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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
HERCULES ON OETA, by LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA Poet's Biography
First Line: O father of the gods, whose thunderbolt
Last Line: More boldly then thy father jove himself.
Alternate Author Name(s): Seneca
Subject(s): Mythology - Greek; Tragedy
First Line: O father of the gods, whose thunderbolt
Last Line: More boldly then thy father jove himself.
Alternate Author Name(s): Seneca
Subject(s): Mythology - Greek; Tragedy
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
HERCULES.
HYLLUS.
PHILOCTETES.
DEJANIRA.
ALCMENA.
IOLE.
NURSE.
CHORUS OF ŒCHALIAN MAIDENS.
CHORUS OF ŒTOLIAN MATRONS.
SCENE: Act I, Œchalia,
Act II et seq., Trachina.
ACT I
SCENE I
Hercules, Iole, Chorus of Œchalian Maidens.
Hercules. O father of the gods, whose thunderbolt
Both homes of Phœbus, east and west, do know,
Reign now secure, for I have brought thee peace
Wherever Nereus checks the spread of land.
There is no need to thunder, perjured kings
And cruel tyrants lie o'erthrown. I've slain
Whatever might have felt thy thunderbolt.
But father, why is heaven to me denied?
In all things, surely, I have worthy proved
Of Jove, my stepdame even witnesses
My heavenly birth. Why longer make delay?
Dost fear? Could Atlas not support the skies
If Hercules were there? Why still refuse
The star? Death sent me back to thee, all ills
That earth or sea or air or hell bring forth
Have yielded: through Arcadian streets no more
The lion wanders; the Stymphalian birds
Are dead; there is no stag of Mænalus;
The dying dragon sprinkled with his blood
The golden groves; the Hydra yields his life;
Beside the river Hebrus I destroyed
That well-known herd, with blood of slaughtered guests
Made fat; and from Thermodon bore away
The spoils of war; I saw the silent shades,
Nor thence returned alone. The trembling day
Beheld black Cerberus. He saw the sun.
Busiris was before his altars slain;
By this one hand fell Geryon, and by this
The bull, the terror of a hundred lands;
Whatever hostile thing the earth brought forth
Has perished, by my right hand overcome.
If earth denies wild beasts to Juno's wrath,
Give back, I pray, a father to thy son,
Or give a constellation to the brave.
I do not ask that thou shouldst show the road,
If thou permit me, I will find a way;
Or if thou fear'st lest earth conceive wild beasts,
Then speed the evil while she has and sees
Thy Hercules: who else would dare assail
Such foes, or be, in any Argive town,
Worthy of Juno's hate? There is no land
That does not speak my fame, the frost-bound race
Of Scythians in the north, the men of Ind
Exposed to Phœbus' rays, the Libyans, too,
Beneath the constellation of the crab,
Have felt my hand; bright Titan, thee I call
To witness, I have gone with thee where'er
Thou sheddest light—thy light could not pursue
My triumphs, for beyond the sun's bright world
I passed: day was not where my metes were set,
Nor nature, earth was wanting to my steps,
She first was wearied. Night assailed my eyes,
And utmost chaos. I have come again
From whence none other ever has returned.
The threats of ocean I have borne, no storms
Could wreck my boat, wherever I have gone.
The empty ether cannot now suffice
The hatred of thy wife; earth fears to yield
Wild beasts for me to conquer, does not give
New monsters, none remain, and Hercules
Stands in their place. How many evil things
Have I, unarmed, destroyed. All dreadful forms
That rose against me, I, alone, o'erthrew,
Nor feared as babe or boy to meet wild beasts.
The toils commanded me seemed light, no day
Shone fruitless for me. Oh, how many ills
I vanquished, when no king commanded me,—
My valor drove me more than Juno's wrath.
What profit to have made the race secure?
Gods have not peace; the earth is free, but sees
All things it had to fear secure in heaven,
Juno translates the brutes: the crab, though slain,
Moves in a burning pathway, has been made
A Libyan constellation, ripening
The grain; the lion to Astræa gives
The flying year, he shakes his fiery mane,
Dries up the moist south wind, dispels the clouds,
Behold even now has each wild beast attained
The skies, and so outstripped me. From the earth
I still, though victor, must behold my foes.
To brutes and monsters Juno gives a star
That she may make the skies a dreaded place
For me. Aye, let her waste the earth and make
The heav'ns more terrible than earth or hell,
Yet still Alcides shall be given room.
If after war, if after conquered beasts
And Stygian dog, I still am deemed unmeet
For heavenly heights, Hesperia shall touch
Peloris, and the two lands be but one;
I'll put the seas to flight—or dost thou bid
That they be joined? Let Isthmus no more part
The waves, and on united seas let ships
Be borne by new-found paths to Attica.
Let earth be changed: the Ister flow along
Through channels new, the Tanais find new ways.
Grant, Jupiter, at least, that I may guard
The gods; thou needst not hurl thy thunderbolt
Where I shall be the guardian. Though thou bid
That I protect the realms of heat and cold,
Believe, the gods are safe in that abode.
The dragon slain, Apollo merited
A Delphian temple and a heavenly home,—
How many Pythons in the Hydra lay!
Bacchus and Perseus have attained the skies,
How small a region was the east he quelled!
How many monsters in the Gorgon lived?
What son of thine, of Juno born, deserved
A constellation by his glorious deeds?
The realm I on my shoulders bore I seek.
But thou, O Lichas, comrades of my toils,
Herald my triumph, of the conquered home
And fallen realm of great Eurytus tell.
[To his servants.] Drive ye the victims quickly to the fanes
Built to Cenæan Jove where wild with storms
The feared Eubæan ocean hurls its waves.
SCENE II
Iole, Chorus of Œchalian Maidens.
Chorus. The equal of immortal gods is he
Whose life and fortune travel hand in hand;
But he who slowly drags his life along
With heavy groans, believes it worse than death.
He who beneath his feet put eager fates,
And steered the boat on the dark river's flood,
Shall never give to chains his captive arms,
Nor ever grace the tyrant's triumph car.
He to whom death is easy never finds
Life wretched: though his vessel in mid seas
Desert him, when old Boreas in his might
Drives back the south wind, or when Eurus strives
With Zephyr, when the waters seem to part,—
He may not gather up the broken beams
Of his wrecked ship that, in the waters' midst,
He may yet hope for land; he cannot know
Shipwreck, who freely can forgo his life.
Base weakness, tears, locks sordid with the dust
Of my dear fatherland are mine, not flames
Nor crash of fortune strike me down. O Death,
Thou comest to the happy; wretched men
Thou fleest. Still I live; my fatherland,
Alas! shall lapse to wilderness and woods,
Its fallen temples yield to sordid huts,
The cold Dolopian thither lead his flock
Where yet Œchalia's growing ashes lie;
Thessalian shepherds, to the very town
Bringing their unskilled pipes, in doleful lays
Retell the mournful story of our times,
And ere a few more generations pass
The world shall seek in vain the place where stood
My country. Happy once, I made my home
By no unfruitful hearth nor dwelt among
Thessalia's barren acres; now I go
To Trachin, land of rocks and heavy brakes,
Parched mountain summits, groves the mountain goat
Scarce loves to haunt. But if a milder fate
Await the slave, if Inachus' swift stream
Shall bear him on its bosom, if he dwell
By Dirce's fountain where the languid stream
Ismenos flows, a slender thread—'twas there
The mother of proud Hercules was wed.
False is the fable of the double night,
When longer in the heavens shone the stars,
When Hesperus arose for Lucifer,
And slow Diana long delayed the sun.
What rocks or cliffs of Scythia nourished thee?
Did Rhodope's wild mountain bring thee forth
A Titan; or Mount Athos' rugged steeps;
Or the stern mountains by the Caspian shore?
What tiger's spotted breast has suckled thee?
He cannot feel a wound, the spear grows dull,
The steel is softened, shattered is the sword
That smites his naked body, and the stones
Fly back; he does not fear the fates, invites
With flesh unconquerable death itself;
Spears may not pierce him, nor the Scythian shafts
From the tense bowstring shot, nor any dart
The cold Sarmatians bear, nor can they wound
Who eastward, near the Habatæans, dwell,
Where arrows truer than the Cretan's fly—
The Parthian's. With his body he o'erthrew
Œchalia's walls, against him naught can stand.
What he prepares to conquer is o'ercome.
His hostile face brings death, to have but seen
The wrath of Hercules is woe enough.
Could vast Briareus, or could Gyas huge,
Who, standing on Thessalian mountains, stormed
The skies with snake-armed hands, make him afraid?
Beside great evils lie his great rewards,
No more of ill is left, we have beheld—
Unhappy we—great Hercules in wrath.
Iole. Me miserable! Not that temples lie
With gods and homes o'erthrown, that in the flames
Fathers with sons, divinities with men,
The temple with the tombs, are burned to dust—
We mourn no common woe; my tears are caused
By other sorrows, fortune bids me weep
For other ruins. What first shall I mourn?
What most demands my tears? All equally!
Earth hath not breasts enough to sound with blows
Worthy these sorrows. O ye gods above,
Make me a mournful Sipylean rock;
Or place me by the banks of Po where sounds
The murmur of the trees, the sisters sad
Of Phaethon, or on Sicilian rocks
Where I, a siren, may lament the fate
Of Thessaly; or to the Thracian woods
Bear me, where like a swallow Procne sits
Beneath Ismavian shade and mourns her son.
Give me a form fit for my bitter tears,
And let harsh Trachin echo with my woe.
Still Cyprian Myrrha weeps, and Ceyx' wife
Grieves for her husband, Niobe outlives
Herself, and Thracian Philomela flees
And, a sad nightingale, laments her son.
Oh, happy, happy were I, if my home
Might be the woods, if I, a bird, might rest
Within my country's meadows and bemoan
My fate with querulous murmur, and fame tell
Of winged Iole. I saw, I saw
My father's wretched fate, when smitten down
By Hercules' death-dealing club, he lay
Through all the courtyard scattered. If the fates
Had given thee a tomb, where had I sought,
O father, for thy members? Have I borne
To see thy death, O Toxeus, when not yet
Thy tender cheeks with manly beard were decked,
Nor yet man's blood was coursing through thy veins?
But why, my parents, should I mourn your fate
Whom friendly death holds safe? My fate demands
My tears. A captive, I am forced to drive
The distaff and the spindle for my lord.
Oh, cruel beauty, comeliness of form
That brought me death! My home for this alone
Fell ruined, since my father would not give
His daughter to Alcides, feared to be
Akin by marriage to great Hercules.
But I must seek my mistress' proud abode.
Chorus. Why foolishly recall thy father's realm
And thy sad fate? Forget thy former lot,
He only can be happy who has learned
To keep, as king or slave, an equal mind,
And suffer varying fortunes. He has snatched
The heaviness from ill, strength for himself,
Who bears whate'er befalls with steadfast soul.
ACT II
SCENE I
The Nurse, alone.
What cruel raging seizes woman's heart
When one roof covers wife and concubine!
Charybdis, Scylla, in Sicilian straits,
Need less be feared; less wild the savage beast.
