Hercules Oetaeus: Act V

Nurse: Speak out, good youth, and tell the end, I pray,Of Hercules. How did he meet his death?Philoctetes: More gladly than another meets his life.

Nurse: What? Did he then rejoice him in the fire?

Philoctetes: He showed that burning flames were naught to him.What is there in the world which HerculesHas left unconquered? He has vanquished all.

Nurse: What chance for glory on the funeral pyre?

Philoctetes: One evil thing remained upon the earthWhich he had not o'ercome--the power of fire.But this has now been added to the beasts,And fire is one of great Alcides' toils.

Nurse: But tell us in what way he conquered fire.

Philoctetes: When all his sorrowing friends began to fellThe trees on Oeta's slopes, beneath one handThe beech-tree lost its foliage and lay,Its mighty trunk prone on the ground. One handWith deadly stroke attacked the towering pine,Which lifted to the stars its threatening top,And called it from the clouds. In act to fall,It shook its rocky crag, and with a crashWhelmed all the lesser forest in its fall.Within the forest was a certain oak,Wide-spreading, vast, like that Chaonian treeOf prophecy, whose shade shuts out the sun,Embracing all the grove within its arms.By many a blow beset, it groans at firstIn threatening wise, and all the wedges breaks;The smiting axe bounds back, its edges dulled,Too soft for such a task. At length the tree,Long wavering, falls with widespread ruin down.Straightway the place admits the sun's bright rays;The birds, their tree o'erthrown, fly twittering round,And seek their vanished homes on wearied wing.Now every tree resounds; even the oaksFeel in their sacred sides the piercing steel,Nor does its ancient sanctity protectThe grove. The wood into a pile is heaped;Its logs alternate rising high aloft,Make all too small a pyre for Hercules:The pine inflammable, tough-fibered oak,The ilex' shorter trunks. But poplar trees,Whose foliage adorned Alcides' brow,Fill up the space and make the pyre complete.But he, like some great lion in the woodsOf Libya lying, roaring out his pain,Is borne along--but who would e'er believeThat he was hurrying to his funeral pyre?His gaze was fixed upon the stars of heaven,Not fires of earth, when to the mount he cameAnd with his eyes surveyed the mighty pyre.The great beams groaned and broke beneath his weight.Now he demands his bow. "Take this," he said,"O son of Poeas, take this as the giftAnd pledge of love from Hercules to thee.These deadly shafts the poisonous hydra felt;With these the vile Stymphalian birds lie low;And every other monster which I slewWith distant aim. O noble youth, go onIn victory, for never 'gainst thy foesShalt thou send these in vain. Wouldst wish to bringBirds from the very clouds? Down shall they fall,And with them come thine arrows sure of prey.This bow shall never disappoint thy hand.Well has it learned to poise the feathered shaftAnd send it flying in unerring course.The shafts themselves as well, loosed from the string,Have never failed to find their destined mark.But do thou in return, my only prayer,Bring now the funeral torch and light the pyre.This club," he said, "which never hand but mineHas wielded, shall the flames consume with me.This weapon, only, shall to HerculesBelong. But this, too, thou shouldst have from meIf thou couldst bear its weight. But let it serveTo aid its master's pyre." Then he requiredThe shaggy spoil of the dire Nemean beastTo burn with him. The huge skin hid the pyre.Now all the gazing crowd begin to groan,And tears of woe to fall from every eye.His mother bares her breast in eager griefAnd smites her body stripped e'en to the loinsFor unrestrained lament; then all the godsAnd Jupiter himself she supplicates,While all the place re-echoes with her shrieks."Thou dost disgrace the death of Hercules,O mother, check thy tears," Alcides said;"Within thy heart thy woman's grief confine.Why shouldst thou make this day a time of joyFor Juno with thy tears? For she, be sure,Rejoices to behold her rival weep.Then this unworthy grief, my mother, check.It is not meet to abuse the breast that nursed,And the womb that bore Alcides." Thus he spake;Then with a dreadful cry, as when he ledThe awful dog throughout the towns of Greece,Returned triumphant o'er the shades of hell,Scorning the lord of death and death itself,So did he lay him down upon the pyre.What victor in his chariot ever shoneWith such triumphant joy? What tyrant kingWith such a countenance e'er uttered lawsUnto his subject tribes? So deep his calmOf soul. All tears were dried, our sorrows shamedTo silence, and we groaned no more to thinkThat he must perish. E'en Alcmena's self,Whose sex is prone to mourn, now tearless stood,A worthy mother of her noble son.

Nurse: But did he, on the verge of death, no prayerTo heaven breathe, no aid from Jove implore?

