NOW, IN THE SHIP they built at Pagasa,
the Argonauts were furrowing the sea.
They had already seen the Thracian seer,
King Phineus, dragging out his final years
in endless blindness. Boreas’ twin sons
had eased his sufferings: they’d driven off
the Harpies, women-birds who tortured him;
in recompense, the old king helped them chart
the way to Colchis. After many trials,
led by the hero Jason, they had reached
the rapid current of the muddy Phasis.
There, when they went to King Aeetes, claiming
the Golden Fleece he had obtained from Phrixus,
the king agreed to yield the fleece they sought—
but only on his terms: he set three tasks,
horrendous tests that Jason had to pass.
Meanwhile the raging flame of love has struck
Medea, daughter of the king: when she,
who struggled long against that passion, sees
that reason cannot win again her frenzy,
she says:
“Medea, you are doomed to fail:
the force you face must be some deity.
I wonder if this power (or something like it)
is not the power known to men as love.
Indeed, why do the terms my father set
seem harsh to me? But then . . . they are just that!
Why do I dread the death of one whom I
have seen but once—a first and only time!
What led to this? Why am I terrified?
Come, quench the flame that burns your virgin breast—
would you, unhappy girl, could do just that!
If it could blaze no more, I would be healed.
Instead, despite myself, a force that I
have never known before impels me now:
my longing needs one thing; my reason seeks
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another. I can see—and I approve
the better course, and yet I choose the worse.
Oh, why do you, the daughter of a king,
burn for a stranger? Why, why must you dream
of wedding one whose world is alien?
You can, in your own land, find one to love.
The fate of Jason—life or death—depends
upon the gods. But I do hope he lives—
a hope that would be rightful even if
I did not love him! After all, what wrong
has Jason done! How could one be so cruel
as to ignore his noble birth, his youth,
his worth! But even if he lacked all these,
would Jason’s face alone not be enough
to stir one’s heart? At least, my heart—the heart
he has entranced. If I don’t take his part,
he will be blasted by the bulls’ hot breath,
and then face foes that he himself begets—
sprung from the very soil that he will sow—
or else fall prey to the voracious dragon.
If I let him become their victim, then
I must confess that I’m a tigress’ daughter,
who carries steel and stones within her breast.
And why don’t I look on as Jason dies—
why would that spectacle defile my eyes?
Why not incite the bulls, and savage foes
the earth engenders, and the sleepless dragon?
O gods, forbid that! . . . Yet, why do I pray?
I have to act! But shall I then betray
my father’s kingdom—be the one to save
this foreigner (I only know his name—
and nothing more), who then can sail away
without me, once he has escaped the fates,
and marry someone else, while I remain
alone—to face the penalty I’ll pay?
If he is capable of that, if he
can choose another woman over me,
then let him—so ungrateful—die! But no . . .
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but no, his aspect is so kind, his soul
so noble, and his form so gracious—I
need have no fear of fraud: he won’t forget
my merits. And, in any case, he’ll pledge
himself to me before I act: I’ll have
the gods as witnesses—a solemn pact.
Why be afraid, when all is sure and safe?
Begin to work—don’t wait—do not delay!
Jason will owe an endless debt to you:
a sacred marriage bond will join you two;
in all the towns of Greece there will be crowds
of mothers hailing you as savior!
Shall I, borne by the winds, sail off, desert
my sister, brother, father, my own gods,
my native land? Indeed my father is harsh,
my land is barbarous; and on her part,
my sister sides with me, my brother is young—
still but a boy; and I, within my heart,
can count upon the greatest of the gods.
I don’t abandon great things; I sail toward
greatness: I’ll gain much fame for having saved
the young Achaeans; I shall learn the ways
and manners of a better land than mine,
of cities whose renown has reached these shores,
of countries known for culture and the arts;
and I shall gain the man I’d not exchange
for all the gold the world may hold: the son
of Aeson. As his wife I shall be known
as the most blessed of women, whom the gods
most cherish; I shall touch the very stars!
And yet . . . there are reports of certain peaks
(I don’t know how they are called) that in midsea
collide and clash; and I have heard men speak
of dread Charybdis, bane of sailors—she
who, girt with greedy hounds, barks in the deeps
of the Sicilian straits! I may face these—
but even as I clasp my Jason, he
will shield me as we cross the long sea tracts.
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I shall fear nothing, held in his warm grasp;
and if I fear, it won’t be for myself
but for my husband. But, Medea, can
you hide your guilt beneath the gilded name
of ‘matrimony’? See instead the shame
you’ll face—while there’s still time, escape disgrace:
the fate that waits if you commit that crime!”
Such were Medea’s words. At last she sees
the righteous path and duty, modesty:
defeated now, her longing beats retreat.