For when the beauty of the captive shone,
And Iole was bright as cloudless day,
Or like the stars that shine in nights serene,
The wife of Hercules like one insane,
With fierce look stood. As lying with her young
Within a cavern in Armenia's land,
The tigress, at an enemy's approach,
Springs forth, or as the mænad, god-inspired,
When bidden wave the thyrsus, for a time
Stands doubtful whither she shall turn her steps,
So rages through the house of Hercules
His wife, nor does the house give room enough;
She rushes up and down, roams to and fro,
Then pauses, in her cheeks all sorrows burn,
Naught is within her bosom hid; swift tears
Follow her threats, nor does one mood endure,
Nor is she with a single phase of wrath
Contented: now her cheeks are like a flame,
Now pallor drives away the red, her grief
Takes every form, she weeps, laments, implores.
The door creaks, see, with headlong steps she comes,
Telling with words confused her inmost thoughts.
SCENE II
Dejanira, Nurse.
Dejanira. O wife of Jove, wherever thou may'st be
Within thy airy home, send thence, I pray,
Against Alcides such a savage beast
As may suffice me. If a dragon lives
Unconquered, vaster, with more fruitful head;
If any beast exists so huge and dire,
So terrible, that Hercules himself
Averts his eyes, let this from some vast cave
Come forth; or if wild beasts must be denied,
I pray thee to some terror change this form—
With this mind I can do whatever ill
Thou wouldst. Oh, make my form express my woe!
My bosom will not hold the wrath I feel.
Why searchest thou the ends of earth? Why turn
The world about? Why seek for plagues in Dis?
Within this bosom wilt thou find all ills
Which need be feared, with this shaft arm thy hate;
I too may be a stepdame. Thou canst slay
Alcides, use this hand for what thou wilt.
Why pause? Use me, the mad one, what new crime
Dost thou command? Say on, why hesitate?
'Tis well that thou shouldst rest, this wrath does all.
Nurse. O foster-child, a little calm thyself.
Restrain thy plaints, control thy fiery rage,
And curb thy grief, now show thyself indeed
The wife of Hercules.
Dejanira. Shall Iole,
The captive maid, give brothers to my sons,
The slave become the daughter of great Jove?
Not in one bed can flame and torrent flow,
The northern bear may not in ocean's blue
Be wet—not unavenged will I remain.
What though thy shoulders bore the sky, though earth
Must thank thee for its peace? There yet remains
A greater terror than the Hydra's rage:
The anger of an injured wife. Burn thus
The flames of glowing Etna? This my wrath
Can conquer all thy conquests, shall a slave
Seize on my marriage-bed? Till now I feared.
Dread monsters, none remain, those plagues are gone,
In place of beasts there comes the hated slave.
By Titan, by the ruler of the gods,
I was Alcides' wife but while he feared!
The prayers I made the gods, they grant the slave,
I was successful for the concubine!
Ye heard my prayers, ye gods, but for her sake,
And for her sake he came again unharmed.
O anguish that no vengeance can assuage,
Seek some revenge unthought, unspeakable,
And dreadful, teach great Juno how to hate;
She knows not how to rage. For me he warred,
For me made red the Acheloüs' waves
With his own blood, he overcame the snake,
He turned his threats against the bull, and slew
A thousand foes in one. But now no more
He finds me pleasing, and a captive maid
Has been preferred to me—but shall not be!
The day that ends our marriage ends his life.
Yet what is this? My courage fails, my wrath
Declines, my anger ceases, wretched one,
Why languid? Wherefore lose thy rage? Wouldst keep
A woman's patient constancy? What law
Forbids add fuel to the flame? What force
Subdues the fire? O strength of wrath, abide!
Peers shall we be, I have no need of vows,
A stepdame will be with me who will guide
My hands aright, though she be uninvoked.
Nurse. What crime preparest thou, O heart insane?
Wouldst slay thy husband, him whose glory spreads
From east to west, his fame from earth to heaven?
The land of Greece would rise 'gainst such a deed,
His father's house, the whole Ætolian race
Would grieve, and all the earth avenge his death.
What canst thou do alone? Though thou shouldst think
T' escape the vengeance of the earth and man,
The father of Alcides wields his bolts.
Sec, see his threatening torches in the sky,
The thunder-riven heavens! Fear death itself,
In which thou hop'st thou yet mayst safety find.
There rules the uncle of thy Hercules;
Wherever thou wouldst turn, unhappy one,
Thou findest there thy husband's kindred gods.
Dejanira. The crime is great, I own, but grief impels,
Nurse. Thou'lt die.
Dejanira. But yet the wife of Hercules.
No day shall rise to find me widowed wife,
No captive concubine enjoy my couch.
The day shall sooner rise from out the west,
The Indian beneath the northern sky
Shall sooner pale, and sooner Phœbus' rays
Make dark the Scythian than Thessalian maids
See me deserted; with my blood I'll quench
Their marriage torches. He shall die or I;
To savage beings slain he yet may add
A wife, and I among his mighty deeds
Be numbered. Yet in death I'll still embrace
The couch of Hercules. Alcides' wife
May freely pass among the shades, but goes
Not unavenged; should Iole conceive
A child by Hercules, these hands of mine
Shall tear it from her womb, yea through the blaze
Of marriage torches I will seize the maid.
What though in anger, on his wedding day,
He make of me the victim, if I fall
Above the lifeless form of Iole?
Who falls upon the forms of those he hates
Dies happy.
Nurse. Why add fuel to the flame?
Why feed thy boundless sorrow? Wretched one,
Why needlessly afraid? He chose the maid
While yet her father reigned; he sought in her
The daughter of a king, but when the queen
Declined into a slave, love lost its force
And her misfortune took away her charm:
Forbidden things are loved, what one may have
One willingly foregoes.
Dejanira. Her lowered state
Inflames a greater love; he loves her still.
Although she lacks a home, although her hair
Hangs unadorned with gold or precious gems.
Perchance his pity loves her very grief.
This is his wont, to love his captive ones.
Nurse. Dardanian Priam's sister, whom he loved,
He gave away; recall how many wives,
How many virgins he has loved before,
Inconstant ever. While she wove the dance
In Pallas' honor, the Arcadian maid,
Augeia, suffered from Alcides' lust—
She died and Hercules remembered not
His former love. Need I of others speak?
The muses have no lover, brief the flame
Which burned for them within Alcides' breast.
A guest upon Timolus, he caressed
The Lydian maid, and, still the slave of love,
He sat beside the wheel and lightly turned
With unaccustomed hand the moistened thread;
He laid from off his neck the lion's spoil,
The Lydian fillet bound his shaggy locks
That dripped with myrrh from Saba. Everywhere
He feels the heat of love, but brief the flame.
Dejanira. A gallant ever follows wandering flames.
Nurse. Could he prefer a slave, a foeman's child,
To thee?
Dejanira. As when the early sunshine clothes
The grove's bare boughs, the joyous woods put forth
New buds, but when the cold north wind drives back
The south wind and harsh winter cuts away
The leaves, and one beholds the bare brown trunks,
So we in running life's long journey lose
Some beauty ever and less lovely grow.
That way has love departed, what in us
He loved is gone, and pain and motherhood
Have robbed me of him. Seest thou not the slave
Has not yet lost her pristine comeliness?
Rich ornaments indeed she lacks, and sits
In squalor, yet her beauty shines through all,
And time and chance have taken from her naught
Except her kingdom. Therefore grief slays sleep.
I was the wife most honored everywhere,
And every woman looked with envious eyes
Upon my marriage; when Argolic maids
Made prayers for aught to any of the gods,
I was the measure of the good they asked.
What father shall I have that equals Jove?
What husband under heaven equals mine?
Should he who gave Alcides his commands,
Eurystheus' self, espouse me, he is less.
To have been severed from a prince's bed
Were little; she indeed is sorely reft
Who feels herself bereft of Hercules.
Nurse. The children oft win back the husband's love.
Dejanira. Her child, perchance, will draw him from my couch
Nurse. Perchance he brought her to thee for a gift.
Dejanira. The man thou seest pass among the towns,
Illustrious, and bearing on his back
The tawny lion's skin, who from the proud
Takes realms and gives them to the sore distressed,
Who in his dread hand bears a mighty club,
Whose triumphs by the farthest lands are sung,
Are sung by all the peoples of the earth,
Is most inconstant; nor does glory's grace
Incite him, through the world he wanders still,
Not as the peer of Jove, nor as the great
Should pass through Argive cities, but he seeks
One he may love, would gain a virgin's bed.
He ravishes whatever is denied,
Against the people's anger, from their wreck,
Procures his brides, and raging passion gains
The name of courage. Famed Œchalia fell;
One day, one sun beheld the city safe
And ruined, Love the only cause of war.
As often as a father shall refuse
To give his daughter to great Hercules,
So oft he needs to fear. Who will not be
Alcides' father is Alcides' foe,
And if he be not made a son, he slays.
Why keep I then my hands in innocence,
Till, feigning madness, with his savage hands
He bends his bow and slays his son and me?
So Hercules is wont to cast aside
His wives, so wont to break his marriage bond.
Nor can one count him guilty; to the world
Juno appears the cause of all his crimes.
Why should inactive anger pause amazed?
Anticipate his crime—up, hands, and smite,
While yet my wrath burns hot within my breast.
Nurse. Wouldst slay a husband?
Dejanira. Yes, of concubines!
Nurse. The Jove-begotten?
Dejanira. Of Alcmena's race.
Nurse. Not with the sword?
Dejanira. The sword.
Nurse. But if too weak?
Dejanira. By guile I'll kill him.
Nurse. Oh, what madness this!
Dejanira. My husband was the teacher.
Nurse. Wilt thou slay
The man whom Juno could not?
Dejanira. Whom the gods
Most hate they render wretched, whom men hate
They bring to nothing.
Nurse. Spare him, wretched one,
And fear.
Dejanira. Who does not stand in fear of death
Fears nothing. I rejoice to meet his sword.
Nurse. O foster-child, thy grief is heavier
Than's meet, the fault demands an equal hate
Oh, why so harshly judge his light offence?
Measure thy grieving by thy injury.
Dejanira. And is a mistress then a slight offence
Against a wife? Whatever else she bears,
This is indeed too heavy.
Nurse. Has thy love
For great Alcides fled?
Dejanira. Nay, nurse, not fled
Believe, it lives deep fixed within my heart,
But angered love is anguish infinite.
Nurse. By magic arts and prayers have wives oft bound
Their husbands. I have made the winter groves
Grow green, the hurtling thunderbolt stand still,
Have made the dry earth glad; the rocks gave place,
The gates of hell flew back, the dead stood still,
The gods infernal spoke at my command,
The dog of hell was silent, midnight saw
The sun, and day was overwhelmed in night,
The earth and sea, the sky and Tartarus,
Obeyed me, nothing kept its ancient seat
Before my incantations. Let us seek
To bend his will, my songs will find a way.
Dejanira. What plants does Pontus nourish, or what grows
On Pindus underneath Thessalian rocks?
Where shall I find a charm to conquer him?
Though Luna at the magic of thy songs
Should leave the stars and hide within the earth,
And winter see the harvest; though the flash
Of Jove's swift lightning pause at thy command;
Though nature's order be reversed, and day
Should shine with many stars, he will not bend.
Nurse. Love conquers even the immortal gods.
Dejanira. This too, perchance, he'll conquer, gain this spoil,
And love may be Alcides' last great task.
