The Greatest Christmas Books of All Time. Люси Мод Монтгомери

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       I go; but whither dost thou send me whom thou driv'st

       From out thy home? Shall I the Colchians seek again,

       My royal father's realm whose soil is steeped in blood

       My brother shed? What country dost thou bid me seek?

       What way by sea is open? Shall I fare again

       Where once I saved the noble kings of Greece and thee,

       Thou wanton, through the threatening jaws of Pontus' strait,

       The blue Symplegades? Or shall I hie me back

       To fair Thessalia's realms? Lo, all the doors which I,

       For thee, have opened wide, I've closed upon myself.

       But whither dost thou send me now? Thou bidd'st me flee,

       But show'st no way or means of flight.

       [In bitter sarcasm.] But 'tis enough: The king's own son-in-law commands, and I obey. Come, heap thy torments on me; I deserve them all. Let royal wrath oppress me, wanton that I am, With cruel hand, and load my guilty limbs with chains; And let me be immured in dungeons black as night: Still will my punishment be less than my offense.— O ingrate! Hast thou then forgot the brazen bull, And his consuming breath? the fear that smote thee, when, Upon the field of Mars, the earth-born brood stood forth To meet thy single sword? 'Twas by my arts that they, The monsters, fell by mutual blows. Remember, too, The long-sought fleece of gold I won for thee, whose guard, The dragon huge, was lulled to rest at my command; My brother slain for thee. For thee old Pelias fell, When, taken by my guile, his daughters slew their sire, Whose life could not return. All this I did for thee. In quest of thine advantage have I quite forgot Mine own. And now, by all thy fond paternal hopes, By thine established house, by all the monsters slain For thee, by these my hands which I have ever held To work thy will, by all the perils past, by heaven, And sea that witnessed at my wedlock—pity me! Since thou art blessed, restore me what I lost for thee: That countless treasure plundered from the swarthy tribes Of India, which filled our goodly vaults with wealth, And decked our very trees with gold. This costly store I left for thee, my native land, my brother, sire, My reputation—all; and with this dower I came. If now to homeless exile thou dost send me forth, Give back the countless treasures which I left for thee.

      And now again we have a situation which only the quick, sharp flashes, the clash of words like steel on steel, can relieve. Here is no chance for long periods, nor flights of oratory; but sentences as short and sharp as swords, flashes of feeling, stinging epigrams.

      Jason.

       Though Creon, in a vengeful mood, would have thy life,

       I moved him by my tears to grant thee flight instead.