Book 7
“Dearest, to whom my life and love are due,
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although your kindness has been great to me,
and you have granted more than I should ask,
yet one thing more I beg of you; if your
enchantments can accomplish my desire,
take from my life some years that I should live
and add them to my father's ending days.”—
And as he spoke he could not check his tears.
Medea, moved by his affection, thought
how much less she had grieved for her loved sire:
and she replied:—“A wicked thing you ask!
Can I be capable of using you
in such a manner as to take your life
and give it to another? Ask not me
a thing so dreadful! May the Gods forbid!—
I will endeavor to perform for you
a task much greater. By the powers of Night
I will most certainly return to him
the lost years of your father, but must not
deprive you of your own. — Oh grant the power,
great goddess of the triple form, that I
may fail not to accomplish this great deed!”
Three nights were wanting for the moon to join
her circling horns and form a perfect orb.
When these were passed, the rounded light shone full
and bright upon the earth.—Through the still night
alone, Medea stole forth from the house
with feet bare, and in flowing garment clothed—
her long hair unadorned and not confined.
Deep slumber has relaxed the world, and all
that's living, animals and birds and men,
and even the hedges and the breathing leaves
are still—and motionless the laden air.
Only the stars are twinkling, and to them
she looks and beckons with imploring hands.
Now thrice around she paces, and three times
besprinkles her long hair with water dipt
from crystal streams, which having done
she kneels a moment on the cold, bare ground,
and screaming three times calls upon the Night,—