By the divinity of all the gods,
By this my fear, I pray thee: keep concealed
Whate'er I do in secret, hide it well.
Nurse. What is it thou wouldst hide?
Dejanira. Not spears, nor swords,
Nor yet avenging fires.
Nurse. I can and will
Keep silence, if such silence be not sin.
Dejanira. I pray thee look around, lest any hear
And keep a watchful eye on every side.
Nurse. The place is safe from any prying one.
Dejanira. In a far corner of this realm there lies
A hidden cave that keeps our secret well.
That place sees not the sun at morning's prime
Nor yet when Titan, bringer of the light,
Sinks with the spent day in the crimson sea.
There lies assurance of Alcides' love,
The charm from Nessus comes, whom Nephele
Conceived by the Thessalian king and bore
Where Pindus lifts its head among the stars,
Where rising o'er the clouds bald Othrys stands.
For when, exposed to dread Alcides' club,
Acheloüs took lightly every form,
But, having passed through all, stood forth at last
Subdued, with broken horns and wounded head,
The victor Hercules to Argos went
With me, his wife. Evenus' wandering stream
Swift through the meadows to the ocean bore
Its flood of waters, its impetuous waves
Already almost reached the line of woods.
The centaur Nessus, used to crossing floods,
Was eager for a prize, and bearing me
Upon his back where join the horse and man,
He stemmed the swelling water's threatening waves.
Alcides still was wandering in their midst
Cutting the eager depths with mighty strides.
Then when he saw Alcides still afar:
'My spoil art thou,' he said, 'my wife shalt be,
The waves are passed.' Then holding me embraced,
His steps he hastened. But the waves no more
Detained great Hercules. 'Base ferryman,'
He said, 'though Ister and the Ganges flow
With mingled currents, I will conquer both,
My shafts will speed thy flight.' More swift his bow
Than words; the arrow, flying to the wound,
Transfixed the centaur, ending flight in death.
Already searching blindly for the light
He caught the poison flowing from the wound,
And in his hoof, which with his savage hand
He boldly tore away, he gave it me.
Then spake he dying words: 'This charm,' he said,
'Can fix a wavering lover, so the brides
Of Thessaly were by Mycale taught—
She was the mage at whose command the moon
Deserted starry heaven to follow her,
A garment smeared with this, this very blood,'
He said, 'give thou to fickle Hercules,
If e'er a hated mistress should usurp
Thy marriage rights, and he should give great Jove
Another daughter. It must see no light,
In darkness most remote lie things like this.
So only shall this blood retain its strength.'
Then did the sleep of death cut short his words,
And brought his weary members long repose.
O thou, to whom I trust, with whom I share
This secret, quickly go and bring the charm,
That, smeared upon his shining robe, its force
May enter through his heart and limbs, and pierce
His inmost marrow.
Nurse. Quickly I obey
Thy will, dear foster-child; do thou invoke
With earnest prayer the god invincible
Who shoots with youthful hand his certain shafts.
SCENE III
Dejanira, alone.
O thou whom earth and sea and heavenly powers
Adore in fear, who shakest Etna's fires,
I make my prayer to thee, O winged child,
Feared of thy ruthless mother; with true aim
Make ready thy swift dart, no common shafts;
I pray thee, choose the keenest, which not yet
Thy hands have aimed at any, there is need
Of such that Hercules may learn to love.
With firm hand draw the bow till both horns meet,
Shoot now the shaft that wounded once dread Jove
When casting down his thunderbolt, the god
Put on a horned and swelling front, and cleft
The raging seas, and as a bull bore off
The fair Assyrian maid. Oh, pierce with love,
A love more keen than any yet have felt!
Let Hercules learn love for me his wife.
And if the charms of Iole should set
The fire of love aflame within his heart,
Oh, let it drink the love of me and die.
Thou oft hast conquered thunder-bearing Jove,
And him who in the land of shadows wields
The dusky scepter, ruler of the Styx
And leader of the great majority.
More strong than angered stepdame, take, O god,
This triumph—thou alone—quell Hercules.
SCENE IV
Dejanira, Nurse,
Nurse. The charm is ready, and the shining web
That wearied all thy damsels' hands to weave.
Smear now the poison, let Alcides' robe
Drink in the blood, I'll strengthen with my prayers
Its magic power. But see where Lichas comes,
The charm must be concealed, nor our device
Be known.
SCENE V
Dejanira, Nurse, Lichas.
Dejanira. In palaces of kings is rarely found
A faithful servant; faithful Lichas, take
This garment which with my own hands I spun
While Hercules was wandering through the world,
Or drunk with wine was holding on his breast
The Lydian maid, or seeking Iole.
Yet peradventure, having well deserved,
I may win back the rugged hero's heart,
For merit often overcometh ill.
Command my husband not to wear the robe
Until with incense he has fed the flames,
And reconciled the gods, and on wet locks
Has bound a wreath of silver poplar leaves.
Within the palace I will make my prayers
To Venus, mother of unconquered love.
Ye Calydonian women, friends who came
From home with me, lament my mournful fate.
SCENE VI
Chorus of Ætolian Women.
O daughter of Oineus, thy childhood's friends,
We weep thy hapless marriage, honored one.
We, who with thee were wont to wade the shoals
Of Acheloüs, when with passing spring
Its swollen waters ebbed, and with slow sweep
Its slender current wound, and when no more
The yellow waters of Lycormas rolled,
A headlong, turgid river; we were wont
To seek Minerva's altars, and to join
The virgin chorus; we with thee were wont
To bear the holy emblems treasured up
Within the Theban ark, when winter's cold
Had passed, and thrice the sun called summer forth,
When the grain-giver Ceres' sacred seat
Eleusis shut the priest within her shrines.
Whatever fate thou fearest, let us still
Remain the faithful sharers of thy lot.
When happier fortune smiles, fidelity
Is rare. Though all the people throng thy courts,
Though hundreds cross thy threshold, though thou pass
Surrounded by a crowd of followers,
Yet hardly shalt thou find among them all
One faithful friend; the dread Erinnyes hold
The gilded portals, and when great men's gates
Are opened fraud and craft and treachery
And lurking murder enter, and abroad
Thou goest among the people companied
By envy. Oft as morning drives out night,
Believe, so often is a monarch born.
Few serve the king and not his kingly power,
The glory of the court is dear to most:
One seeks to be the nearest to the king
And pass illustrious through the city streets;
And one with glory's lust is burnt, and one
Would sate his thirst with gold—nor all the tracts
Of Ister, rich in gems, suffice his greed,
Nor Lydia quench his thirst, nor all the land
Where Zephyr sighs and golden Tagus flows;
Nor were the Hebrus his, flowed through his fields
The rich Hydaspes, if the Ganges' flood
Within his borders ran; the world itself
Is all too small to serve the covetous.
Kings and kings' palaces one cultivates,
Not that to drive the plough with bended back
The ploughmen never cease, or thousands till
The fields—he only longs for heaped-up wealth.
One serves the king that he may trample all,
May ruin many and may strengthen none;
He longs for power but to use it ill.
How few death finds at fulness of their fame;
Whom Cynthia beholds in happiness,
The new-born day sees wretched; rare it is
To grow old happy. Softer is the sod
Than Tyrian robe and brings a fearless sleep,
But golden roofs disturb repose, and kings
Must lengthen out the watches of the night.
Oh, if the rich man's heart were visible,
How many fears fair fortune stirs within!
The Bruttian waters, tossed by northwest winds,
Are port more peaceful. With untroubled heart
The poor may rest, his cup and plate, indeed,
Are only birchwood, but with fearless hand
He holds them; easily his simple food
Is gathered, and he fears no waiting sword:
In cup of gold the drink is mixed with blood.
The wife who weds a man of humble means
May wear no costly necklace nor be decked
With Red Sea's gift, nor carry in her ears
The choicest gems of eastern waves, nor wear
Soft wool twice dipped in rich Sidonian dyes,
Nor with Mæonian needle broider it—
The Seres, dwelling near the rising sun,
To eastward, made the needle from the trees.
What though with common plants she dye the weft
Her unskilled hands have woven, she enjoys
Untroubled marriage. Whom the people praise
The dread Erinnys follows with her scourge,
And poverty itself is scarcely glad
Until it sees the fortunate o'erthrown.
The man who will not keep the middle course
Ne'er finds his pathway safe. When once he sought
To drive his father's car and bring the day,
The boy kept not the wonted road, but found
With wandering wheel a way among the stars
Unknown to flaming Phœbus—in his fall
The world was ruined. While he ploughed through heaven
A middle course, bold Dædalus steered safe
Through peaceful climes, nor gave the sea a name,
But I carus despised his father's flight
And dared to fly beyond the birds themselves,
Close to the sun. He gave an unknown sea
His name. Great deeds are recompensed by ill.
Be others known as fortunate and great,
But let no crowd hail me as powerful,
Let no great gale compel my slender ships
To sail broad seas, small boats should keep near shore;
Misfortune passes by the quiet ports
And seeks the ships that ride the deep, whose sails
Knock at the clouds. But why with pallid face,
Like mænad drunk with Bacchus, stands the queen?
Speak, wretched one, what grief does Fortune's wheel
Roll round for thee? Though thou refuse to speak
Thy face would tell the sorrows thou wouldst hide.
ACT III
SCENE I
Dejanira, Nurse, Chorus.
Dejanira. A trembling shakes my terror-smitten limbs,
My hair with horror stands erect, and fear
Benumbs the soul till now so madly tossed;
Aghast and terrified, my heart leaps up,
With throbbing veins my liver palpitates;
As when the storm-blown sea still tosses high,
Although the day has calmed and languid airs
Breathe softly, so my mind that hitherto
Has swelled with fear is still with dread oppressed;
When once god turns against the fortunate
Misfortune follows fast. Such end awaits
Performance of great deeds.
Nurse. What cruel fate
Turns now the wheel for thee, O wretched one?
Dejanira. When I had smeared the robe with
Nessus' blood
And sent it, and had sadly turned to seek
My chamber, sudden fear, I know not why,
Assailed me—fear of fraud. I'll test the charm.
Fierce Nessus bade me keep the charmed blood
From flame or sun, this artifice itself
Foreboded treachery. Undimmed by cloud,
The glowing sun was ushering in bright day;
Fear hardly yet permits me speak! I cast
Within the fiery beams of Titan's light
The blood with which the palla had been wet,
The vestments smeared. The blood I threw away
Quivered, and, hardly yet by Phœbus' beams
Made warm, blazed up. I scarce can tell the tale!
As Eurus or warm Notus melts the snow
That slips from sparkling Mimas in the spring;
As the Leucadian headland breaks the waves
That roll against it from the Ionian sea,
And all the wearied surf breaks into foam;
Or as the bitter incense melts away
Upon the glowing altar of the gods,
So all the wool was withered and destroyed,
And while I wondered, that which gave me cause
For wonder vanished, but the earth was moved
Like foam, and everything the poison touched
Shrank into nothingness. But swift of foot
And terrified, I see my son approach.
SCENE II
Hyllus, Dejanira, Nurse, Chorus.
Dejanira. What tidings dost thou bring me? Speak, I pray.
Hyllus. Fly, fly, if any hiding-place remains
On earth, or sea, or ocean, in the skies
Or Hades, mother, fly beyond the hand
Of Hercules.
