MES. O ye whose heads are whitened o’er with age!
CHOR. Why dost thou call me with so loud a voice?
MES. Atrocious are the mischiefs which have happened
Within the palace.
CHOR. I need now call in
No other seer. The boys are slain. Ah me!
MES. Indulge your groans, for such events as these
Demand them.
CHOR. By a foe, e’en by the hand
Of their own sire, in whom that foe they found.
MES. No tongue can utter woes beyond what we
Have suffered.
CHOR. What account hast thou to give
Of the dire fate the father on his sons
Inflicted? Sent by the avenging gods,
Say why such mischiefs visited this house,
And how the children miserably fell.
MES. To purify the house were victims brought
Before Jove’s altar, after Hercules
Had slain and cast the monarch of this land
Forth from these doors. Beside the victor stood
His band of graceful children, with his sire
And Megara. The sacred vase was borne
Around the altar: from ill-omened words
We all abstained. But while Alcmena’s son
In his right hand a kindled torch sustained,
Ready to dip it in the lustral water,
He made a silent stand; on this delay
The children steadfastly observed their sire,
But he no longer was the same; his eyes
Were seized with strong convulsions, from their fibres
Blood started forth, his bearded cheeks with foam
Were covered: he midst bursts of laughter wild
Cried: “Wherefore need I kindle, O my father,
The fire for sacrifice, ere I have slain
Eurystheus, in a double toil engaged,
When I at once might better finish all?
Soon as I hither bring Eurystheus’ head,
These hands which reek already with the gore
Of Lycus, will I cleanse. Pour forth those waters
Upon the ground, and cast your urns away.
Who brings my bow, my club? I to Mycene
Will go: let spades and levers be prepared,
That I from their foundations may o’erturn
Those walls which with the plummet and the line
The Cyclops reared.” Then eager to depart,
Although he had no chariot, yet he talked
As if he had one, fancying that he mounted
The seat, and with his hand as with a thong
Drove the ideal steeds. His servants laughed,
And at the same time trembled; till one cried
(As on each other they with eager eyes
Were gazing), “Doth my master sport with us,
Or is he frantic?” Meanwhile through the palace
Backward and forward he with hasty step
Was walking: but no sooner did he reach
That spacious hall, where at the genial board
The men are wont t’ assemble, than he said
That he was come to Nisus’ ancient city,
And to th’ imperial dome: and on the floor,
As if reclining at the genial board,
Bade us set forth the banquet. But the pause
Which intervened was short, ere he exclaimed,
That he was traversing the Isthmian rocks
O’ergrown with woods; then casting off his mantle
He strove though there was no antagonist
With whom to strive, proclaimed himself the victor,
The name of that imaginary foe
Announcing, over whom he had prevailed:
But ’gainst Eurystheus he anon did utter
Menaces the most horrible, and talk
As if he at Mycene had been present.
His father strove to hold his vigorous arm,
And said to him; “What mean you, O my son?
What wanderings into distant realms are these?
Hath not the blood of him you have just slain
Distracted you?” Then for Eurystheus’ sire
Mistaking his own father, as he strove
To touch his hand, repelled the trembling suppliant:
Against his sons, the quiver and the bow,
Thinking to slay the children of Eurystheus,
He next made ready; they with terror smitten
Ran different ways; the first beneath the robes
Of his unhappy mother skulked; a second
Flew to the shade the lofty column formed:
Under the altar quivering like a bird,
The last concealed himself: their mother cried,
“What mean’st thou, O thou father, would’st thou slay
Thy sons?” Amphitryon too, that aged man,
And all the servants shrieked. But round the pillar
The boy pursuing, he at length turned short,
And meeting him, as foot to foot they stood,
Transfixed his liver with a deadly shaft;
Supine he fell, and with his streaming gore
Distained the sculptured pillars, at whose base
He breathed his last. But, with a shout, Alcides
Uttered these boasts: “One of Eurystheus’ brood
Slain by this arm, for the inveterate hate
His father bore me, to atone, here lies
A breathless corse.” Against another then,
Who to the basis of the altar fled,
And hoped to ’scape unseen, he bent his bow;
But ere he gave the wound, the wretched youth
Fell at his father’s knees, stretched forth his hands
To touch his chin, or twine around his neck,
And cried: “O spare my life, my dearest sire,
Yours, I am yours indeed; nor will you slay
Eurystheus’ son.” But he with glaring eyes
Looked like a Gorgon, while the boy pressed on
So close, he had no scope to aim the shaft,
But as the smith the glowing anvil smites,
Full on his auburn tresses he discharged
The ponderous mace, the crashing bones gave way.
Scarce had he slain the second, when he ran
To butcher his third son o’er both their corses:
But the unhappy mother in her arms
Caught up, into an inner chamber bore
The child, and closed the doors: but he, as if
He had indeed been at the Cyclops’ city,
With levers from their hinges forced them, pierced
His wife and offspring with a single shaft,
And then to slay his aged father rushed
With speed impetuous: but a spectre came,
Which to our eyes the awful semblance bore
Of Pallas brandishing her pointed spear,
And threw a rocky fragment at the breast
Of Hercules, which checked his murderous frenzy,
And plunged him into sleep. Upon the ground
Headlong he fell, where ’midst the ruins lay,
Rent from its pedestal a broken column:
But rallying from our flight, we, by his sire
Assisted, to the pillar bound him fast
With thongs, that on his wakening from this trance
He might commit no more atrocious deeds.
There doth he taste an inauspicious sleep,
First having slain his children and his consort.
I know no mortal more completely wretched.
[_Exit_ MESSENGER.
CHOR. There was a murder in the Argive land
Most wondrous and unparalleled through Greece
In days of yore, which the confederate daughters
Of Danaus perpetrated; but their crimes
By the dire fate of Progne’s only son
Were far surpassed. I of a bloody deed
Now speak which they committed, they whose voice
Equals the Muses’ choir; but thou who spring’st
From Jove himself, hast in thy frenzy slain
All thy three sons; for them what groans, what tears,
What invocations to the shades beneath,
Or songs shall I prepare to soothe the rage
Of grisly Pluto? Shivered on the ground
The portals of that lofty mansion view,
Behold the corses of the children stretcht
Before their miserable sire, whose senses,
Since he hath slain them, in profoundest sleep
Are buried. Mark those knotty cords around
The brawny limbs of Hercules, entwined
And to the columns in the palace fixed.
But old Amphitryon, like a bird who wails
Over its callow brood, with tardy step
Comes hither in the bitterness of grief.