaust thy ancient powers;

       And let the worst thou yet hast done be innocent

       Beside thy present deeds. Come, let them know how slight

       Were those thy crimes already done; mere training they

       For greater deeds. For what could hands untrained in crime

       Accomplish? Or what mattered maiden rage? But now,

       I am Medea; in the bitter school of woe

       My powers have ripened.

      This mood culminates in an ecstasy of madness as she dwells upon her former successful deeds of blood.

      O the bliss of memory!

       My infant brother slain, his limbs asunder rent,

       My royal father spoiled of his ancestral realm,

       And Pelias' guiltless daughters lured to slay their sire!

       But here I must not rest; no untrained hand I bring

       To execute my deeds.

       But now, by what approach,

       Or by what weapon wilt thou threat the treacherous foe?

       Deep hidden in my secret heart have I conceived

       A purpose which I dare not utter. O I fear

       That in my foolish madness I have gone too far.—

       I would that children had been born to him of this

       My hated rival. Still, since she hath gained his heart,

       His children too are hers.—

       That punishment would be most fitting and deserved.

       Yes, now I see the final deed of crime, and thou,

       My soul, must face it. You, who once were called my sons,

       Must pay the penalty of these your father's crimes.—

       My heart with horror melts, a numbing chill pervades

       My limbs, and all my soul is filled with sinking fear.

       Now wrath gives place, and, heedless of my husband's sins,

       The tender mother-instinct quite possesses me.

       And could I shed my helpless children's blood? Not so,

       O say not so, my maddened heart! Far from my hand

       And thought be that unnamable and hideous deed!

       What sin have they that shedding of their wretched blood

       Would wash away?

       Their sin—that Jason is their sire,

       And, deeper guilt, that I have borne them. Let them die;

       They are not mine.—Nay, nay, they are my own, my sons,

       And with no spot of guilt.—Full innocent they are,

       'Tis true: my brother too was innocent. O soul,

       Why dost thou hesitate? Why flow these streaming tears

       While with contending thoughts my wavering heart is torn?

       And waves, to stormy waves opposed, the sea invade,

       And to their lowest sands the briny waters boil:

       With such a storm my heart is tossed. Hate conquers love,

       And love puts impious hate to flight. O yield thee, grief,

       To love! Then come, my sons, sole comfort of my heart,

       Come cling within thy mother's close embrace. Unharmed

       Your sire may keep you, while your mother holds you too.

      But she remembers, even as she embraces her children, that this is her last embrace.

      But flight and exile drive me forth! And even now

       My children must be torn away with tears and cries.—

       Then let them die to Jason since they're lost to me.

       Once more has hate resumed her sway, and passion's fire

       Is hot within my soul. Now fury, as of yore,

       Reseeks her own. Lead on, I follow to the end!

       I would that I had borne twice seven sons, the boast

       Of Niobe! But all too barren have I been.

       Still will my two sufficient be to satisfy

       My brother and my sire.

      She suddenly falls distraught, as one who sees a dreadful vision.

      But whither hastes that throng

       Of furies? What their quest? What mean their brandished

       fires?

       Whom threats this hellish host with horrid, bloody brands?

       I hear the writhing lash of serpents huge resound.

       Whom seeks Magæra with her deadly torch?—Whose shade

       Comes gibbering there with scattered limbs?—It is my