Dejanira. 'Tis what my soul presaged!
Hyllus. Oh, seek the realm of the victorious one,
Seek Juno's shrine, this still is free to thee,
All sanctuaries else are snatched away.
Dejanira. Oh, speak, what fate awaits me innocent?
Hyllus. That glory of the earth, the only guard
The fates have given to a stricken world
In place of Jove himself, is gone; there burns
Within the trunk and limbs of Hercules
Some plague, I know not what. Who ruled the beasts,
That victor now is conquered, moans, laments.
What further wouldst thou ask?
Dejanira. The wretched seek
To know their misery; speak, what the fate
That presses on our home? O household gods!
Unhappy household gods! I am indeed
Now widowed, exiled, overwhelmed by fate!
Hyllus. Thou weepest not alone for Hercules,
The world must mourn him with thee, do not deem,
O mother, that the grief is thine alone;
Already all the race lifts up its voice.
Lo, all the world laments with heavy grief
The man thou mournest; thou but sufferest
A sorrow that the whole earth shares with thee,
Thou mourn'st Alcides first, O wretched one,
But not alone.
Dejanira. Yet tell me, tell, I pray,
How near to death lies now my Hercules.
Hyllus. Death, whom in his own realm he conquered once,
Flies from him, nor dares fate permit the wrong.
Dread Clotho throws aside the threads, perchance,
And fears to end the fates of Hercules.
O fatal day! O day calamitous!
Shall great Alcides see no other day?
Dejanira. What? Dost thou say that he has gone before
To death, the shadow realm, the dark abode?
May I not be the first to die? Oh, speak,
If he not yet has fall'n.
Hyllus. Eubœa's land,
That swells with mighty headlands, on all sides
Is beaten by the sea; the Hellespont
Smites Cephereus; this side the south wind blows,
But there Aquilo's snowy storm-winds threat,
Euripus turns the restless, wandering tides
That seven times roll up and seven times
Drop back ere Titan in the ocean's flood
Merges his weary head. Upon the isle,
High on a cliff which many clouds surround,
An ancient temple of Cenæan Jove
Shines forth. When on the altars he had placed
The votive offering and all the grove
Was filled with lowing of the gilded bulls,
He threw aside his tawny lion's skin
All foul with putrid gore, laid down his club
And freed his shoulder from the quiver's weight,
Then shining in thy robe, his shaggy locks
With silver poplar bound, he lit the fire
Upon the altar. 'Take,' he said, 'this gift,
O father, let thy sacred fires shine bright
With plenteous incense, which from Saba's trees
The Arabs, wealthy servants of the sun,
Collect. The earth,' he said, 'the sky, the sea,
Are all at peace; all savage beasts subdued,
And I have come a victor. Lay aside
Thy thunderbolt.' But even as he prayed,
He groaned, and wondering at himself fell prone.
A horrid clamor filled the air, such noise
As when the bull attempts to fly the wound
Inflicted by the two-edged ax, and feels
The sting of steel, and with his mighty roar
Fills all the holy place; or, as Jove's bolt
From heaven thunders, so this groaning rolled
Skyward and seaward; Chalcis heard the sound,
It woke the echoes of the Cyclades,
The crags of Cephereus and all the groves
Gave back Alcides' voice. I saw him weep;
The people thought him mad as once he was;
His servants fled; he turned with fiery glance
And sought for one alone among them all—
Sought Lichas. He with trembling fingers grasped
The altars, died of fear, and left small room
For vengeance. With his hand the hero grasped
The quivering corpse. 'By this hand, this,' he cried,
'O fates, have I at last been overcome?
Has Lichas conquered Hercules? Behold
Another conquest: Lichas overwhelmed
By Hercules. My deeds grow poor and mean.
Be this my latest labor.' 'Mid the stars
He flung him, sprinkled with his blood the clouds.
So flies the Getic arrow from the bow
Toward heaven, so the Cretan archer shoots
His shaft, but not so far the arrow flies.
The head was shattered on the cliffs, the trunk
Fell into ocean, there they both abide.
'Stay, madness has not seized my mind,' he said,
'This ill is worse than madness or than wrath,
I rage against myself.' He spoke and raged.
He rent apart his joints, with cruel hand
He tore his giant limbs and wounded them;
He sought in vain to pluck away the robe.
In this alone I saw Alcides fail,
Yet striving still to tear it off he tore
His limbs themselves, the robe had grown a part
Of Hercules' dread body, with the flesh
The garment mingled, nor could one detect
The dread disaster's cause, though cause there is.
Now hardly able to endure his pain,
Wearied he lies and presses with his face
The earth, then longs for ocean, his distress
The waves soothe not; he seeks the sounding shore
And leaps into the deep, his servants' hands
Hold back the wandering one. O bitter fate!
We were the equal of great Hercules!
Now to Eubœa's shore a vessel bears
The hero back, a gentle south wind wafts
Alcides' giant weight; life leaves his limbs,
Night sits upon his eyes.
Dejanira. Why faint, my soul?
Why art thou so amazed? The crime is done.
Can Jove demand again his son of thee,
Or Juno ask her rival? To the world
Thou must atone, render then what thou canst.
The sword shall smite me. Thus it shall be done.
Suits such light punishment such heavy guilt?
O father, with thy thunderbolts destroy
Thy sinful child, nor let thy hand be armed
With common weapons. Send that thunderbolt
With which, had not Alcides been thy son,
Thou wouldst have burned the Hydra: as a scourge
Destroy me, as an evil dreaded more
Than angry stepdame. Such a bolt send forth
As once at wandering Phaethon was hurled.
I ruined, in Alcides, all the world.
Why ask a weapon of the gods? Now spare
Thy son, O Jove; the wife of Hercules
Should be ashamed to beg for death, this hand
Shall give the gift I ask for. Seize the sword:
Yet why a sword? Whatever drags to death
Is sword sufficient. From some soaring cliff
I'll cast me down. This Œta will I choose,
This Œta where first shines the newborn day;
From this I'll fling myself, the rugged rocks
Shall cut me into pieces, every stone
Shall take a part of me, my wounded hands
Shall hang upon them, all the mountain side
Be crimsoned with my blood. A single death
Is nothing.—Nothing? Can I make it more?
Canst thou not choose the weapon, O my soul,
On which to fall? Oh, might Alcides' sword
Become my couch! 'Twere well to die on this.
Is it enough that by my own right hand
I die? Assemble nations of the earth,
Hurl rocks and flaming brands, let no hand fail,
So have I found at last my punishment.
Already cruel kings bear rule unchecked;
Now unrestrained, are savage monsters born;
Again the accustomed altars seek to take
A brother's blood for sacrificial gift.
My hand has opened up a path for crime,
Has snatched away the punisher of kings,
Of tyrants, beasts, and monsters, 'gainst the gods
I set myself. O wife of thundering Jove,
Dost stay thy hand? Why spare thy lightning's shaft,
Nor imitate thy brother, sending forth
The thunder snatched from Jove? Why slay me not?
From thee great glory, honor infinite,
I snatched, O Juno, in thy rival slain.
Hyllus. Why wouldst thou overthrow a tottering house?
If crime is here it is of error sprung;
And he who sins unwittingly scarce sins.
Dejanira. Who would remit his fate and spare himself
Deserves to err. 'Tis well that I should die.
Hyllus. Who longs for death seems guilty.
Dejanira. Death alone
Makes guiltless those deceived.
Hyllus. From Titan's beams
First fleeing—
Dejanira. Titan flees, himself, from me,
Hyllus. Wouldst part with life?
Dejanira. Alcides would I seek.
Hyllus. He breathes, he yet takes in the vital air.
Dejanira. When Hercules was conquered, he was dead!
Hyllus. Wouldst leave thy son? Thyself cut short thy life?
Dejanira. She lives too long whose son must bury her.
Hyllus. Follow thy husband.
Dejanira. Ah, the faithful wife
Is wont to go before.
Hyllus. Unhappy one,
If thou condemn thyself, thou seemst indeed
To prove thyself the guilty.
Dejanira. He who sins
May not himself annul the punishment.
Hyllus. The life of many a one is spared whose sin
Was done in error, not by his own hand.
Who blames his lot?
Dejanira. Whoever draws a lot
Unfavoring.
Hyllus. The man, forsooth, whose darts
Pierced Megara, whose fiercely raging hand
Sent the Lernæan shaft that slew his sons,
Though thrice a murderer, yet forgives himself.
In Cinyphs' stream, beneath the Libyan skies,
He bathed his hands and washed away his guilt.
Oh, whither art thou driven, wretched one?
Why blame thy hands?
Dejanira. The conquered Hercules
Himself condemns them—one should punish crime.
Hyllus. If I have known Alcides, he will be
Again the victor; treachery, o'erwhelmed,
Will bow before thy Hercules.
Dejanira. His joints
Are wasted by the Hydra's venomed gore,
The poison eats my husband's giant limbs.
Hyllus. Thou deemst the poison of the strangled snake
Can slay the one who took its evil life?
He killed the dragon, though its teeth were fixed
Within his flesh; and, though his limbs were wet
With flowing venom, as a victor stood.
Can Nessus' blood destroy the one who slew
Dread Nessus' self?
Dejanira. In vain wouldst thou detain
One doomed to die. The sentence has gone forth
That I must leave the light, enough of life
Has he who meets his death with Hercules.
Nurse. By these white hairs, I ask thee; by this breast
That like a mother's nourished thee, I pray,
Put by thy wounded spirit's heavy threats;
Thrust out the fearful thoughts of dreaded death.
Dejanira. He who persuades the wretched not to die
Is cruel; death is sometimes punishment,
But, oft a blessing, has to many brought
Forgiveness.
Nurse. Yet unhappy one, restrain
Thy hand, that he may know the crime to be
Not thine, but error's.
Dejanira. There I'm free indeed!
I think the gods infernal will absolve.
I am by my own self condemned; these hands
Let Pluto purge. Forgetful, by thy banks,
O Lethe, let me stand, a mournful shade,
Receive my husband! Whosoe'er was bold
For crime, his sin was less than my mistake:
Not Juno's self had dared to snatch from earth
Great Hercules. Some worthy penalty
Prepare; let Sisyphus desert his stone
And let my shoulders roll its heavy weight.
Me let the wandering waters fly, my thirst
The faithless waves delude; I have deserved
That thou shouldst roll me round, O flying wheel
Whereon the king of Thessaly is racked.
Let eager vultures on my entrails feed;
One child of Danaus there lacks—the tale
Of fifty I will fill; O Theban wife,
Take me as thy companion, with worse crime
Than thine this hand is stained, though thou didst slay
Thy children and thy brothers; take thy child,
Mother Althea, take thy child indeed!
Yet no such deed was thine! Ye faithful wives,
Who in the sacred woodland stretches dwell,
Shut me from fields Elysian. If one there
Has sprinkled with her husband's blood her hands,
Unmindful of chaste marriage torch has stood,
A bloody child of Belus, with drawn sword,
She as her own will know me, praise my deed;
That company of wives I well may join;
But they, too, shun my hands so basely stained.
O husband, strong, invincible, my soul
Is innocent, my hands alone are stained.
O mind too credulous! O Nessus false
And of half beastly guile! A concubine
I sought to ruin, but destroyed myself!
Bright Titan, life, that flattering still dost hold
The wretched in the light of day, depart!
