Hercules Oetaeus: Act IV

Hercules: Turn back thy panting steeds, thou shining sun,And bid the night come forth. Blot out the day,And let the heavens, with pitchy darkness filled,Conceal my dying pains from Juno's eyes.Now, father, were it fitting to recallDark chaos; now the joinings of the skiesShould be asunder rent, and pole from poleBe cleft. Why, father, dost thou spare the stars?Thy Hercules is lost. Now, Jupiter,Look well to every region of the heavens,Lest any Gyas hurl again the cragsOf Thessaly, and Othrys be againAn easy missile for Enceladus.Now, even now will haughty Pluto looseThe gates of hell, strike off his father's chains,And give him back to heaven. Since Hercules,Who on the earth has seen thy thunderboltAnd lightning flash, must turn him back to Styx;Enceladus the fierce will rise again,And hurl against the gods that mighty weightWhich now oppresses him. O Jupiter,My death throughout the kingdom of the skyShall shake thy sovereignty. Then, ere thy throneBecome the giants' spoil, give burialBeneath the ruined universe to me;Oh, rend thy kingdom ere 'tis rent from thee.

Chorus: No empty fears, O Thunderer's son,Dost thou express: for soon againShall Pelion on Ossa rest;And Athos, heaped on Pindus, thrustIts woods amidst the stars of heaven.Then shall Typhoeus heave asideThe crags of Tuscan Ischia;Enceladus, not yet o'ercomeBy thunderbolts, shall bear aloftThe huge Aetnaean furnaces,And rend the gaping mountain side.So shall it be; for even nowThe skies are tottering with thy fall.

Hercules: Lo I, who have escaped the hands of death,Who scorned the Styx, and thence through Lethe's poolReturned with spoil so grim and terrible,That Titan from his reeling chariotWas well-nigh thrown; I, whom three realms have felt:I feel the pangs of death, and yet no swordHas pierced my side, nor has some mighty crag,All Othrys, been the weapon of my death;No giant with his fierce and gaping jawsHas heaped high Pindus on my lifeless corpse.Without an enemy am I o'erwhelmed;And, what brings greater anguish to my soul(Shame to my manhood!), this my final dayHas seen no monster slain. Ah, woe is me!My life is squandered--and for no return.O thou, whose rule is over all the world;Ye gods of heaven who have beheld my deeds;O earth, is't fitting that your HerculesShould die by such a death? Oh, cruel shame!Oh, base and bitter end--that fame should sayGreat Hercules was by a woman slain,He who in mortal combat has o'ercomeSo many men and beasts! If changeless fateHad willed that I by woman's hand should die,And if to such base end my thread of life,Alas, must lead, Oh, that I might have fallenBy Juno's hate. 'Twould be by woman's hand,But one who holds the heavens in her sway.If that, ye gods, were more than I should ask,The Amazon, beneath the Scythian skiesBrought forth, might better have o'ercome my strength.But by what woman's hand shall I be said,Great Juno's enemy, to have been slain?This is for thee, my stepdame, deeper shame.Why shouldst thou call this day a day of joy?What baleful thing like this has earth producedTo sate thy wrath? A mortal woman's hateHas far excelled thine own. 'Twas late thy shame,To feel thyself by Hercules aloneOutmatched; but now must thou confess thyselfBy two o'ercome. Shame on such heavenly wrath!Oh, that the Nemean lion of my bloodHad drunk his fill, and Oh, that I had fedThe hydra with his hundred snaky headsUpon my gore! Oh, that the centaurs fierceHad made a prey of me; or 'midst the shadesI, bound upon the everlasting rock,Were sitting, lost in misery! But no:From every distant land I've taken spoil,While fate looked on amazed; from hellish StyxHave I come back to earth; the bonds of DisI have o'ercome. Death shunned me everywhere,That I might lack at last a glorious end.Alas for all the monsters I have slain!Oh, why did not three-headed Cerberus,When he had seen the sunlight, drag me backTo hell? Why, far away 'neath western skies,Did not the monstrous shepherd lay me low?And those twin serpents huge--ah, woe is me,How often have I 'scaped a glorious death!What honor comes from such an end as this?

