Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 56

Or with what voice shall I the questions meet Of my two elder sons, slain long ago, Who sadly ask me, what, if not revenge, Kept me, their mother, from their side so long?

Or how reply to thee, my child last-born, Last-murder'd, who reproachfully wilt say: _Mother, I well believed thou lived'st on_ _In the detested palace of thy foe,_ _With patience on thy face, death in thy heart,_ _Counting, till I grew up, the laggard years,_ _That our joint hands might then together pay_ _To our unhappy house the debt we owe._ _My death makes my debt void, and doubles thine--_ _But down thou fleest here, and leav'st our scourge_ _Triumphant, and condemnest all our race_ _To lie in gloom, for ever unappeased._ What shall I have to answer to such words?-- No, something must be dared; and, great as erst Our dastard patience, be our daring now!

Come, ye swift Furies, who to him ye haunt Permit no peace till your behests are done; Come Hermes, who dost friend the unjustly kill'd, And can'st teach simple ones to plot and feign; Come, lightning Pa.s.sion, that with foot of fire Advancest to the middle of a deed Almost before 'tis plann'd; come, glowing Hate; Come, baneful Mischief, from thy murky den Under the dripping black Tartarean cliff Which Styx's awful waters trickle down-- Inspire this coward heart, this flagging arm!

How say ye, maidens, do ye know these prayers?

Are these words Merope's--is this voice mine?

Old man, old man, thou had'st my boy in charge, And he is lost, and thou hast that to atone!

Fly, find me on the instant where confer The murderer and his impious setter-on-- And ye, keep faithful silence, friends, and mark What one weak woman can achieve alone.

_Arcas_

O mistress, by the G.o.ds, do nothing ras.h.!.+

_Merope_

Unfaithful servant, dost thou, too, desert me?

_Arcas_

I go! I go!--The King holds council--there Will I seek tidings. Take, the while, this word: Attempting deeds beyond thy power to do, Thou nothing profitest thy friends, but mak'st Our misery more, and thine own ruin sure.

[ARCAS _goes out_.

_The Chorus_

I have heard, O Queen, how a prince, _str._ 1.

Agamemnon's son, in Mycenae, Orestes, died but in name, Lived for the death of his foes.

_Merope_

Peace!

_The Chorus_

What is it?

_Merope_

Alas, Thou destroyest me!

_The Chorus_

How?

_Merope_

Whispering hope of a life Which no stranger unknown, But the faithful servant and nurse, Whose tears warrant his truth, Bears sad witness is lost.

_The Chorus_

Wheresoe'er men are, there is grief. _ant._ 1.

In a thousand countries, a thousand Homes, e'en now is there wail; Mothers lamenting their sons.

_Merope_

Yes----

_The Chorus_

Thou knowest it?

_Merope_

This, Who lives, witnesses.

_The Chorus_

True.

_Merope_

But is it only a fate Sure, all-common, to lose In a land of friends, by a friend, One last, murder-saved child?

_The Chorus_

Ah me! _str._ 2.

_Merope_

Thou confessest the prize In the rus.h.i.+ng, thundering, mad, Cloud-enveloped, obscure, Unapplauded, unsung Race of calamity, mine?

_The Chorus_

None can truly claim that Mournful preeminence, not Thou.

_Merope_

Fate _gives_ it, ah me!

_The Chorus_

Not, above all, in the doubts, Double and clas.h.i.+ng, that hang----

_Merope_

What then? _ant._ 2.

Seems it lighter, my loss, If, perhaps, unpierced by the sword, My child lies in his jagg'd Sunless prison of rock, On the black wave borne to and fro?

_The Chorus_

Worse, far worse, if his friend, If the Arcadian within, If----