Where Hercules is not the light is vile.
I will discharge the penalty for thee,
Will give my life. Shall I prolong that life
Till at thy hand, O husband, I meet death?
Hast any strength? Can thy right hand make tense
The bowstring for the sending of the shaft?
Or do the weapons fall, thy languid hands
No longer draw the bow? O husband brave,
If thou art able still to slay, I wait
Thy hand, I wait for death; as thou didst dash
In pieces guiltless Lichas, slay me now,
In other cities scatter me, in worlds
To thee unknown; that monstrous things may cease
In Arcady, destroy me. Yet from those
Thou didst return, O husband!
Hyllus. Mother cease.
Excuse thy deed, an error is not crime.
Dejanira. If filial piety be truly thine,
O Hyllus, smite thy mother. Wherefore now
Trembles thy hand? Why turn away thy face?
This crime were filial piety indeed.
O dastard, dost thou hesitate? This hand
Snatched from thee Hercules, destroyed the one
Who gave thee for a grandsire thundering Jove;
I snatched from thee a glory far more great
Than e'er I gave thee when I gave thee light.
If crime is new to thee, then learn of me,
Hew with the sword my throat, let iron pierce
The womb that bore thee, an intrepid soul
Thy mother gave thee. Such deed were not crime
For thee; by my will, though by thy right hand,
I die. Dost fear, O son of Hercules?
Wilt thou not, like thy father, crush out ill,
Perform great deeds? Prepare thy good right hand!
Behold a bosom full of misery
Lies bared: strike, I proclaim thee free from crime:
The dread Eumenides themselves will spare,
I hear their scourges singing. Who is that
Whose viperous locks upon her forehead writhe,
Who brandishes her sword and shakes her wings?
Why dost thou follow me with flaming torch,
Megæra? Dost demand the vengeance due
For Hercules? I give it. Awful one,
Have hell's dread arbiters judged yet my cause?
Behold I see the dreadful prison doors.
What aged one is he who strives to lift
The giant rock upon his wounded back?
Behold already does the conquered stone
Roll back! Whose members tremble on the wheel?
Lo, pallid, dread Tisiphone appears,
She charges murder; spare thy blows, I pray!
Megæra, spare! Thy Stygian torches stay!
The crime was caused by love. But what is this?
Earth shakes, the smitten roofs crack, whence these threats?
The whole world falls upon me, everywhere
The nations groan, the universe demands
Its great defender. O ye cities spare!
Ah, whither can I fly? In death alone
I find a harbor for my shipwrecked soul.
I call to witness shining Phœbus' wheel
Of flame, the heavenly ones to witness call:
I die and leave great Hercules on earth.
Hyllus. Ah me, she flies amazed; the mother's part
Is finished, she resolved to die, my part
Remains—to snatch her from the shock of death.
O pitiable filial piety!
If I should stay my mother's death, my crime
Is great against my father; yet I sin
Against my mother, suffering her death;
Crime presses either way, yet she must be
Prevented—I must snatch her from this crime.
SCENE III
Chorus.
What Orpheus sang, Calliope's blest son,
When 'neath the heights of Thracian Rhodope
He struck his lute Pierian, is true:
Nothing abides. The rushing waterfall
Silenced its thunder at his music's sound,
The waters ceased their flow, forgot their haste,
And while the rivers thus delayed their course,
The far-off Thracian thought the Hebrus failed.
The woodland brought the winged kind, they came
Resting within the groves, or if a wing
That, roaming, flew through upper air the while,
Was wanting, when it heard the song it dropped.
Mount Athos tore away its crags and came,
Bearing the Centaurs as it moved along,
And stood by Rhodope; its snowy crown
Was melted by the song; the dryad fled
Her oak and hasted to the prophet's side;
The wild beasts at thy singing with their dens
Drew near; the Afric lion sat beside
The fearless flock, nor did the timid does
Tremble before the wolves; the serpent came
From gloomy den, its poisoned sting forgot.
Nay more, he passed the gates of Tænarus
Among the silent manes, bearing there
His mournful lute, and with his doleful song
He overcame the melancholy gods
Of Erebus, nor feared the Stygian lake
By which the gods make oath; the restless wheel
Stood still, its languid whirling forced to cease;
The heart of Tityus began to grow
The while the vultures listened to the song;
Thou also heardst, O oarsman, and thy boat
Came oarless over the infernal stream;
Then first the aged Phrygian forgot
His raging thirst although the waves stood still,
Nor did he stretch a hand to reach the fruit.
When Orpheus seeking thus the lower world
Poured forth his singing and the restless stone
Was conquered, following the prophet's song,
The Goddesses restored the severed thread
Of fair Eurydice. But Orpheus looked
Behind, forgetful or not deeming true
Restored Eurydice was following him.
He lost the song's reward, she died again
Who hardly had been given back to life.
Then seeking comfort in his song, he sang
These words to Getan folk in mournful strains:
Unchanging laws are given by the gods,
And he who rules the seasons ordereth
Four fleeting changes for the changing year.
Dead Hercules compels us to believe
The Thracian Seer. The Parcæ tie again
The thread of life for none, however much
He may desire; all that has been born
Or shall be dies. When to the world shall come
The time when law is not, the southern sky
Shall bury Libya, and on Afric's sands
Shall fallen lie; the northern sky o'erwhelm
Whatever lies beneath the poles, whate'er
Cold Boreas smites; pale Titan blot the day
From heaven; the royal palace of the sky
In its own ruin drag the rising sun
And setting; death and chaos overtake
The gods; death find at last within itself
Its end. What place will then receive the world?
Shall Tartarus spread wide her doors to take
The shattered heavens? Or is there space enough
Between the earth and heaven—perchance too much?
What place can hold such crime? A single place
Will hold the three realms—earth, and sea, and sky.
But what great clangor moves the wondering air?
It is the sounding voice of Hercules.
ACT IV
SCENE I
Hercules, Chorus.
Hercules. Bright Titan, turn again thy wearied steeds,
Send night, let perish to the world that day
Whereon I fell, let black cloud shadow day,
So thwart my stepdame. Father, now command
Black chaos to return; their union rent,
The poles should here and there be torn apart;
Why spare the stars? O father, thou hast left
Thy Hercules! Scan well on every side
The sky, O Jove, lest any Gyas hurl
Thessalian crags, and Othrys' weight be made
Too light for great Enceladus. The gates
Of Hell's black prison now are opened wide
By haughty Pluto, and his father's chains
Are broken—to the sky he leads him back.
That son who stood in place of thy dread torch
And thunder, as avenger of the world,
Returns to Styx; and fierce Enceladus
Shall rise and hurl against the gods the weight
With which he now is held to earth. My death
Shall make thy heavenly throne, O father, shake.
Before the giants make thy heavens their spoil,
Beneath the ruins of the universe,
O father, bury me in whom thou losest
The firmament itself.
Chorus. Not empty are thy threats, O son of Jove.
Now on Thessalian Ossa Pelion stands,
And Athos piled on Pindus lifts its groves
Amid the starry ether, Typhoeus thence
Shall overcome the cliffs and raise on high
From out the Tuscan sea Inarime.
Enceladus, by lightning not yet slain
Shall rend his chimneys in the mountain side
And lift aloft great Etna. Even now
The realm of heaven is in thee destroyed.
Hercules. I, I, who conquered death and scorned the Styx
And came again through stagnant Lethe's midst,
With spoil at sight of which bright Titan shrank
And from his fleeing horses almost fell;
Yes, I, whose power the gods' three realms have felt,
I die although no sword has pierced my side,
Although Mount Othrys did not bring my death,
Although no giant form with fierce wide jaws
Has overwhelmed me with all Pindus' ridge.
I fell without a foe and worst of all—
O wretched valor!—Hercules' last day
Shall see no monster prostrate! Woe is me,
I lost my life, but not in noble deeds!
O judge of earth, ye gods who oft have seen
My labors, and thou earth, is it your will
To smite your Hercules with death? O shame
Unmatched! O bitter fate! A woman's hand
To be the author of Alcides' death!
If fate unchanging willed my fate should be
By woman's hand, if such base threads run out
My last of life, ah me, why might I not
By Juno's hatred fall? By woman's hand
I should have fallen, but by one divine.
If this had been too much to ask, ye gods,
An Amazon brought forth 'neath Scythian skies
Might well have vanquished me. What woman's hand
Could conquer me, great Juno's foe? Ah, worse
Thy shame in this, my stepdame! Wherefore call
This day a glad one? What has earth brought forth
To satisfy thy wrath? A woman's hate,
A mortal's, was more powerful than thine.
Till now thou hadst to tolerate the shame
Of finding thou wast not Alcides' peer,
Now thou art by two mortals overcome,
The gods should be ashamed of such revenge!
Would the Nemæan lion with my blood
Had satisfied his thirst, or I, brought low,
Surrounded by the hundred-headed snake,
Had trembled; would that I, had been the prey
Of Nessus, or that I might wretched sit
Forever on an everlasting rock
Conquered among the shades. Fate stood amazed,
While I dragged forth my latest prey and came
From Stygian depths again to light, and broke
The chains of Dis: Death fled me everywhere
That I might lack in death a glorious fate.
O monsters, conquered monsters! Not the dog
Of hell, at sight of day, has dragged me back
To Styx, not underneath the western sky
Has the Iberian Geryon's savage rout
O'ercome me, not twin dragons; woe is me,
How often have I lost a noble death!
What fame shall be my last?
Chorus. Dost see how courage, conscious of itself,
Shrinks not at Lethe's stream? He does not grieve
At death, but feels ashamed before its cause,
He fain would end his final day of life
Beneath some swelling giant's mighty form,
Of mountain-bearing Titan feel the weight,
Or owe his death to ravening wild beast.
O wretched one, thy hand itself the cause
Why no wild beast or savage monster lives;
What worthy author of Alcides' death
Remains, unless it be thy own right hand?
Hercules. Alas, what scorpion within my breast,
What cancer from the burning plains turned back
And fixed within my bosom, burns my reins?
My lungs once full of swelling blood are dry,
With burning venom is my heart aflame,
Slow fever dries my blood. The pest first eats
My skin, thence makes an entrance to my limbs;
The poison takes away my sides, it gnaws
My joints and ribs, my very marrow wastes;
Within my empty bones the venom stays,
The bones themselves may not for long endure,
Torn from the ruptured joints the mighty mass
To ruin falls, my giant body fails,
The limbs of Hercules are not enough
To satisfy the pest. How great the ill
That I own great. O dreadful infamy!
Behold, ye cities, see what now remains,
See what remains of that great Hercules!
O father, dost thou recognize thy son?
Did these arms hold to earth the conquered neck
Of the dread lion? Did the mighty bow,
By this hand strung, bring down Stymphalian birds
From out the very stars? Did I o'ertake
With steps of mine the fleet-foot stag that bore
The branching gold upon his radiant front?
Did Calpe, dashed to pieces by these hands,
Let out the sea? By these hands overcome,
Lie low so many beasts, so many crimes,
So many kings? Sat once the dome of heaven
Upon these shoulders? Is this body mine?
This neck? Have I against a falling sky
Stretched forth these hands? Or was the Stygian dog
Dragged by my hand beyond the river Styx?
What sepulcher contains my early strength?
