University of Virginia Library

947–1043.

[_]

These numerals refer to the Greek text, not to the translation

Stroph. I.

Antistroph. I.
Stroph. II.
Antistroph. II.

Hyllos.
Ah, woe is me for thee, my father dear!
Woe, woe, for all my misery and fear!
What sorrow cometh next?
What counsel can I find for soul perplexed?

Elder.
Hush, boy, hush! lest thou stir
Thy sore vexed father's anguish dark and drear;
He lives, in sleep laid low;
Curb thou thy lips, no murmur let him hear.

Hyllos.
What say'st thou? Lives he still?

Elder.
Thou wilt not rouse him now he slumbers sound.
My child, nor stir his ill,
Nor bid it run its fierce, relentless round.

Hyllos.
And yet my mind is vexed,
Brooding o'er sorrow, shaken and perplexed.

Heracles.
O Zeus!
What spot of earth is this?
Among what men am I?
By pain that will not cease,
Worn out with agony;
Ah, miserable me!
Again the accursèd venom gnaws through me.

Elder
[to Hyllos.]
Did'st thou not know what gain
It were to silence keep,
Nor banish from the eyes of one in pain
The dew of kindly sleep?

Hyllos.
And yet I know not how
To hold my peace, such pain beholding now.

Heracles.
O ye Kenæan heights
Whereon mine altars stood,
What meed for holiest rites
Have ye wrought, and for good
Such outrage brought on me!
Would God I ne'er had cast on you mine eye,
Nor lived to see
This crown of frenzied, unsoothed agony.
What minstrel apt to charm,
What leech with skilful arm,
Apart from Zeus, this pain could tranquil keep?
(Wonder far off were that to gaze upon!)
Ah me! but leave me, leave me yet to sleep,
Leave me to sleep, me, miserable one.
Where dost thou touch me? Say,
Where lay to rest?
Ah! thou wilt slay me, slay:
What slumbered thou hast roused to life again;
It seizes me, it creeps, this weary pain.
Where are ye, who, of all
That Hellas hers doth call,
Are found most evil, reckless of the right?
For whom I wore my life,
In ceaseless, dreary strife,
Slaying by land and sea dread forms of might;
Yet now to him who lies
In these sharp agonies,
Not one will bring the fire
Or sword, wherewith to work his heart's desire;
And none will come and smite
His head to death's dark night,
And end his misery:
Ah me! fie on you, fie.

Elder.
Come, boy, thou son of him who lieth there,
Come thou and help, the work o'ertasketh me;
Thine eye is young and clear;
Thy vision more than mine to save and free.

Hyllos.
I lend my hand to lift;
But neither from within, nor yet without,
May I a life forgetting pain work out;
Zeus only gives that gift.

Heracles.
Boy, boy! where, where art thou?
Come, lift me up; yea, this way raise thou me.
Oh me! O cursed Fates!
It leaps again, it leaps upon me now,
That scourge that desolates,
Fierce, stern, inexorable agony.
O Pallas, Pallas! Now it bites again,
That bitter throb of pain:
Come, boy, in mercy smite
The father that begat thee; draw thy sword,
Sword none will dare to blame:
Heal thou the evil plight
With which thy mother, sold to guilt abhorred,
Hath kindled all my wrath with this foul shame.
Ah, might I see her fallen even so,
As she hath brought me low!
O Hades, dear and sweet,
Brother of Zeus on high,
Smite me with quickest death-blow, I entreat,
And give me rest, give rest from this my misery!