Chorus: Dost see how, conscious of his fame,He does not shrink from Lethe's stream?Not grief for death, but shame he feelsAt this his cause of death; he longsBeneath some giant's vasty bulkTo draw his final breath, to feelSome mountain-heaving Titan's weightOppressing him, to owe his deathTo some wild, raging beast. But no,Poor soul, because of thine own handThere is no deadly monster more.What worthy author of thy death,Save that right hand of thine, is left?

Hercules: Alas, what Scorpion, what Cancer, tornFrom Summer's burning zone, inflames my breast?My lungs, once filled with pulsing streams of blood,Are dry and empty now; my liver burns,Its healthy juices parched and dried away;And all my blood is by slow creeping firesConsumed. Destruction on my skin feeds first,Then deep within my flesh it eats its way,Devours my sides, my limbs and breast consumes,Dries up the very marrow of my bones.There in my empty bones the pest remains;Nor can my massive frame for long endure,But even now, with broken, crumbling joints,Begins to fall away. My strength is gone,And e'en the limbs of mighty HerculesAre not enough to satisfy this pest.Alas, how mighty must that evil be,When I confess it great! Oh, cruel wrong!Now see, ye cities, see what now remainsOf famous Hercules. Dost know thy son,O father Jove? Was't with such arms as theseThat I crushed out the Nemean monster's life?Did this hand stretch that mighty bow of mineWhich brought to earth from out the very starsThe vile Stymphalian birds? These sluggish feet--Did they outstrip the swiftly fleeing stag,With golden antlers gleaming on his head?Did rocky Calpe, shattered by these hands,Let out the sea? So many monstrous beasts,So many cruel men, so many kings--Did these poor hands of mine destroy them all?Upon these shoulders did the heavens rest?Is this my mighty frame? Is this my neck?Are these the hands which once the tottering skiesUpheld? Oh, can it be that ever IThe Stygian watchdog dragged into the light?Where are those powers, which ere their proper timeAre dead and buried? Why on JupiterAs father do I call? Why, wretched one,Do I lay claim to heaven by right of him?For now, Oh, now will I be thought the sonOf old Amphitryon. O deadly pest,Whate'er thou art which in my vitals lurk'st,Come forth. Why with a hidden agonyDost thou afflict my heart? What Scythian seaBeneath the frozen north, what Tethys slow,What Spanish Calpe nigh the Moorish shoreBegot and brought thee forth? O evil dire!Art thou some crested serpent brandishingIts hideous head; or some fell thing of illAs yet unknown to me, produced perchanceFrom Hydra's poisonous gore, or left on earthBy Cerberus, the deadly dog of Styx?Oh, every ill art thou, and yet no ill.What are thy form and features? Grant at leastThat I may know the thing by which I die.Whate'er thy name, whatever monster thou,Come out, and show thy terror to my face.What enemy has made a way for theeUnto my inmost heart? Behold my handsHave torn aside my burning skin and soMy bleeding flesh disclosed. But deeper yetIts hiding-place. Oh, woe invincibleAs Hercules! But whence these grievous cries?And whence these tears which trickle down my cheeks?My face, unmoved by grief, has never yetBeen wet with tears; but now, Oh, shame to me,Has learned to weep. Where is the day, the land,That has beheld the tears of Hercules?Dry-eyed have I my troubles ever borne.To thee alone, dire pest, to thee aloneThat strength has yielded which so many illsHas overcome. Thou first, yea, first of allHast forced the tear-drops from these stubborn eyes.For, harder than the bristling crag, or steel,Or than the wandering Symplegades,Hast thou my stern face softened, and my tears,Unwilling, forced to flow. And now the world,O thou most mighty ruler of the skies,Has seen me giving way to tears and groans;And, that which brings me greater anguish still,My stepdame too has seen. But lo, againThe scorching heat flames up and burns my heart.Oh, slay me, father, with thy heavenly dart.

