MEG. Come on. What priest, what butcher is at hand
To slay these wretched children, or transpierce
My bosom? Now the victims stand prepared
For their descent to Pluto’s loathed abode.
By force, my children, are we borne along
United in th’ unseemly bands of death;
Decrepit age with helpless infancy
And intermingled matrons. O dire fate
Of me and of my sons, whom these sad eyes
Shall never more behold! Alas! I bore,
I nurtured you, to be the scorn, the sport,
Of our inveterate foes, and by their hands
To perish. Each fond hope, which from the words
Of your departed father erst I formed,
Hath proved fallacious. The deceased to _thee_
Allotted Argos, in Eurystheus’ palace
Wert _thou_ to dwell a mighty king, and wield
The sceptre of Pelasgia’s fruitful land,
Then with the lion’s hide himself had worn
Thy front he covered: _you_ were to ascend
The throne of Thebes for brazen chariots famed,
Possessing my hereditary fields,
Such were the hopes of your exulting sire,
Who to _your_ hand consigned that ponderous mace
Deceitful gift of Dædalus: on _thee_,
Thou little one, he promised to bestow
Oecalia, which his shafts had erst laid waste:
To you all three, these realms in threefold portions
Did he distribute; for your father’s views
Were all magnanimous: but I marked out
Selected consorts for you, and formed schemes
Of new affinities, from the domains
Of Athens, Sparta, and the Theban city;
That binding up your cables, and secure
From the tempestuous deep, ye might enjoy
A happy life: these prospects now are vanished:
For to your arms hath changeful Fortune given
The Destinies to be your brides, while tears
Are your unhappy mother’s lustral drops.
Your grandsire celebrates the nuptial feast,
O’er which he summons Pluto to preside,
The father of your consorts. But, alas!
Whom first of you my children, or whom last
To this fond bosom shall I clasp, on whom
Bestow a kiss, whom in my arms sustain?
How like the bee with variegated wings
Shall I collect the sorrows of you all,
And blend the whole together in a flood
Of tears exhaustless? O my dearest lord,
If any of those spirits who reside
In Pluto’s realms beneath, can hear the voice
Of mortals, in these words to thee I speak:
O Hercules, thy father and thy sons
Are doomed to bleed; I perish too who erst
On thy account was by the world called happy.
Protect us, come, and to these eyes appear,
Though but a ghost; thy presence will suffice:
For these thy children’s murderers, when with thee
Compared, are dastards.
AMP. To appease the powers
Of hell beneath, O woman, be thy care.
But lifting to the skies my suppliant hands,
I call on thee, O Jove, that, if thou mean
To be a friend to these deserted children,
Thou interpose without delay and save them,
For soon ’twill be no longer in thy power:
Thou oft hast been invoked; but all my prayers
Are ineffectual; die, it seems, we must.
But, O ye aged men, the bliss which life
Can yield is small, contrive then how to pass
As sweetly as is possible the hours
Which fate allots you, e’en from morn till night
Shaking off every grief: for Time preserves not
Our hopes entire, but on his own pursuits
Intent, deserts us, borne on rapid wings.
Look but on me, amid the sons of men
Conspicuous erst performing glorious deeds;
And yet hath Fortune in one single day
Taken all from me, like a feather wafted
Into the trackless air. I know not him
To whom collected stores of wealth or fame
Are durable. Farewell, for this, my comrades,
Is the last time ye shall behold your friend.