Philoctetes: With peaceful soul he lay, and scanned the skies,As searching from what quarter of the heavensHis sire would look on him, and thus he spake,With hands outstretched: "O father, whencesoe'erFrom heaven thou lookest down upon thy son--He truly is my father for whose sakeOne day of old was swallowed up in night--If both the bounds of Phoebus sing my praise,If Scythia, and all the sun-parched lands;If peace fills all the world; if cities groanBeneath no tyrant's hand, and no one stainsWith blood of guests his impious altar stones;If horrid crimes have ceased: then, take, I pray,My spirit to the skies. I have no fearOf death, nor do the gloomy realms of DisAffright my soul; but Oh, I blush with shameTo go, a naked shade, unto those godsWhom I myself aforetime overcame.Dispel the clouds and ope the gates of heaven,That all the gods may see Alcides burn.Though thou refuse me place among the stars,Thou shalt be forced to grant my prayer. Ah no:If grief can palliate my impious words,Forgive; spread wide the Stygian pools for me,And give me up to death. But first, O sire,Approve thy son. This day at least shall showThat I am worthy of the skies. All deedsWhich I have done before seem worthless now;This day shall prove me worthy, or condemn."When he had spoken thus he called for fire:"Come hither now, comrade of Hercules,With willing hand take up the funeral torch.Why dost thou tremble? Does thy timid handShrink from the deed as from an impious crime?Then give me back my quiver, coward, weak.Is that the hand which fain would bend my bow?Why does such pallor sit upon thy cheeks?Come, ply the torch with that same fortitudeThat thou dost see in me. Thy pattern take,Poor soul, from him who faces fiery death.But lo, my father calls me from the skyAnd opens wide the gates. O sire, I come!"And as he spake his face was glorified.Then did I with my trembling hand applyThe blazing torch. But see, the flames leap back,And will not touch his limbs. But HerculesPursues the fleeing fires. You would supposeThat Caucasus or Pindus was ablaze,Or lofty Athos. Still no sound was heardSave only that the flames made loud lament.O stubborn heart! Had Typhon huge been placedUpon that pyre, or bold Enceladus,Who bore uprooted Ossa on his back,He would have groaned aloud in agony.But Hercules amidst the roaring flamesStood up, all charred and torn, with dauntless gaze,And said: "O mother, thus 'tis meet for theeBeside the pyre of Hercules to stand.Such mourning fits him well. Now dost thou seemIn very truth Alcides' mother." There,'Midst scorching heat and roaring flames he stood,Unmoved, unshaken, showing naught of pain,Encouraging, advising, active still.His own brave spirit animated all.You would have thought him burning with desireTo burn. The crowd looked on in speechless awe,And scarce believed the flames to be true fire,So calm and so majestic was his mien.Nor did he hasten to consume himself;But when he deemed that fortitude enoughWas shown in death, from every hand he draggedThe burning logs which with least ardor glowed,Piled them together in a mighty fire,And to the very center of the blazeThe dauntless hero went. Awhile he stoodAnd feasted on the flames his eager eyes.Then from his heavy beard leaped gleaming fire.But even when the flames assailed his face,And licked his head with their hot, fiery tongues,He did not close his eyes.But what is this?'Tis sad Alcmena. With what signs of woeShe makes her way, while in her breast she bearsThe pitiful remains of Hercules.