Chorus: Where is the strength that can withstandThe power of suffering? But nowMore hard than Thracian Haemus' crags,Sterner than savage northern skies,He is by agony subdued.His fainting head upon his breastFalls low; his massive frame he shiftsFrom side to side; now and againHis manly courage dries his tears.So, with however warm a flameBright Titan labors to dissolveThe arctic snows, still are his firesBy those bright, icy rays outshone.

Hercules: O father, turn and look upon my woes.Never till now has great Alcides fledTo thee for aid; not when around my limbsThe deadly hydra, fertile in its death,Its writhing serpents folded. 'Mid the poolsOf hell, by that thick pall of death I stoodSurrounded close; and yet I called thee not.How many dreadful beasts have I o'ercome,How many kings and tyrants; yet my faceHave I ne'er turned in suppliance to the sky.This hand of mine alone has been the godWho heard my prayers. No gleaming thunderboltsHave ever flashed from heaven on my account.But now at last has come a woeful timeWhich bids me ask for aid. This day, the firstAnd last, shall hear the prayers of Hercules.One thunderbolt I ask, and only one.Consider me a giant storming heaven.Yea, heaven I might have stormed in very truth;But, since I deemed thee sire, I spared the skies.Oh, whether thou be harsh or merciful,Stretch forth thy hand and grant me speedy death,And gain this great renown unto thy name.Or, if thy righteous hand refuse a taskSo impious, send forth from SicilyThose burning Titans, who with giant handsMay Pindus huge upheave, and Ossa too,And overwhelm me with their crushing weight.Let dire Bellona burst the bars of hell,And with her gleaming weapon pierce my heart;Or let fierce Mars be arméd for my death;He is my brother; true, but Juno's son.Thou also, sprung from father Jove, and soAlcides' sister, bright Athene, come,And hurl thy spear against thy brother's breast.And e'en to thee I stretch my suppliant hands,O cruel stepdame; thou at least, I pray,Let fly thy dart (so by a woman's handI may be slain), thine anger soothed at last,Thy thirst for vengeance sated. Why dost thouStill nurse thy wrath? Why further seek revenge?Behold Alcides suppliant to thee,Which no wild beast, no land has ever seen.But now, O Juno, when I need thy wrath,Is now thine anger cooled, thy hate forgot?Thou giv'st me life when 'tis for death I pray.O lands, and countless cities of the earth,Is there no one among you all to bringA blazing torch for mighty Hercules?Will no one give me arms? Why take awayMy weapons from my hands? Then let no landBring forth dire monsters more when I am dead,And let the world not ask for aid of mine.If other ills are born into the world,Then must another savior come as well.Oh, bring ye heavy stones from every sideAnd hurl them at my wretched head; and soO'erwhelm at last my woes. Ungrateful world,Dost thou refuse? Hast thou forgot me quite?Thou wouldst thyself have been a helpless preyTo evil monsters, had not I been born.Then, O ye peoples, rescue me from ill,Your champion. This chance is given you,By slaying me to cancel all you owe.

Alcmena: Where shall Alcides' wretched mother go?Where is my son? Lo, if I see aright,Yonder he lies with burning fever tossedAnd throbbing heart. I hear his groans of pain.Ah me, his life is at an end. My son,Come, let me fold thee in a last embrace,And catch thy parting spirit in my mouth;These arms of mine upon thine own I'll lay.But where are they? Where is that sturdy neckWhich bore the burden of the starry heavens?What cause has left to thee so small a partOf thy once massive frame?

Hercules: Thou seest, indeed,The shadow and the piteous counterfeitOf thine Alcides. Come, behold thy son.But why dost turn away and hide thy face?Art thou ashamed that such as I am calledThy son?

Alcmena: What land, what world has given birthTo this new monster? What so dire a thingHas triumphed over mighty Hercules?Hercules: By my own wife's deceits am I undone.

Alcmena: What fraud is great enough to conquer thee?

Hercules: Whate'er is great enough for woman's wrath.

Alcmena: How got the pest so deep within thy frame?

Hercules: Through a poisoned robe sent by a woman's hands.

Alcmena: Where is the robe? I see thy limbs are bare.

Hercules: With me 'tis all consumed.

