Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 62

_aepytus_

O suffering! O calamity! how ten, How twentyfold worse are ye, when your blows Not only wound the sense, but kill the soul, The n.o.ble thought, which is alone the man!

That I, to-day returning, find myself Orphan'd of both my parents--by his foes My father, by your strokes my mother slain!

For this is not my mother, who dissuades, At the dread altar of her husband's tomb, His son from vengeance on his murderer; And not alone dissuades him, but compares His just revenge to an unnatural deed, A deed so awful, that the general tongue Fluent of horrors, falters to relate it-- Of darkness so tremendous, that its author, Though to his act empower'd, nay, impell'd, By the oracular sentence of the G.o.ds, Fled, for years after, o'er the face of earth, A frenzied wanderer, a G.o.d-driven man, And hardly yet, some say, hath found a grave-- With such a deed as _this_ thou matchest mine, Which Nature sanctions, which the innocent blood Clamours to find fulfill'd, which good men praise, And only bad men joy to see undone!

O honour'd father! hide thee in thy grave Deep as thou canst, for hence no succour comes; Since from thy faithful subjects what revenge Canst thou expect, when thus thy widow fails?

Alas! an adamantine strength indeed, Past expectation, hath thy murderer built; For this is the true strength of guilty kings, When they corrupt the souls of those they rule.

_The Chorus_

Zeal makes him most unjust; but, in good time, Here, as I guess, the n.o.ble Laias comes.

_Laias_

Break off, break off your talking, and depart Each to his post, where the occasion calls; Lest from the council-chamber presently The King return, and find you prating here.

A time will come for greetings; but to-day The hour for words is gone, is come for deeds.

_aepytus_

O princely Laias! to what purpose calls The occasion, if our chief confederate fails?

My mother stands aloof, and blames our deed.

_Laias_

My royal sister?... but, without some cause, I know, she honours not the dead so ill.

_Merope_

Brother, it seems thy sister must present, At this first meeting after absence long, Not welcome, exculpation to her kin; Yet exculpation needs it, if I seek, A woman and a mother, to avert Risk from my new-restored, my only son?-- Sometimes, when he was gone, I wish'd him back, Risk what he might; now that I have him here, Now that I feed mine eyes on that young face, Hear that fresh voice, and clasp that gold-lock'd head, I shudder, Laias, to commit my child To murder's dread arena, where I saw His father and his ill-starr'd brethren fall!

I loathe for him the slippery way of blood; I ask if bloodless means may gain his end.

In me the fever of revengeful hate, Pa.s.sion's first furious longing to imbrue Our own right hand in the detested blood Of enemies, and count their dying groans-- If in this feeble bosom such a fire Did ever burn--is long by time allay'd, And I would now have Justice strike, not me.

Besides--for from my brother and my son I hide not even this--the reverence deep, Remorseful, tow'rd my hostile solitude, By Polyphontes never fail'd-in once Through twenty years; his mournful anxious zeal To efface in me the memory of his crime-- Though it efface not that, yet makes me wish His death a public, not a personal act, Treacherously plotted 'twixt my son and me; To whom this day he came to proffer peace, Treaty, and to this kingdom for my son Heirship, with fair intent, as I believe.-- For that he plots thy death, account it false;

[_to_ aePYTUS.

Number it with the thousand rumours vain, Figments of plots, wherewith intriguers fill The enforced leisure of an exile's ear.

Immersed in serious state-craft is the King, Bent above all to pacify, to rule, Rigidly, yet in settled calm, this realm; Not p.r.o.ne, all say, averse to bloodshed now.-- So much is due to truth, even tow'rds our foe.

[_to_ LAIAS.

Do I, then, give to usurpation grace, And from his natural rights my son debar?

Not so! let him--and none shall be more prompt Than I to help--raise his Messenian friends; Let him fetch succours from Arcadia, gain His Argive or his Spartan cousins' aid; Let him do this, do aught but recommence Murder's uncertain, secret, perilous game-- And I, when to his righteous standard down Flies Victory wing'd, and Justice raises _then_ Her sword, will be the first to bid it fall.

If, haply, at this moment, such attempt Promise not fair, let him a little while Have faith, and trust the future and the G.o.ds.

He may; for never did the G.o.ds allow Fast permanence to an ill-gotten throne.-- These are but woman's words--yet, Laias, thou Despise them not! for, brother, thou and I Were not among the feuds of warrior-chiefs, Each sovereign for his dear-bought hour, born; But in the pastoral Arcadia rear'd, With Cypselus our father, where we saw The simple patriarchal state of kings, Where sire to son transmits the unquestion'd crown, Unhack'd, unsmirch'd, unbloodied, and have learnt That spotless hands unshaken sceptres hold.