Alcmena: Ye powers of heaven, I bid you fear the fates.How small a space Alcides' ashes fill!To this small compass has that giant come!O shining sun, how great a man has goneTo nothingness. Alas, this agéd breastIs large enough to be Alcides' tomb.Behold, his ashes scarce can fill the urn.How small his weight, upon whose shoulders onceThe dome of heaven lay, a burden light.Thou once didst go, my son, to Tartara,The farthest realms of death--and come again.Oh, when wilt thou a second time returnFrom that infernal stream? I ask thee notTo come again with spoil, nor bring againImprisoned Theseus to the light of day;But only that thou come again--alone.Will all the world, heaped on thee, hold thy shade,Or Cerberus avail to keep thee back?When wilt thou batter down the gates of hell,Or to what portals shall thy mother go?Where is the highway that leads down to death?E'en now thou tak'st thy journey to the shades,Which thou wilt ne'er retrace. Why waste the hoursIn vain complaints? And why, O wretched life,Dost thou endure? Why dost thou cling to day?What Hercules can I again bring forthTo Jupiter? What son so great as heWill ever call Alcmena mother? Oh,Too happy thou, my Theban husband, thouWho didst to gloomy Tartara descendWhile still Alcides lived; at thine approachThe infernal deities were filled with fearOf thee, though only the reputed sireOf Hercules. What land will welcome me,Now old and hated by all cruel kings(If any cruel king remains alive)?Oh, woe is me! Whatever orphaned sonLaments his sire will strive to seek revengeFrom me, and I shall be the prey of all.If any young Busiris or the sonOf dread Antaeus terrifies the land,His booty shall I be. If anyoneWould make reprisal for the Thracian steedsOf bloody Diomede, I shall be givenTo feed those cruel herds. Juno perchanceWill be by passion pricked to seek revenge.Now all her anger will be turned on me;For, though her soul no longer is disturbedBecause of Hercules, I still am left,Her hated rival. Ah, what punishmentWill she inflict, in fear lest I bring forthAnother son! The mighty HerculesHas made my womb a thing of terror still.Where shall Alcmena take herself? What place,What region of the universe will keep,What hiding-place conceal thy mother now,Since she is known through thee in every land?Shall I return unto my native shores,My wretched lares? There Eurystheus reigns.Shall I seek out my husband's city, Thebes,Ismenus' stream, and my own bridal bedWhere once, beloved, I saw great Jupiter?Oh, happy, far too happy had I been,If I myself, like Semele, had feltThe blasting presence of the thundering Jove!Oh, would that from my womb Alcides, too,Untimely had been torn! But now 'tis given,'Tis given to see my son with mighty JoveVying in praise; would that this might be given,To know from what fate he could rescue me.What people now will live remembering thee,O son? Ungrateful are they all alike.Cleonae shall I seek? the Arcadians,And the lands ennobled by thy mighty deeds?Here fell the serpent dire, here monstrous birds,Here fell the bloody king; and here, subduedBy thy right hand, the lion, who in heavenIs given a place, whilst thou in earth remain'st.If earth is grateful, then let every raceDefend Alcmena for thy sake. Shall ITo Thracian peoples go, to Hebrus' tribes?For this land, too, was by thy mighty worksDefended. Low the bloody stables lie,And low the kingdom; peace was granted it,What time the cruel king was overthrown.What land, indeed, has not gained peace through thee?Where shall I seek for thee a sepulcher,Unhappy, agéd woman that I am?Let all the world contend for these remainsCollected from the pyre of Hercules.What race, what temples, or what nations askFor them? Who asks to have Alcmena's load?What sepulcher, O son, what tomb for theeIs great enough? Naught save the world itself;And lasting fame shall be thine epitaph.But why, O soul of mine, art thou in fear?Thou hast the ashes of thy Hercules.Embrace his bones, and they will give thee help,Will be thy sure defense. For e'en the shadeOf great Alcides will make kings afraid.

Philoctetes: O mother of illustrious Hercules,Restrain the tears thou deemest due thy son;For neither grieving tears nor mournful prayersShould follow him who by his noble worthHas forced his way to heaven in spite of fate.Alcides' deathless valor checks your tears.

Alcmena: Why should I bate my grief? For I have lostMy savior, yea, the savior of the landAnd sea, and wheresoe'er the shining dayFrom his resplendent car, in east or west,Looks down upon the earth. How many sonsIn him, O wretched mother, have I lost!Without a kingdom, I could kingdoms give.I only, 'midst all mothers of the earth,Had never need of prayer; naught from the godsI asked, while Hercules remained alive;For what could his devotion not bestow?What god in heaven could e'er deny me aught?In my own hands was answer of my prayer;For what great Jove denied, Alcides gave.What mortal mother e'er bore such a son?A mother once with grief was turned to stone,When, 'midst her brood of fourteen children slain,She stood, one mother, and bewailed them all.To many families like hers my sonCould be compared. Till now for mother's griefA measure vast enough could not be found;But now will I, Alcmena, furnish it.Then cease, ye mothers, though persistent griefTill now has bidden you weep; though heavy woeHas turned your hearts to stone; and yield you allUnto my woes.Then come, ye wretched hands,And beat this agéd breast. But can it beThat thou alone canst for so great a lossLament, so old and worn, which all the worldWill presently attempt? Yet raise thy arms,However weary, to their mournful task.And to thy wailing summon all the earth,And so excite the envy of the gods.