Hercules: I tell thee, mother, through my vitals roamThe hydra and a thousand poisonous beasts.What flames as hot as these invade the cloudsO'er Aetna's top? What glowing Lemnian fires,What torrid radiance of the burning heavens,Within whose scorching zone the day comes not?O comrades, take and throw me in the sea,Or in the river's rushing stream--alas,Where is the stream that will suffice for me?Though greater than all lands, not ocean's selfCan cool my burning pains. To ease my woeAll streams were not enough, all springs would fail.Why, O thou lord of Erebus, didst thouTo Jove return me? Better had it beenTo hold me fast. Oh, take me back again,And show me as I am to those fell shadesWhom I subdued. Naught will I take away.Thou hast no need to fear Alcides more.Come death, attack me; have no fear of me;For I at length am fain to welcome thee.

Alcmena: Restrain thy tears at least; subdue thy pains.Come, show thyself unconquered still by woe;And death and hell, as is thy wont, defy.

Hercules: If on the heights of Caucasus I layIn chains, to greedy birds of prey exposed,While Scythia wailed in sympathy with me,No sound of woe should issue from my lips;Or should the huge, unfixed SymplegadesTogether clash and threaten me with death,I'd bear unmoved the threatened agony.Should Pindus fall upon me, Haemus too,Tall Athos which defies the Thracian seas,And Mimas at whose towering peaks are hurledThe bolts of Jove--if e'en the sky itselfShould fall upon my head, and Phoebus' carIn blazing torture on my shoulders lie:No coward cry of pain would ever showThe mind of Hercules subdued. Nay more:Although a thousand monstrous beasts at onceShould rush upon and rend me limb from limb;Though here Stymphalus' bird with clangor wild,And there with all his strength the threat'ning bull,And all fierce, monstrous things, should press me hard;Nay, though the very soil of earth should riseAnd shriek its rage at me from every side;Though Sinis dire should hurl me through the air:Though sore bestead and mangled, still would IIn silence bear it all. No beasts, no arms,No weapon wielded by the hand of man,Could force from me a single word of pain.

Alcmena: No woman's poison burns thy limbs, my son;But thy long years of work, thy constant toils,Have for thy woe some evil sickness bred.

Hercules: Sickness, say'st thou? Where may this sickness be?Does any evil still upon the earthExist, with me alive? But let it come.Let someone quickly bring my bow to me--But no: my naked hands will be enough.Now bid the monster come.

Alcmena: Alas, his pains,Too great, have reft his senses quite away.Remove his weapons, take those deadly shaftsOut of his reach, I pray. His burning cheeksSome violence portend. Oh, where shall I,A helpless, agéd woman hide myself?That grief of his has changed to maddened rage,And that alone is master of him now.Why should I, therefore, foolish that I am,Seek hiding-place or flight? By some brave handAlcmena has deserved to meet her death.So let me perish even impiously,Before some craven soul command my death,Or some base creature triumph over me.But see, outworn by woe, his weary heartIs in the soothing bonds of slumber bound;His panting chest with labored breathing heaves.Have mercy, O ye gods. If ye from meHave willed to take my glorious son, at leastSpare to the world, I pray, its champion.Let all his pains depart, and once againLet great Alcides' frame renew its strength.

Hyllus: O bitter light, O day with evil filled!Dead is the Thunderer's daughter, and his sonLies dying. I alone of all survive.By my own mother's crime my father dies,But she by guile was snared. What agéd man,Throughout the round of years, in all his life,Will e'er be able to recount such woes?One day has snatched away my parents both.But though I say naught of my other ills,And cease to blame the fates, still must I say:My sire, the mighty Hercules, is gone.

Alcmena: Restrain thy words, child of illustrious sire,And matched with sad Alcmena in her grief;Perchance long slumber will assuage his pain.But see, repose deserts his weary heart,And gives him back to suffering, me to grief.