Having learnt this, then, use thy knowledge now.

_The Chorus_

Which way to lean I know not: b.l.o.o.d.y strokes Are never free from doubt, though sometimes due.

_Laias_

O Merope, the common heart of man Agrees to deem some deeds so dark in guilt, That neither grat.i.tude, nor tie of race, Womanly pity, nor maternal fear, Nor any pleader else, shall be indulged To breathe a syllable to bar revenge.

All this, no doubt, thou to thyself hast urged-- Time presses, so that theme forbear I now; Direct to thy dissuasions I reply.

Blood-founded thrones, thou say'st, are insecure; Our father's kingdom, because pure, is safe.

True; but what cause to our Arcadia gives Its privileged immunity from blood, But that, since first the black and fruitful Earth In the primeval mountain-forests bore Pelasgus, our forefather and mankind's, Legitimately sire to son, with us, Bequeaths the allegiance of our shepherd-tribes, More loyal, as our line continues more?-- How can your Heracleidan chiefs inspire This awe which guards our earth-sprung, lineal kings?

What permanence, what stability like ours, Whether blood flows or no, can yet invest The broken order of your Dorian thrones, Fix'd yesterday, and ten times changed since then?-- Two brothers, and their orphan nephews, strove For the three conquer'd kingdoms of this isle; The eldest, mightiest brother, Temenus, took Argos; a juggle to Cresphontes gave Messenia; to those helpless Boys, the lot Worst of the three, the stony Sparta, fell.

August, indeed, was the foundation here!

What follow'd?--His most trusted kinsman slew Cresphontes in Messenia; Temenus Perish'd in Argos by his jealous sons; The Spartan Brothers with their guardian strive.

Can houses thus ill-seated, thus embroil'd, Thus little founded in their subjects' love, Practise the indulgent, bloodless policy Of dynasties long-fix'd, and honour'd long?

No! Vigour and severity must chain Popular reverence to these recent lines.

Be their first-founded order strict maintain'd-- Their murder'd rulers terribly avenged-- Ruthlessly their rebellious subjects crush'd!

Since policy bids thus, what fouler death Than thine ill.u.s.trious husband's to avenge Shall we select? than Polyphontes, what More daring and more grand offender find?

Justice, my sister, long demands this blow, And Wisdom, now thou see'st, demands it too.

To strike it, then, dissuade thy son no more; For to live disobedient to these two, Justice and Wisdom, is no life at all.

_The Chorus_

The G.o.ds, O mistress dear! the hard-soul'd man, Who spared not others, bid not us to spare.

_Merope_

Alas! against my brother, son, and friends, One, and a woman, how can I prevail?-- O brother, thou hast conquer'd; yet, I fear!

Son! with a doubting heart thy mother yields; May it turn happier than my doubts portend!

_Laias_

Meantime on thee the task of silence only Shall be imposed; to us shall be the deed.

Now, not another word, but to our act!

Nephew! thy friends are sounded, and prove true.

Thy father's murderer, in the public place, Performs, this noon, a solemn sacrifice; Be with him--choose the moment--strike thy blow!

If prudence counsels thee to go unarm'd, The sacrificer's axe will serve thy turn.

To me and the Messenians leave the rest, With the G.o.ds' aid--and, if they give but aid As our just cause deserves, I do not fear.

[aePYTUS, LAIAS, _and_ ARCAS _go out_.

_The Chorus_

O Son and Mother, _str_. 1.

Whom the G.o.ds o'ershadow In dangerous trial, With certainty of favour!

As erst they shadow'd Your race's founders From irretrievable woe; When the seed of Lycaon Lay forlorn, lay outcast, Callisto and her Boy.

What deep-gra.s.s'd meadow _ant_. 1.

At the meeting valleys-- Where clear-flowing Ladon, Most beautiful of waters, Receives the river Whose trout are vocal, The Aroanian stream-- Without home, without mother, Hid the babe, hid Arcas, The nursling of the dells?

But the sweet-smelling myrtle, _str_. 2.

And the pink-flower'd oleander, And the green agnus-castus, To the west-wind's murmur, Rustled round his cradle; And Maia rear'd him.

Then, a boy, he startled, In the snow-fill'd hollows Of high Cyllene, The white mountain-birds; Or surprised, in the glens, The basking tortoises, Whose striped sh.e.l.l founded In the hand of Hermes The glory of the lyre.

But his mother, Callisto, _ant_. 2.