IRIS. O, ye aged men,
Be not dismayed: the fiend whom ye behold
Is daughter of old Night, and I am Iris,
The gods’ ambassadress. We are not come
To harm your city; for we only war
Against one man, who, sprung ’tis said from Jove
And from Alcmena: till he had performed
Severest labours, fate preserved his life;
Nor did his father Jove permit, or me,
Or Juno, e’er to hurt him: but, each toil
Eurystheus’ hate enjoined, now he hath finished,
Those oft-polluted hands with recent gore
Will Juno stain, by urging him to slay
His children: in this scheme I too conspire.
Come on then, armed with a relentless heart,
Unwedded daughter of the pitchy Night;
Instil into that hero’s breast such frenzy
As shall o’erturn his reason, and constrain him
To perpetrate this murder; his wild steps
Goad onward, throw the bloody cable forth,
That having sent this band of graceful sons,
Slain by their father’s arm, adown the gulf
Of Acheron, th’ effects of Juno’s wrath
And mine, he may experience; for the gods
Would be mere things of no account, but great
Would be the power of man, if he escaped
Unpunished.
FIEND. I from noble parents spring,
Night is my mother; and that blood which streamed
From the foul wound of Ouranus, my sire:
To me belongs this praise, I ’gainst my friend
No envious rancour feel, nor with delight
Invade them; but this counsel would suggest
To you and Juno, ere I see you rush
Into a fatal error, if my words
Can move you: he into whose house you send me
Is not obscure, or in the realms beneath,
Or yet among the gods: for when o’er lands,
Impervious erst, and o’er the stormy waves,
He had established peace, he to the gods
Their ancient honours, which by impious men
Had been abolished, singly did restore.
I therefore would dissuade you from contriving
’Gainst him these mischiefs.
IRIS. Blame not thou the schemes
Devised by Juno and by me.
FIEND. Your steps
Into a better path, from that which leads
To evil, would I turn.
IRIS. The wife of Jove
Sent thee not hither to act thus discreetly.
FIEND. Witness, thou sun, reluctant I obey.
But if constrained to be the instrument
Of Juno’s wrath and yours, I with such speed
As when the hounds obey the huntsman’s voice,
Your signal will attend; nor shall the deep
Upheaving with a groan its troubled waves,
The earthquake, or the thunderbolt, whose blast
Is winged with fate, outstrip me, when I rush
Into the breast of Hercules: the gates
Will I burst open, and assail the house,
First causing his devoted sons to bleed;
Nor shall their murderer know that his own hand
Slew those whom he begot, till he is rescued
From the distraction I inspire. Behold
He at the barrier stands, and shakes his head,
And rolls in silence his distorted eyes,
Flaming with anger. To contain his breath
No longer able, like a bull, prepared
To make the terrible assault, he bellows,
And calls the Furies from the dire abyss
Of Tartarus. Thee I to a greater height
Of frenzy soon will rouse, and through thy soul
Cause my terrific clarion to resound.
O noble Iris, to Olympus’ height
Now wing your swift career, while I, unseen,
Will enter the abodes of Hercules.
[_Exeunt_ IRIS _and the_ FIEND.
CHOR. Thou city, groan; thy choicest flower,
The son of Jove, is cropped: O Greece,
Thy benefactor’s fatal hour
Impends. To thee for ever lost,
Assailed by that infernal pest,
The dauntless chief, deprived of peace,
Shall feel his agonizing breast
With horrible distraction tossed.
Hence in her brazen chariot went
The raging fiend, on mischief bent;
She urges with a scorpion goad
Her steeds along th’ ethereal road.
That hundred-headed child of Night.
With all those hissing snakes around,
From her envenomed eyeballs bright
The Gorgon thus directs the wound.
Soon changed by Heaven’s supreme decree,
Is man’s short-lived felicity.
Ye infants, soon shall ye expire,
Slain by your own distracted sire.
Ah me! thy son, without delay,
Shall be left childless, mighty Jove;
For on his tortured soul shall prey
Yon fiend, and by the powers above
Vengeance commissioned to destroy.
O mansion erst the scene of joy!
To form a prelude to this dance,
Neither the cheering timbrel’s sound,
Nor sportive Menades advance;
Here human gore shall stream around,
Instead of that refreshing juice,
Which Bacchus’ purple grapes produce.
Away, ye children, danger’s nigh,
For he who wakes this hostile strain,
Traces your footsteps as ye fly;
Nor will the fiend with fruitless rage,
A war beneath those mansions wage.
Alas! we sink o’erwhelmed with woe,
My tears shall never cease to flow.
I wail the grandsire hoar with age,
The mother too who bore that train
Of lovely children, but in vain.
Lo, what a tempest shakes the wall,
And makes th’ uprooted mansion fall!
What mean’st thou, frantic son of Jove?
The hellish uproar thou dost raise,
Filling the palace with amaze,
Is such as vexed the realms above,
Till issuing with victorious might,
Pallas invincible in fight
The huge Enceladus oppressed,
And piled all Ætna on his breast.