Why call I Jove my father? Why through him
Claim I, unhappy one, my right to heaven?
Already is Amphitryon deemed my sire.
Whatever venom lurks within my veins,
Come forth! Why seek me with a secret wound?
Wast thou within the Scythian sea brought forth,
Beneath the frozen sky? Was Tethys slow,
Or Spanish Calpe on the Moorish shore
Thy author? O dread ill, didst thou come forth
As serpent lifting up thy crested head?
Or something evil, yet unknown to me?
Wast thou from blood of the Lernæan snake
Produced, or wast thou left upon the earth
By Stygian dog? Thou art all ills and none.
What face is thine? Grant me at least to know
By what I die; whatever evil thing
Or savage beast thou art, fight openly.
Who makes for thee a place within my bones?
Lo, from my mangled flesh my hand draws forth
My entrails; deeper yet the way is found
Within the seat of life. O malady,
Alcides' peer! Whence come these bitter groans?
Whence come these tears I feel upon my cheeks?
My eyes unconquerable once, nor wont
To show a tear before my enemies,
At last have learned to weep. O bitter shame!
What day, what land e'er saw Alcides' tears?
How many evils have I borne dry-eyed,
To thee alone what courage yields which slew
So many monsters, thou alone, thou first,
Hast made me weep! More hard than frowning rock,
Or Chalybean steel, or wandering isles,
The stern Symplegades, thy might has crushed
My power, has forced my eyes at last to weep.
O mighty ruler of the skies, the earth
Beholds me weeping, groaning, worst of all,
My stepdame sees me. Ah, once more it burns
My fibers; lo, the fever glows again.
Where now is found for me a thunderbolt?
Chorus. What cannot suffering conquer? Once more firm
Than Getic Hæmus, than Parrhasian skies
Not milder, to the bitter pain he yields;
He bows his wearied head upon his breast,
From side to side he moves his ponderous weight,
His valor often overcomes his tears.
So with however warm a beam he shine;
Titan can never melt the arctic snows;
The radiance of the ice outshines the torch
Of blazing Phœbus.
Hercules. Father, turn thy face
To my complaint, Alcides ne'er before
Asked aid; not when the fruitful Hydra wound
Its fold about my limbs; between hell's lakes
Where black night reigns I stood with death, nor sought
Thy aid; dread monsters, tyrants, kings, I slew,
Nor skyward turned my face. This hand of mine
Was still my pledge, for me no thunderbolt
E'er flashed from out Jove's heaven. This day compels
A prayer from me; it is the first, last time
That he shall hear me pray: one thunderbolt
I ask, one only, but a giant one.
I might have stormed the heavens, but since I deemed
Thou wert my father, I have spared the skies.
O father, whether thou art merciful
Or cruel, to thy son stretch forth thy hand,
Speed now his death and give thyself this fame.
Or if it grieve thee, and thy hand refuse
To do the deed, from the Sicilian peak
Send for the Titans, bearing in their hands
Mount Pindus, or let Ossa with its weight
O'erwhelm me; burst the doors of Erebus
And let Bellona with drawn sword attack:
Send forth fierce, rushing Mars, against me arm
That terrible swift one; he is indeed
My brother, yet my stepdame Juno's son.
Thou too, Athena, by one parent born
The sister of Alcides, hurl thy spear
Against thy brother; supplicating hands
I stretch toward thee, my stepdame, hurl at length
A dart, I pray, against me, I would still
By woman's hand be slain; already calmed,
Already satisfied, why nourish wrath,
Why seek for further vengeance? Suppliant here
Thou seest Hercules; no savage beast,
No land, e'er saw me praying thus to thee.
Now that I need indeed a stepdame's wrath,
Now, does thy anger cease? Dost put aside
Thy hatred? Since I wish for death, thou sparest.
O earth, O cities of the earth, does none
Yield torch or weapon now for Hercules?
Ye rob me of my arms? When I am gone
May no land bring forth monsters wild, the world
Long never for my hand if evil rise,
Or hate be born. Cast at my hapless head
Great stones, and end at last my misery.
O world ungrateful, dost thou now desert?
Hast thou forgot? Thou wouldst have been the prey
Of beasts and monsters hadst thou not borne me.
Ye nations, now snatch hence the rescuer;
This time is given you to recompense
My benefits, death be their great reward.
SCENE II
Hercules, Alcmena.
Alcmena. Where shall Alcides' wretched mother go?
Where seek her son? If sure my sight, lo, there
With throbbing heart he lies and passion-tossed.
He groans, 'tis finished. Let me, O my son,
For the last time embrace thee, let me take
Thy fleeting breath. Receive my last embrace.
But where are now thy limbs? where now that neck
That bore the firmament with all its stars?
Who is it leaves to thee so small a part
Of all thy powers?
Hercules. O mother, thou indeed
Dost look on Hercules, but on his shade.
O mother, recognize thy son. Why weep,
With eyes turned from me? Wherefore veil thy face?
Dost blush that Hercules is called thy son?
Alcmena. What land brought forth this new calamity?
What fearful thing has triumphed over thee?
Who is the conqueror of great Hercules?
Hercules Thou seest Alcides slain by woman's guile.
Alcmena. What guile is great enough to conquer him?
Hercules. A woman's anger, mother, is enough,
Alcmena. Whence flowed the poison in thy bones and joints?
Hercules. Her venom found its way through poisoned robe.
Alcmena. But where the robe? I see thy naked limbs.
Hercules. With me it is consumed.
Alcmena. Can such things be?
Hercules. Mother, the Hydra and a thousand beasts
Invade my vitals. What flame like to these
Divides Sicilian skies or Lemnos' isles,
Or heaven's burning plain whose fiery zone
Forbids the day to move? Oh, cast me, friends,
Into the channel or the river's midst.
The Ister is not deep enough for me,
Nor mighty ocean s self could quench my flames;
All water fails me, every stream dries up.
Why didst thou send me back again to Jove,
O lord of Erebus? 'Twas right to keep.
Give back thy darkness, show to conquered hell
Alcides; nothing will I carry thence,
Why be afraid again of Hercules?
Death, fear not, come; now Hercules can die.
Alcmena. Restrain thy tears; at least control thy woe,
Be still invincible before such ills.
As thou art wont, smite death and conquer hell.
Hercules. If rugged Caucasus should offer me,
Bound by his chains, a feast for eager birds,
In Scythia that echoes with their cries,
No lamentations would be heard from me;
Or if the wandering Symplegades
Returning crush me 'midst their cliffs, I'd wait
Unmoved their threatened ruin. Should the weight
Of Pindus lie upon me, Hæmus too,
And Athos, where the Thracian seas break high,
And Mimas smitten by Jove's thunderbolts;
My mother, should this universe itself
Fall on me, and above my body blaze
The burning wheel of Phœbus' flaming car,
Ignoble clamor should not overcome
Alcides' courage. Should a thousand beasts
Attack and tear me—here Stymphalian birds
With clangor wild fly at me from the air,
And there the threatening bull with all his force;
All monsters that have been! Or should the groves
Rise everywhere, and cruel Sinis hurl
His mighty limbs against me, scattering me,
I still were silent; savage beasts, nor crimes,
Nor aught that I could meet in open fight
Could force from me a groan.
Alcmena. Perchance, my son,
No woman's poison scorches now thy limbs,
But all thy heavy tasks, thy labors long,
Now make thee tremble with some dread disease.
Hercules. Where is the sickness, where? Does any ill
Exist upon the earth with me till now?
Let it come hither, hand me now a bow.
These naked hands suffice. Come on! Come on!
Alcmena. Ah me, his overwhelming pain destroys
His senses. Take away his darts, I pray,
Snatch hence his murderous arrows, I beseech.
His cheeks suffused with fire threat dreadful crime.
What place of hiding can I, aged one,
Seek out? This rage is madness. Hercules
Alone can rule himself. Why, foolish one,
Seek flight or hiding? By a hero's hand
Alcmena merits death; so let me die,
E'er anything ignoble bids me fall,
E'er evil hands may triumph over me.
But see, by troubles weakened, pain binds up
His wearied limbs with sleep, his bosom heaves
With heavy sighs. Be merciful, ye gods!
If ye refuse me my illustrious son,
At least preserve its savior to the world.
Drive out his bitter pain, let Hercules
Renew his ancient strength.
SCENE III
Hercules, Hyllus, Alcmena.
Hyllus. O cruel light! O day so full of crime!
The thunderer's daughter dies, his son lies low,
The grandchild only lives. He lost his life,
Slain by my mother's hand, by treachery
Was she deceived. Alas, what man grown old
Through all the changes of the years has known
In all his life such sorrows? One day snatched
Both parents from me. But of other ills
I will not speak: great Hercules is dead.
Alcmena. Be silent, noble son of Hercules,
Grandson of sad Alcmena—for perchance
Long sleep will overcome Alcides' ills.
But see, repose deserts his wearied mind,
He is recalled to sickness, I to grief.
Hercules. What see I? Trachin with its rugged cliffs?
Or, placed among the stars, have I at length
Escaped mortality? Who opens heaven?
I see thee, father; thee behold I too,
My stepdame, reconciled. What heavenly sound
Strikes on my ear? Great Juno calls me son.
I see bright heaven's shining realm, I see
The sun's encircling road with Phœbus' car.
But what is this? Who closes heaven to me?
Who drives me from the stars? But now I felt
The breath of Phœbus' car, almost I stood
In heaven itself. 'Tis Trachin that I see,
Who brings me back to earth? I see night's couch,
The shadows call me hither. Only now
Mount Œta stood below me; all the world
Was spread beneath. How happily, O pain,
Thou wast forgot! Thou forcest me to speak,
Oh, spare me! take away this voice from me!
This gift, this benefit, thy mother gave,
O Hyllus. Would that with my lifted club
I might have beaten out her wicked life,
As once beside the snowy Caucasus
I tamed the Amazon. O Megara,
Much loved, wast thou my wife when I was mad?
Give back my bow and club; my hand is stained,
I will with glory wipe away the spot,
And Hercules' last toil shall by his wife
Be given.
Hyllus. Father, curb thy wrathful threats;
'Tis finished, she has suffered, she has paid
The penalty thou fain wouldst from her claim.
Dead lies my mother, by her own hand dead.
Hercules. Thou, trouble, still abidest at my side;
She by the hand of wrathful Hercules
Deserved to perish, Lichas is bereft
Of fitting comrade; wrath compels me rage
Against her lifeless body. Why should that
Escape my vengeance? Let the wild beasts take
Their food.
Hyllus. She suffered most, thou wouldst have wished
Somewhat to lighten that her load of woe;
Grieving for thee, she died by her own hand.
A heavier penalty than thou wouldst ask,
She suffered. But thou liest overcome
Not by the baseness of thy cruel wife,
Not by my mother's treachery; thy pain
Was heaped on thee by Nessus whom thy shaft
Deprived of life; the robe was dipped in blood
Of that half beast, half man, and Nessus now
Demands revenge.
Hercules. He has it, 'tis complete.
My life is finished, this day is my last,
The prophet oak foretold this fate to me,
And the Parnassian grot that with its groans
Shook the Cirrhean temple: 'Thou shalt fall,
Alcides, conquered by the hand of one
Whom thou hast conquered; this shall come to pass
When earth and sea and hell are overcome.'