But when Medea, having curbed her ardor,
felt stronger and sought out the ancient altar
of Perse’s daughter, Hecate—a shrine
concealed by forest shadows—on her way
she saw the son of Aeson; and love’s flame,
which had been spent, again began to rage.
Her cheeks grew red; fire spread across her face:
and just as a small spark that has been hid
beneath a veil of ashes can be fed—
and grow—beneath a breath of wind, and thus
regain the force that it had lost, her love,
now weak—one could have called it languishing—
rekindled when, along her way, she saw
the captivating form of Aeson’s son—
who chanced, that day, to be even more graceful
than usual: her trance was pardonable.
She saw him, and she stared as if this were
the first time he was ever seen by her;
dismayed, she thought her gaze had found the face
of a divinity; her eyes were fixed.
But when the stranger started speaking and—
even as he held fast Medea’s hand—
with his soft voice implored her help and pledged
that he would marry her, Medea wept
and said: “I am aware of what I do;
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if I’m undone, the cause is surely not
my ignorance, but love. You shall be saved;
but when that’s done, maintain the vow you made.”
He swore by all the holy mysteries
of Hecate—the triform goddess he
supposed was in that grove—and by the Sun,
who sees all things, the father of the one
now destined to become his father-in-law—
and by his triumphs over such great dangers.
His oath convinced her: she believed the stranger.
And so, without delay, the Greek received
from her the magic herbs of Hecate;
and having learned the proper use of each,
delighted, he went back to his own dwelling.
When Dawn has banished all the glittering stars,
the crowds move toward the sacred field of Mars;
they throng the heights that ring the combat ground.
The king himself has come; in purple robes,
among his retinue, he sits enthroned;
his ivory scepter is conspicuous.
And now the bulls, with their bronze hooves, charge out.
From adamantine nostrils, they breathe flames;
as they exhale, the meadow catches fire.
And even as a well-stoked furnace roars,
or as a limekiln hisses when they pour
fresh water on the lime and it dissolves
and starts to boil, so do the bulls now roar
with whirling flames pent in their chests and throats.
Yet Jason moves ahead. The bulls are grim;
their horns with iron tips are leveled at him;
they paw the dusty ground with their forked hooves;
they fill the field with bellows and hot smoke.
His Argonauts are terrified, but he
(his herbs are powerful indeed) draws near;
untroubled by the gusts of heat, he dares
to stroke their hanging dewlaps with his hand.
He thrusts the bulls beneath a yoke, compels
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those beasts to pull a massive plow, to furrow
a field that never felt a plow before.
The Colchians are baffled, but his men
urge Jason on with mighty shouts—and then,
from the bronze helmet, he draws out snake’s teeth
and scatters them on the plowed field as seed.
These teeth had first been steeped in potent venom;
earth softens them; they grow, take on new forms.
Just as a fetus gradually takes,
within its mother’s womb, a human shape,
acquiring harmony in all its parts,
and only sees the light that all men share
when it is fully formed, so here, the likeness
of men, perfected in the pregnant earth,
sprang from the soil; and what is even more
miraculous, each man was armed and clashed
his weapons at his birth.
But then this dread
assailed the Greeks; they saw these warriors set
to cast their sharp shafts at young Jason’s head.
The Argonauts grew pale; their courage failed.
Even Medea, who had kept him safe
from every menace, feared for Jason’s fate:
alone, he must withstand so many foes—
she, too, grew pale and chill; about to faint,
she sat; and fearing that her gift of herbs
might not be strong enough, she chose to add
a spell, a chant drawn from a secret source.
But Jason, who had hurled a massive stone
into the ranks of his attackers, turned
the fray away from his own self; instead
they raged against each other, and the brothers
sprung from the earth met death in civil war.
The Greeks, exulting, crowd around the victor,
embracing Jason eagerly. You, stranger—
Medea—would embrace the victor, too,
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but are restrained by modesty, although
that would in truth have been no curb to you—
it was your public name that held you back.
But you’re allowed your secret joy; you watch
in silence, thanking magic and the gods
who are the source of those compelling arts.
Now one ordeal alone still waits for Jason:
he has to put to sleep the wakeful dragon,
the horrid guardian of the golden tree—
the tri-tongued, crested serpent with hooked teeth.
And when the son of Aeson sprinkles him
with juices from a hypnagogic herb,
and three times over has pronounced the words
that bring calm sleep, that quiet troubled seas,
that curb the rivers’ flow—the dragon’s eyes
shut tight: they meet with sleep for the first time.
The hero Jason gains the Golden Fleece;
and proud of what he’s won, he also takes
another prize: the girl, whose magic gave
the victory to him, becomes his bride.
And he sails home—Medea at his side.