MEDEA.
115
Speeding thy flight!
Alas for her!—wherefore hath grim wrath stirred her
Through depths of her soul, that ruthless murder
Her wrongs must requite?
For stern upon mortals the vengeance falleth
For kin's blood spilt; from the earth it calleth,
A voice from the Gods, and the slayers appalleth
On whose homes it shall light. 1270
[Children's cries behind the scenes.]
Child 1.
What shall I do?—How flee my mother's hands?
Child 2.
I know not, dearest brother. Death is here!
Chorus.
Ah the cry!—dost thou hear it?—the children's cry!
Wretch!—woman of cursèd destiny!
Shall I enter?—My heart crieth, "Rescue the children from murder drawn nigh!"
Child 1.
Yea, for the Gods' sake, help! Sore is our need—
Child 2.
For now we are hemmed in by the sword's death-toils!