I make no plaint, 'twas right this end be given
Lest any one should live to boast himself
Alcides' conqueror. Now comes at length.
A noble death, of great and wide renown,
And worthy me. This day shall I see feared.
Let all the woods be cut, let Œta's groves
Be dragged together that a mighty pyre
Receive me; but before I come to die,
Thou, Pœan's son, perform for me, dear youth,
The melancholy office, let the day
Be set ablaze with the Herculean flames.
To thee, I make, O Hyllus, my last prayer:
There is, within, a noble captive maid,
She bears her kingly lineage in her face,
The virgin Iole, Eurytis' child;
Receive her for thy bride. I, stained with blood,
Victorious, bore her from her home and land.
To the unhappy maid I've given naught
But Hercules, and he is snatched away.
Jove's grandchild she shall wed, Alcides' son,
And find a recompense for all her woes.
Whatever seed she has conceived by me
To thee she shall bring forth. O mother dear,
Forbear thy grief, Alcides lives for thee.
My courage makes thy rival to be deemed
A stepdame; either certainly is known
The night on which Alcides was begot,
Or else my father was a mortal man.
Yet though, perchance, my lineage be feigned,
I have deserved such noble parentage,
My glorious deeds brought honor to the skies,
My mother to Jove's glory brought me forth.
And if my father, though great Jove himself,
Rejoices in his fatherhood, restrain
Thy tears, O mother, proudest shalt thou be
Among Argolic mothers; no such son
Has she who wields the scepter of the skies,
Great Juno, wife of thundering Jove, brought forth;
She envied mortal though the heaven was hers,
She longed to call great Hercules her son.
Now Titan, thou must run alone thy course,
I who have been thy comrade everywhere
Seek now the manes and Tartarean shades;
Yet to the depths of hell I bear this fame:
No evil slew Alcides openly,
Alcides conquered openly all ill.
SCENE IV
Chorus.
O radiant Titan, glory of the world,
At whose first shining wearied Hecate leaves
Her night-dark car, say to the Sabean lands
That lie beneath thy dawning, say to Spain
That lies beneath thy setting, say to all
That suffer underneath the Greater Bear,
Or palpitate beneath the burning wheel:
Alcides hastes to everlasting shades
And to the kingdom of the sleepless dog
Whence he has once returned. Let clouds surround
Thy brightness, look upon the mourning lands
With pallid face and veil thy head with mists;
When, where, beneath what sky, mayst thou behold
Another Hercules? Whose hand shall earth
Invoke, if e'er in Lerna should arise
A hundred-headed Hydra scattering bane,
Or any Erymanthian boar disturb
The quiet of Arcadia's ancient race;
Or any child of Thracian Rhodope,
More harsh than snowy Helice, make wet
With human blood its stables? Who will give
Peace to a timorous people if the gods
Be angry and command new monsters rise?
Like other mortals now he lies whom earth
Produced the equal of the Thunderer.
Let all the world reëcho sounds of woe;
Your bare arms beat, ye women, let your hair
Fall loose; and let the temples of the gods
Shut fast their portals, open not their gates
But for my fearless stepdame; to the shores
Of Styx and Lethe goest thou, from whence
No keel shall bring thee back; unhappy one,
Thyself a shade, thou goest with fleshless arms,
Pale face, and drooping shoulders, to the shades
From whence thou camest once victorious,
When thou hadst conquered death. Nor thee alone
Shall that ship bear. Yet not with common shades,
With the twin Cretan kings and Æacus
Shalt thou be judge of men, smite tyrants down.
Spare, O ye mighty ones, refrain your hands;
'Tis great indeed to keep your swords unstained,
And while you reign to keep the realm in peace.
But valor has a place among the stars.
Wilt thou thy seat to northward find, be placed
Where Titan carries fervid heat? Wilt shine
Within the mild west whence thou mayest hear
Calpe reëcho with the sounding waves?
Where in the heavens serene wilt thou be set?
What place will be secure among the stars
When Hercules has come? O father, grant,
A seat from the dread lion far removed
And from the burning cancer, lest the stars
Should tremble at thy coming and forsake
Their ancient laws, and Titan be afraid.
While flowers blossom with the spring's warm days,
While winter cuts the foliage from the groves,
Or warmth calls back the foliage to the groves;
While with the flying autumn falls the fruit,
No flight of time shall snatch thee from the world:
Thou shalt be mate to Phœbus and the stars.
Sooner shall cornfields flourish in the deep,
The straits shall sooner whisper with soft waves,
The constellation of the icy bear
Shall sooner leave the heavens and enjoy
Forbidden seas than nations shall forget
To sing thy praises. Father of the world,
We wretched ones entreat thee, let no beasts
Be born, no monsters, nor the troubled world
Fear cruel leaders, let us not be ruled
By any court that deems the dignity
Of empire lies in ever-threatening sword.
If any monster rise again on earth,
We seek a savior for the orphaned world.
Ah, hear! heaven thunders, does his father mourn
Alcides? Is the cry the voice of gods,
Or timid stepdame? Does great Juno flee
At sight of Hercules? Or 'neath his load
Does Atlas tremble? Are the dreaded shades
Now shaken by the sight of Hercules?
Or does the hell-hound rend away his chains
And fly in fear that face? We are deceived,
Behold with joyous look comes Pœan's son
Alcides' follower; on his shoulder clangs
The well-known shafts and quiver.
ACT V
SCENE I
Philoctetes, Nurse, Chorus.
Nurse. Tell, youth, I pray, the fate of Hercules,
Say with what mien Alcides met his death.
Philoctetes. With such a mien as no one e'er met life.
Chorus. So gladly did he mount his funeral pyre?
Philoctetes. He showed that flames are naught, what is there left
On earth which Hercules has not o'ercome?
Lo, all is conquered.
Chorus. 'Midst the flames what place
For mighty deeds?
Philoctetes. One evil in the world
He had not yet o'ercome, but he has ruled
The fire, this also to the savage beasts
He adds, among the tasks of Hercules
Shall fire be placed.
Chorus. I pray thee, now unfold
The way in which the flames were overcome.
Philoctetes. Each sorrowing hand cut Œta's forests down,
The beech-tree lost its wealth of shade, and lay
Hewn from its base; one strong hand felled the pine
Whose top reached heaven, and called it from the clouds,
Falling it moved the rocks and with it bore
The lesser trees. An oak with spreading top,
Like that which whispers in Chaonia,
Shut out the sun and stretched on either side
Its boughs; the great tree, pierced by many wounds,
Cried out and broke the wedges, the dulled steel
Recoiled, the ax was injured, nor was found
Inflexible enough; but, stirred at length,
The oak bore ruin with it in its fall,
And everywhere the place admits the sun.
The birds are driven from their resting-place
And eddying through the sunlight where the grove
Has fallen, querulous, on wearied wing
They seek their homes. Already every tree
Resounds, the sacred oak-trees even feel
The hand that holds the dreaded ax, the grove
Is no avail to save the holy place.
The forest forms a mound, alternate beams
Raise to the skies a pyre all too small
For Hercules. The pine and hardy oak
And shorter ilex carry up the flames,
And poplars wont to ornament the brow
Of Hercules fill up the funeral pyre.
As roars a mighty lion lying sick
In Afric forests, he is borne along;
Who will believe him carried to the flames?
His glance was seeking for the stars, not fires.
As Œta's soil he pressed and with his glance
Scanned all the pyre, mounting upon the beams
He broke them. For his bow he asked, then said:
'Take this, O son of Pœas, take the gift
Of Hercules; the Hydra felt these shafts,
By these were slain the foul Stymphalian birds,
And every evil that from far I slew.
O youth, be happily victorious,
Nor ever send without avail these shafts
Against a foe. Or, shouldst thou wish to bring
The birds from out the clouds, let birds descend,
Let slaughter always follow thy sure shaft,
Nor ever let this bow thy right hand fail;
Well has it learned to free the shaft and give
A sure direction to the arrow's flight,
Sent from the string the dart shall never fail
To find the way. I pray thee, bring the fire,
And light for me the funeral torch. This club,'
He said, 'which never hand but mine shall bear,
Shall burn with me; this mighty weapon go
With Hercules. This too thou mightest have,'
He said, 'if thou couldst wield it; it may aid
Its master's funeral pyre.' And then he asked
That with him might be burned the shaggy spoil
Of the Nemæan lion; with the spoil
The pyre was hid. The throng about him groaned,
And sorrow filled the eyes of all with tears.
His mother, raging with her grief, laid bare
Her ample bosom, even to the womb,
And smote with heavy blows her naked breasts,
And, moving with her cries the gods themselves
And Jove, with woman's shrieks the place she filled.
'O mother, thou mak'st base Alcides' death,
Restrain thy tears, and let thy woman's grief
Turn inward. Why shall Juno know one day
Of joy because thou weepest? She is glad
To see her rival's tears. Thy feeble heart
Control, O mother, it is sin that thou
Shouldst tear the womb and breast that nourished me.'
Then roaring mightily, as when he led
The dreaded hell-hound through Argolic streets,
What time he came again from conquered Dis
And trembling death, a victor over hell,
Upon his funeral pyre he laid him down.
What conqueror at his triumph ever stood
So joyous in his car? What tyrant prince
With such a glance e'er gave the nations laws?
How calmly did he bear his fate! Our tears
Were dried, our sorrow, smitten, fell away;
None raised lament for him who was to die.
'Twere shame to weep. Although sex bade her mourn,
Alcmena stood with cheeks unwet with tears,
A mother almost equal to her son.
Chorus. And did he, on the point of death, lift up
To heaven no invocation to the gods,
Nor look toward Jove in prayer?
Philoctetes. Secure he lay
And, scanning heaven with his eyes, he sought
The part from whence his father should look down.
Then stretching forth his hand he said; 'That one
For whom the night was joined to night, and day
Deferred, is father to me. Whencesoe'er,
O father, thou dost look upon thy son,
Since either mete of Phœbus, and the race
Of Scythians, and every burning strand
Where glows the day now praise me; since the earth
Has peace, no lands cry out, and none pollute
The altars, since no evil thing remains,
I pray thee, take this spirit to the stars.
Not death, nor hell, nor mournful realm of Dis
Could fright me; but to be a shade and pass
To those divinities that I o'ercame,
O father, makes me blush. Divide the clouds,
Lay wide the day that eyes of gods may see
Alcides burning. Thou canst close to him
The stars and heaven: vainly would one seek
To force thy will, O father, but if grief
May lift one prayer, then ope the Stygian lake
And give me back to death; but prove me first
Thy son, let this day make it evident
That I am worthy of the stars. All deeds
Till now are poor, this day shall bring to light
Alcides, or reject him.' Having said,
He asked for fire. 'Up, friend of Hercules,'
He said, 'be swift, snatch the Œtæan torch.
Why trembles thy right hand? What, timorous one,
Dost shrink before the dreaded infamy?
Give back the quiver, coward, slow, and weak!
That hand bend bow of mine? Why pales thy cheek?
With face and courage such as thou dost see
Alcides wear, apply the torch; base one,
Consider him who is about to die.
Lo, now my father calls, he opens heaven.
I come!' His face was changed; with trembling hand
I placed the glowing torch, the flames fled back,
The torches shrank away and shunned his limbs,
But Hercules pursued the flying flames.