Hercules [awakening in delirium]: Why, what is this? Do I withwaking eyesSee little Trachin on her craggy seat,Or, set amongst the stars, have I at lengthEscaped the race of men? Who opes for meThe gate of heaven? Thee, father, now I see,Thee, and my stepdame too at last appeased.What heavenly sound is this that fills my ears?Great Juno calls me son! Now I beholdThe gleaming palace of the heavenly world,And Phoebus' path worn by his burning wheels.I see night's couch; her shadows call me hence.But what is this? who shuts me out of heaven,And from the stars, O father, leads me down?I felt the glow of Phoebus on my face,So near to heaven was I; but now, alas,'Tis Trachin that I see. Oh, who to earthHas given me back again? A moment since,And Oeta's lofty peak stood far below,And all the world was lying at my feet.How sweet the respite that I had from thee,O grief. Thou mak'st me to confess--but stay,Let not such shameful words escape thy lips.This woe, my son, is of thy mother's gift.Oh, that I might crush out her guilty lifeWith my great club, as once the AmazonsI smote upon the snowy Caucasus.O well-loved Megara, to think that thouWast wife of mine when in that fit I fellOf maddened rage! Give me my club and bow;Let my hand be disgraced, and with a blotLet me destroy the luster of my praise--My latest conquest on a woman gained!

Hyllus: Now curb the dreadful threatenings of thy wrath;She has her wound--'tis over--and has paidThe penalty which thou wouldst have her pay:For now, self-slain, my mother lies in death.

Hercules: O grief, still with me! She deserved to dieBeneath the hands of angry Hercules.O Lichas, thou hast lost thy mate in death.So hot my wrath, against her helpless corpseI still would rage. Why does her body lieSecure from my assaults? Go cast it outTo be a banquet for the birds of prey.

Hyllus: She suffered more than even thou wouldst wish.Self-slain, and grieving sore for thee, she died.But 'tis not by a cruel wife's deceit,Nor by my mother's guile, thou liest low.By Nessus was this deadly plot conceived,Who, smitten by thine arrow, lost his life.'Twas in the centaur's gore the robe was dipped,And by thy pains he doth requite his own.

Hercules: Then truly are his pains well recompensed,And my own doubtful oracles explained.This fate the talking oak foretold to me,And Delphi's oracle, whose sacred voiceShook Cirrha's temples and Parnassus' slopes:"By hand of one whom thou hast slain, some day,Victorious Hercules, shalt thou lie low.This end, when thou hast traversed sea and land,And the realm of spirits, is reserved for thee."Now will we grieve no more; such end is meet;Thus shall no conqueror of HerculesSurvive to tell the tale. Now shall my deathBe glorious, illustrious, renowned,And worthy of myself. This final dayWill I make famous in the ears of men.Go, cut down all the woods, and Oeta's grovesBring hither, that a mighty funeral pyreMay hold great Hercules before he dies.And thee, dear son of Poeas, thee I askTo do this last, sad office for thy friend,And all the sky illumine with the flamesOf Hercules. And now to thee this prayer,This last request, Hyllus, my son, I make:Among my captives is a beauteous maid,Of noble breeding and of royal birth.'Tis Iole, the child of Eurytus.Her would I have thee to thy chamber leadWith fitting marriage rites; for, stained with blood,Victorious, I robbed her of her homeAnd fatherland; and in return, poor girl,Naught save Alcides have I given her;And he is gone. Then let her soothe her woesIn the embrace of him who boasts the bloodOf Jove and Hercules. Whatever seedShe has conceived of me let her to theeBring forth.And do thou cease thy plaints, I pray,For me, great mother; thy Alcides lives;And by my might have I my stepdame madeTo seem but as the concubine of Jove.Whether the story of the night prolongedAt Hercules' begetting be the truth,Or whether I was got of mortal sire--Though I be falsely called the son of Jove,I have indeed deserved to be his son;For I have honored him, and to his praiseMy mother brought me forth. Nay, Jove himselfIs proud that he is held to be my sire.Then cease thy tears, O mother; thou shalt beOf high degree among Argolic dames.For no such son as thine has Juno borne,Though she may wield the scepter of the skies,The Thunderer's bride. And yet, though holding heaven,She grudged Alcides to a mortal birth,And wished that she might call him son of hers.Now, Titan, must thou go thy way alone;For I, who have thy constant comrade been,Am bound for Tartara, the world of shades.Yet down to hell I bear this noble praise:That openly no monster conquered me,But that I conquered all--and openly.