Bewail Alcmena's son, the seedOf Jove, for whose conception, long,Day perished and the lingering dawnCombined two nights in one. But nowA greater than the day is dead.Ye nations, join in common grief,Whose cruel lords he bade descendTo Stygian realms, and lay asideTheir red swords reeking with the bloodOf subject peoples. With your tearsRepay his services; let earth,The whole round earth, with woe resound.Let sea-girt Crete bewail him, Crete,The Thunderer's belovéd land;Beat, beat your breasts, ye hundred tribes;Ye Cretans, Corybantes, nowClash Ida's cymbals; for 'tis meetTo mourn him thus. Now, now lamentHis funeral; for low he lies,A mate, O Crete, for Jove himself.Bewail the death of Hercules,Ye sons of Arcady, whose raceIs older than Diana's birth.Let your cries from high PartheniusAnd Nemea's halls resound afar;Let Maenala re-echo loudYour sounds of woe. The bristly boarWithin your borders overthrownDemands lament for Hercules;And the monster of Stymphalus' pool,Whose spreading wings shut out the day,By great Alcides' arrows slain.Weep thou, Cleonae, weep and wailFor him; for once the lion hugeWhich held your walls in terror, he,By his strong hand, o'ercame and slew.Ye Thracian matrons, beat your breasts,And let cold Hebrus resound to your beating.Lament for Alcides: no longer your childrenAre born for the stables; no longer your vitalsWild horses devour. O ye African lands,From Antaeus delivered, ye regions of SpainFrom Geryon saved, come, weep for your hero.Yea, all ye wretched nations, weepWith me and smite your breasts in woe,And let your blows be heard afar,By eastern and by western shores.Ye dwellers in the whirling sky,Ye gods above, do ye, too, weepThe fate of Hercules; for heYour heavens upon his shoulders bore,When Atlas, who was wont to bearThe spangled skies, was eased awhileOf his vast load. Where now, O Jove,Is the promised palace of the sky,Those heavenly heights? Alcides diesAnd is entombed--the common lot.How often has he spared for theeThe deadly thunderbolt of wrath!How seldom wast thou forced to hurlThy fires! But hurl 'gainst me at leastOne shaft, and think me Semele.And now, O son, hast thou obtainedThe fields Elysian, the shoreTo which the voice of nature callsAll nations? Or has gloomy StyxHemmed in thy way in vengeful wrathBecause of stolen Cerberus,And in the outer court of DisDo jealous fates detain thee still?Oh what a rout among the shadesAnd frightened manes must there be!Does Charon flee in his ghostly skiff?With flying hoofs do the Centaurs rushThrough the wandering shades? Does the hydra seekIn fear to plunge his snaky heads'Neath the murky waves? Do all thy tasksHold thee in fear?Ah me! Ah me!What foolish, raving madness this!I am mistaken quite. I knowThe shades and manes fear thee not;For neither does the tawny skinStripped from the fierce Argolic beastProtect thy left with its streaming mane,Nor do its savage teeth surroundThy head. Thy quiver with its dartsThou hast given away, and a weaker handWill aim thy bow. Alas, my son,Unarmed through the shades thou tak'st thy way;And with the shades shalt thou dwell for aye.

The Voice of Hercules [sounding from heaven]: Why, since I holdthe starry realms of sky,And have at last attained a heavenly seat,Dost thou by wailing bid me feel againMortality? Give o'er, since valor nowHas made for me a passage to the gods.

Alcmena [bewildered]: Whence fall upon my startled earsThese sounds? Whence come these thunder tonesThat bid me check my tears? Ah, nowI know that chaos is o'ercome.From Styx art thou once more returned,O son? And hast thou once againVanquished the grizzly power of death?Hast thou escaped the grim abodeOf death once more, the gloomy poolsWhere sailed the dark infernal skiff?Does Acheron's wan stream allowTo thee alone a backward way?And after death has greedy fateNo hold upon thy dauntless soul?Perchance thy way to hell was barredBy Pluto's self, who trembled soreFor his own realm? Upon the pyreOf blazing woods I saw thee lie;While to the stars the raging flamesShot up. Thou wast indeed consumed.Then why does not the far abodeOf death retain thy spirit still?What part of thee do trembling manes fear?Is e'en thy shade too terrible for Dis?

Hercules [his form now taking shape in the air above]: The poolsof grim Cocytus hold me not,Nor has the dusky skiff contained my ghost.Then cease thy mourning, mother; once for allHave I beheld the manes and the shades.The mortal part of me, the part thou gav'st,Was by the overmastering flames consumed;Thy part to fire, my father's part to heavenHas been consigned. Then cease thy loud laments,Which it were fitting to a worthless sonTo give. To inglorious souls such grief is due;For courage heavenward tends; base fear, to death.Hear now, as from the stars I prophesy:Soon shall the bloody king, Eurystheus, payFit penalty to thee for all his deeds;For over his proud head shalt thou be borneIn thy triumphant car. But now 'tis meetThat I return to the celestial realms;Alcides once again has conquered hell.

Alcmena: Stay but a little--ah, from my fond eyesHe has departed, gone again to heaven.Am I deceived, and do my eyes but dreamThey saw my son? My soul for very griefIs faithless still. Not so, thou art a god,And holdest even now the immortal skies.I trust thy triumph still. But quickly nowUnto the realm of Thebes will I repair,And proudly tell thy new-made godhead there.

Chorus: Never is glorious manhood borneTo Stygian shades. The brave live on,Nor over Lethe's silent streamShall they by cruel fate be drawn.But when life's days are all consumed,And comes the final hour, for themA pathway to the gods is spreadBy glory.Be thou with us yet,O mighty conqueror of beasts,Subduer of the world. Oh, stillHave thought unto this earth of ours.And if some strange, new monster comeAnd fill the nations with his dread,Do thou with forkéd lightnings crushThe beast; yea, hurl thy thunderboltsMore mightily than Jove himself.