Thou wouldst have thought that Athos, Caucasus,
Or Pindus was ablaze; no groan was heard,
But loudly roared the flames. O iron heart!
Huge Typhon placed upon that funeral pyre
Had groaned, and fierce Enceladus himself
Who tore from earth and on his shoulders bore
Mount Ossa. But from out the hot flames' midst
He rose half burned and mangled, gazed unawed.
'Now, mother, thou dost show thyself indeed
Alcides' parent,' said he, 'thus to stand
Beside his pyre; 'tis meet to mourn him thus.'
Amid the smoke and threatening flame he stood
Unmoved and steadfast, shrinking not, but bright,
And spoke encouraging and warning words.
To every ministrant he gave new strength,
You would have thought himself informed the blaze.
The people stood amazed and hardly deemed
The flames were flames indeed, so calm his front,
Such majesty was his. He did not seek
To speed his burning, but when he believed
Sufficient fortitude in death was shown,
Into the hottest blaze he dragged the beams
That seemed the least afire, and where the flame
Was brightest there the fearless hero stood.
He veiled his face with flames, his heavy beard
Was bright with fire, the threatening blaze leaped up
And shone about his head; Alcmena groaned
And tore her loosened hair.
SCENE II
Philoctetes, Alcmena, Chorus.
Alcmena. Ye gods, stand now in awe of death! So few
Alcides' ashes, to this little dust
Has shrunk that giant! Ah, how great a one
Has fallen, Titan, into nothingness!
Ah me, this aged bosom shall receive
Alcides, here his tomb. Lo, Hercules
Scarce fills his urn, how light for me the weight
Of him who lightly bore the vault of heaven.
O son, to that far realm and Tartarus
Once hast thou journeyed and returned from thence;
Wilt thou perchance again from Styx return?
Not that again with spoil thou mayst return,
And Theseus owe again the light to thee,
But yet, perchance, alone? Can all the world
Placed o'er thy shades suffice to hold thee down?
Or Cerberus be able to constrain?
Wilt thou smite down the gates of Tænarus?
Within what portals shall thy mother pass?
Which way shall death be found? Thou goest now
To Hades, never more to come again.
Why waste the day in tears? Why, wretched life,
Dost thou still bide with me? Why wish for light?
Can I bear Jove another Hercules?
Or will Alcmena by another son
Like him be mother called? O happy, thou,
My Theban husband, thou didst enter in
The realm of Tartarus while still thy son
Was flourishing; perchance the gods of hell
Fear'd when thou camest, since, though not indeed
Alcides' father, thou wast known as such.
What country can I seek in this my age—
I, whom harsh tyrants hate (if any such
Still live)? Me miserable! If a son
Laments a father, let him seek revenge
On me. Let all attack me; if a child
Of wild Busiris or Antæus lives
And terrifies the tropic zone, I stand
A ready prey; if any seek revenge
For cruel Diomedes' Thracian herd,
Upon my members let the dread flock feed.
Perchance an angered Juno seeks revenge.
All cause for wrath is gone, secure at last,
She shall be free from conquered Hercules.
Her rival yet remains. I cannot pay
The penalty she seeks. My mighty son
Has made his mother terrible. What place
Is left? What land, what kingdom, or what zone
In all the universe will dare defend,
Or to what hiding can a mother go
Who is through thee so famed? Shall I seek out
My land and fallen home? Eurystheus rules
In Argos. Shall I seek the Theban realm?
Ismenus' stream? The couch where chosen once
I once saw Jove? Oh, happy had I felt
Jove's bolt! Oh, would Alcides had been torn
Untimely from my womb! Now comes the hour
To see my son Jove's son through glory gained.
Would that this too were given: to know what fate
Might snatch me hence. O son, what nation lives
That thinks on thee? ungrateful every race!
Shall I seek Cleon? The Arcadian realm?
The lands ennobled by thy glorious deeds?
There fell the serpent, there the savage birds,
There fell the cruel king, there was o'ercome
By thee the lion which, since thou art dead,
Now dwells in heaven. If earth had gratitude,
All would defend Alcmena for thy sake.
Shall I repair to Thrace and Hebrus' shores?
Those lands were also by thy merits saved,
The stables and the realm were overcome,
The cruel king is prostrate, peace is there.
What land indeed enjoys not peace through thee?
Where shall I, old, unhappy, seek a tomb?
All worlds contended for thy funeral pyre,
What people, or what temple, or what race
Seek now the ashes of great Hercules?
Who asks, who wishes this, Alcmena's load?
What sepulcher, O son, suffices thee?
What tomb? This whole round world to which thy fame
Shall give thee title! Why afraid, my soul?
Thou hast Alcides' ashes, hast his bones.
Thy aid, thy all-sufficing aid, shall be
His ashes, and his death make kings afraid.
Philoctetes. O mother of illustrious Hercules,
Although thy sorrow for thy son is due,
Restrain thy tears; he must not be bewailed,
Nor deeply mourned, whose valor banished death;
His valor is eternal and forbids
That Hercules be mourned.
Alcmena. My savior lost,
Shall I, his mother, cease to mourn for him?
Philoctetes. Thou dost not mourn alone, the earth and sea,
And every place where purple day looks down
On either ocean from her shining car
Mourns too.
Alcmena. O wretched mother! In one son
How many have I lost! I lacked a realm,
Yet might have given one. I had no prayer,
I only of all mothers earth brought forth;
I asked the gods for nothing while my son
Still lived. What was there that Alcides' zeal
Could not bestow? What god could aught deny?
In that hand lay fulfilment of each wish;
Whatever Jove refused Alcides gave.
What mortal mother e'er bore such a child?
One mother was transformed to stone who stood
Cut off from all her offspring and bewailed
Twice seven children. To how great a band
My son was equal! Until now there lacked
A great example of sad motherhood:
Alcmena gives it. Mothers, mourn no more,
Although persistent grief till now compelled
Your tears; though heavy sorrow turn to stone,
Give place to my misfortunes. Up, sad hand,
Smite now the aged breast! Canst thou enough,
Thou humbled, aged woman, mourn his loss
Whom all the world laments? Yet beat thy breast,
Although thy arms are weary. Though the gods
Be jealous of thy mourning, call the race
To mourn with thee.
Go smite your bosoms for Alcmena's son
And Jove's; for his conception one day died
And Eos was delayed for two long nights.
One greater than the light itself has died.
All nations, smite your breasts; your tyrants harsh
He forced to penetrate the Stygian realm
And put aside the dripping sword; mourn now
His merits, let the whole world cry aloud.
Blue Crete, dear land of Thundering Jove, lament
Alcides, let thy hundred people mourn.
Curetes, Corybantes, in your hands
Clash now Idæan weapons, it is right
To mourn him thus; now beat your breasts indeed,
For Hercules is dead; he is not less,
O Crete, than is thy Thunderer himself.
Weep ye Alcides' death, Arcadian race,
A race ere Dian's birth. Reëcho blows,
Parrhasian and Nemæan mountain tops,
Let Menala give back the heavy sound.
The bristles scattered on your field demand
Groans for the great Alcides, and the birds
Whose feathers veiled the day, whom his shaft slew.
Argolic peoples weep; Cleonæ, weep—
There once my son's right hand the lion slew
That terrified your city. Beat your breasts,
Bistonian matrons, let cold Hebrus' stream
Give back the sound, lament for Hercules;
Your children are no longer born to feed
The bloody stables, on your flesh no more
Shall feast the savage herd. Weep, all ye lands
From fierce Antæus freed, the region snatched
From cruel Geryon. Beat with me your breasts,
Ye wretched nations, let the blows be heard
By either Tethys. Weep Alcides' death,
O company divine of heaven's swift vault;
My Hercules upon his shoulders bore
Your sky, O gods, when from his load set free
The giant Atlas, who was wont to bear
Olympus and its shining stars, had rest.
Where now, O Jove, thy lofty seat, where now
Thy promised dwelling in the skies? Alas!
Alcides as a mortal died; alas,
As mortal is consumed. How oft he spared
Thy fires, how oft he spared thy thunderbolt!
Ah, deem me Semele and hurl at me
Thy torch! Hast thou, O son, already found
The fields Elysian whither nature calls
The nations? Or does black Styx close the way,
Because of captured Cerberus, and fate
Detain thee at the outer gate of Dis?
What tumult now possesses all the shades?
Flees now the boatman with receding skiff?
Through all the wondering realm of death flees now
Thessalia's Centaur? Does the Hydra fear
And hide its serpents underneath the waves?
Do all thy labors fear thee, O my son?
Ah, no; I am deceived, am mad, I rave;
Nor shades nor manes fear thee, thy left arm
No longer bears th' Argolic lion's spoil,
The fearful pelt with all its tawny mane,
Nor do the wild beast's teeth entrench thy brows;
Thy quiver is another's and thy shafts
A weaker hand lets fly; unarmed thou goest,
O son, through Hades, never to return.
SCENE III
Hercules, Philoctetes, Alcmena, Chorus.
Hercules. I hold a seat within the heavenly realm,
Why with thy mourning dost thou bid me feel
Once more the pang of death? I pray thee, spare!
Already had my valor made a way
Up to the stars, yes, to the very gods.
Alcmena. Whence, whence the sound that strikes our startled ear?
Whence comes the sound forbids my tears? I know
That Chaos is o'ercome. Dost thou return,
O son, again from Styx? Not once alone
Is cruel death subdued? Hast thou again
Been conqueror over death, and Charon's boat,
And hell's sad pools? Does languid Acheron
Afford a passage and permit return
To thee alone? Nor even after death
The fates constrain thee? Or does Pluto close
For thee the way, and tremble for his throne?
I surely saw thee on the blazing woods,
When raged the giant flames against the sky,
Why does the far abode no longer hold
Thy shade? Why do the manes feel dread fear?
Art thou a shade too terrible for Dis?
Hercules. The fear of dark Cocytus held me not,
The dread boat has not borne my shade across;
Forbear thy mourning, mother; once indeed
I saw the land of death, whate'er of man
I may have had was purged away by fire,
The part my father gave is borne to heaven;
Thy part was given to the flames. Weep not
As one who weeps a deedless son, 'tis meet
To mourn th' unworthy; valor starward tends,
But fear toward death. O mother, from the stars
Alcides speaks. To thee the cruel king,
Eurystheus, soon shall pay due penalty;
Borne in thy car thou shalt lift up proud head.
'Tis meet that I should seek celestial climes,
Alcides once again has conquered hell.
Alcmena. Stay, but a moment stay! He's passed from sight,
He has departed, he is starward borne.
Am I deceived, or do I dream I saw
My son? My sad heart is incredulous.
Thou art a god, the heavens evermore
Shall hold thee; in thy triumph I believe.
The Theban realm I'll seek and there will sing
The glory of the new divinity.
Chorus. Never shall glorious valor be borne down
To Stygian shades, the brave forever live,
Nor shall the cruel fates through Lethe's stream
E'er drag them; but when comes the final hour
Of life's last day, then glory shall lay wide
The pathway to the gods. Be present still,
Thou mighty victor over savage beasts,
Thou who hast given peace to all the world;
Now from whatever place, behold our land,
And if a monster with new face should shake
The world with terror, with thy three-forked bolts
Break him in pieces, hurl thy lightning shafts
More boldly then thy father Jove himself.
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