Chorus: Bright sun, thou glory of the world,At whose first rays wan HecateUnyokes the weary steeds of night,To east and west the message tell;To those who suffer 'neath the Bear,And who, beneath thy burning carAre tortured: Hercules preparesTo speed him to the world of shades,The realm of sleepless Cerberus,Whence he will ne'er again return.Let thy bright rays be overcastWith clouds; gaze on the mourning worldWith pallid face; and let thy headIn thick and murky mists be veiled.When, Titan, where, beneath what sky,Shalt thou behold upon the earthAnother such as Hercules?Whom shall the wretched land invoke,If any hundred-headed pest,In Lerna born, spring up anewAnd spread destruction; if againSome boar in ancient ArcadyInfest the woods; or if againSome son of Thracian Rhodope,With heart more hard than the frozen landsThat lie 'neath snowy Helice,Should stain his stalls with human gore?Who will give peace to the trembling folkIf angry gods with monstrous birthShould curse the world again? Behold,The mate for common man he lies,Whom earth produced a mate for Jove.Let lamentations loud resoundThrough all the world; with streaming hairLet women smite their naked arms;Let all the temples of the godsBe closed save Juno's; she aloneIs free from care.To Lethe and the Stygian shoreNow art thou going, whence no keelWill ever bring thee back. Thou goest,Lamented one, unto the shades,Whence, death o'ercome, thou once return'dstIn triumph with thy prize; but now,An empty shade, with fleshless arms,Wan face, and slender, drooping neck,Thou goest back. Nor will the skiff(Which once bore only thee and fearedThat even so 'twould be o'erturned)Bear thee alone across the stream.But not with common shades shalt thouBe herded. Thou with AeacusAnd pious kings of Crete shalt sitIn judgment on the deeds of men,And punish tyrants. O ye kings,Be merciful, restrain your hands.'Tis worthy praise to keep the swordUnstained with blood; while thou didst reign,Upon thy realm to have allowedLeast privilege to bloody fate.But place among the stars is givenTo manly virtue. Shalt thou holdThy seat within the northern skies,Or where his fiercest rays the sunSends forth? Or in the balmy westWilt shine, where thou mayst hear the wavesOn Calpe's shore resound? What placeIn heaven serene shalt thou obtain?When great Alcides is receivedAmong the stars, who will be freeFrom fear? May Jove assign thy placeFar from the raging Lion's seat,And burning Crab, lest at sight of theeThe frightened stars confuse their lawsAnd Titan quake with fear.So long as blooming flowers shall comeWith wakening spring; while winter's frostsStrip bare the trees, and summer sunsReclothe them with their wonted green;While in the autumn ripened fruitsFall to the ground: no lapse of timeShall e'er destroy thy memoryUpon the earth. For thou shalt liveAs comrade of the sun and stars.Sooner shall wheat grow in the sea,Or stormy straits with gentle wavesBeat on the shore; sooner descendThe Bear from out his frozen skyAnd bathe him in forbidden waves:Than shall the thankful people ceaseTo sing thy praise.And now to thee,O father of the world, we pray:Let no dread beast be born on earth,No monstrous pest; keep this poor worldFrom abject fear of heartless kings;Let no one hold the reins of powerWho deems his kingdom's glory liesIn the terror of his naked sword.But if again some thing of dreadAppear upon the earth, Oh, give,We pray, another champion.But what is this? The heavens resound.Behold Alcides' father mourns,He mourns his son. Or is't the soundOf grieving gods, or the cry of fearOf the timid stepdame? Can it beThat at the sight of HerculesGreat Juno flees the stars? PerchanceBeneath the added weight of heavenTall Atlas reels. Or do the shadesCry out in fear of Hercules,While Cerberus with broken chainsIn panic flees the sight? Not so:Behold, 'tis Poeas' son, who comesWith looks of gladness. See, he bearsThe well-known quiver and the shaftsOf Hercules.