inks,
Nor commune with the moon, let dead men's bones
Rot in their graves at peace! Such magic arts
This folk here love not,--and I hate them, too!
This is not Colchis dark,--but sunny Greece;
Not hideous monsters, but our fellow-men
Dwell round about us. Come, henceforth, I know,
Thou wilt give o'er these rites and magic spells;
I have thy promise, and I know thee true.--
That crimson wimple bound about thy hair
Calls long-forgotten scenes to memory.
Why wilt not wear our country's wonted dress?
I was a Colchian on thy Colchian soil;
Be thou a Greek, now I have brought thee home.
The past is dead. Why call it back to life?
Alas! It haunts us yet, do what we will!

[MEDEA _silently removes the veil and gives it to_ GORA.]

GORA (_whispering_).

Scorn'st thou thy homeland thus--and all for him?

JASON (_catching sight of _GORA).

What! Art thou here, thou ancient beldame? Ha!
I hate thee most of all this Colchian crew.
One glance at thy dim eyes and wrinkled brow,
And lo! before my troubled sight there swims
The dusky shore of Colchis! Why must thou
Be ever hovering close beside my wife?
Begone!

GORA (_grumblingly_).

Why should I?

JASON. Go!

MEDEA. Begone, I pray.

GORA (_sullenly to _JASON).

Am I thy purchased slave, that thou shouldst speak
So lordly?

JASON. Go! My hand, of its own will,
Is on my sword! Go, while there yet is time!
Often ere this I have thought to make essay
If that stern brow be softer than it seems!

[MEDEA _leads the reluctant_ GORA _away, whispering words of comfort as
they go._ JASON _throws himself on a grass-bank, and strikes his
breast._]

JASON. O, heart of mine, burst from thy prison-house,
And drink the air!--
Ay, there they lie, fair Corinth's lofty towers,
Marshalled so richly on the ocean-strand,
The cradle of my happy, golden youth!
Unchanging, gilded by the selfsame sun
As then. 'Tis I am altered, and not they.
Ye gods! The morning of my life was bright
And