Hercules on Oeta
Hercules Oetaeus
Headnote
Hercules on Oeta (Hercules Oetaeus) is the longest play transmitted under Seneca’s name — nearly two thousand lines — and the most disputed: its authenticity has been doubted since antiquity, and many scholars judge it the work of an imitator who built on the genuine Hercules Furens and on Sophocles’ Women of Trachis. It is nonetheless edited and cited as part of the Senecan corpus, and it carries the Stoic preoccupations of the rest to their furthest point: this is the tragedy in which the hero who has conquered every monster, every king, and death itself is destroyed by a poisoned robe and an honest mistake — and in which that destruction becomes an apotheosis. The play dramatizes the death of Hercules and his reception among the gods, and its real subject is the Stoic claim that virtue is immortal: that the body burns but the part owed to the father, the soul, rises to the stars.
The action opens not on Oeta but on the hero’s pride. Fresh from sacking Oechalia and killing its king Eurytus, Hercules stands before the altar and demands of Jupiter the heaven he thinks he has earned: he has cleansed the earth of beasts, walked out of the underworld alive, outrun the Sun, and now finds the sky itself too small for Juno’s hatred. He has also carried home a captive, Eurytus’ daughter Iole, and dispatches Lichas to fetch a robe for the thanksgiving sacrifice. The captive women of Oechalia answer with a long lyric on death as the one release for the wretched and on the invulnerability of the man who has unmade their world, and Iole laments her slaughtered father and her own fall from princess to slave.
The second act is the play’s tragic engine, and its heroine is Deianira, Hercules’ wife. Seeing Iole brought home, she is seized by a jealousy Seneca paints as a literal frenzy — worse than Scylla, worse than the hydra — and her Nurse tries in vain to reason her down through a long stichomythic exchange. The Nurse proposes magic; Deianira remembers a darker remedy. Years before, the centaur Nessus, shot by Hercules’ poisoned arrow as he tried to carry her off across the river Evenus, had given her his blood as a love-charm, with the dying instruction to smear it on a garment should her husband ever prefer another. She steeps the robe, sends it by Lichas, and prays to Cupid to turn Hercules’ love back to her. The choral ode that follows is the play’s Stoic centerpiece, a meditation on the perils of high fortune and the safety of the golden mean — the poor man’s untroubled sleep, the king ringed by fear and flattery, Phaethon and Icarus undone by flying too high.
The third act springs the trap. Deianira tests a scrap of the wool she used and watches it dissolve and foam in the sun, and her son Hyllus arrives with the news she already dreads: at the altar of Cenaean Jupiter the robe has fused to Hercules’ flesh, he has torn the herald Lichas apart and hurled him into the sea, and he is being carried home dying. Deianira, understanding what she has done, turns the whole apparatus of Senecan self-condemnation on herself — she rehearses the punishments of the damned and asks to take a place among the great murderesses, Medea, Procne, Althaea, the Danaids — and exits to her death, refusing her son’s plea that error is free of guilt. The chorus answers with the ode on Orpheus, whose song could move rivers, beasts, and the powers of the underworld but could not in the end keep Eurydice or make anything eternal; and from Orpheus’ lesson that “whatever is born can die” it modulates into a versified Stoic ekpyrosis, the dissolution of the whole cosmos when the last day comes.
The fourth act is the long agony. Hercules, brought home and waking from a swoon that briefly mistakes itself for apotheosis, rages against a death with no enemy in it — the unbearable shame that a woman, and not Juno, will be named the author of his end — and catalogues the labors that should have killed him and did not. He anatomizes the poison eating his marrow in some of the most extravagant physical writing in the corpus, begs his father for a single thunderbolt and is met with silence, and in his delirium nearly kills his mother Alcmena, who has come to him. The act turns on the recognition scene between mother and son and on Hyllus’ disclosure that the true author of the death is the dead centaur, working his revenge through Deianira’s hand.
The last act is the death and the deification. Hercules, told by Hyllus that Deianira has killed herself, accepts the old oracle of Dodona and Delphi that he would die by the hand of one he had slain, and orders a pyre built on Mount Oeta; he gives his bow to Philoctetes, the son of Poeas, who lights it. The chorus bids the Sun carry word of his death to every quarter of the earth and wonders where among the constellations he will be set. Philoctetes then narrates the death itself, the most serene in ancient tragedy: Hercules mounts the pyre as if it were a triumphal car, rebukes his mother’s tears, and burns without a cry while the flame itself seems to shrink from him. Alcmena enters carrying the urn and sings the great threnody — the giant reduced to a handful of ash, the mother who can find no land that will shelter the killer of tyrants’ tyrants — until the voice of the deified Hercules answers her from the stars: the fire has taken only what was mortal and his father’s part has gone to heaven. The play closes on the chorus’s Stoic creed — “never to the Stygian shades is illustrious valor borne” — and a prayer that the new god turn his lightning, more mightily than his father, against whatever monster next afflicts the world.
The translation renders the verse in clear modern English lines, keeping the line structure of the Latin and the line-for-line cut of the stichomythia — the Deianira-and-Nurse debate of Act 2, the rapid half-line exchanges, and the recognition duet of Hercules and Alcmena — and imposing no English meter or rhyme. The choral odes (the captives’ lament, the ode on the golden mean, the Orpheus ode with its cosmic dissolution, and the long Sun-ode of farewell) are left to register through their syntax. The gods are kept Roman (Jupiter and the Thunderer, Juno the stepmother, Dis and Pluto, Phoebus and Titan the Sun, Cupid, the Furies and Megaera), never Christianized, even where Hercules’ appeals to his “father” read quasi-monotheistically and his ascent reads almost like a Stoic divinization of the sage. Speakers and act-divisions are editorial (the manuscripts supply neither) and follow the standard tradition; the transmitted text is unusually corrupt in places, and a handful of half-lines and damaged passages are rendered for their evident sense. Section numbers track the line numbering by which the play is cited. The dense realia — the twelve labors and the lesser exploits, the geography from Calpe to the Ganges, the catalogue of mourning nations, the torments of Tartarus, and the giants of the closing similes — are preserved in the body, with named persons, places, peoples, and doctrines carried in the glossary.
Father of the gods, you whose bolt, shaken loose from your hand, both houses of Phoebus feel — reign now untroubled: I have brought you peace as far as Nereus forbids the lands to stretch; there is no more need to thunder. The treacherous kings lie dead, the savage tyrants; I have broken whatever it was yours to blast with lightning. But heaven, my father — is it still denied me? Everywhere, surely, I have proved myself worthy of Jove, and my stepmother herself has borne witness you are my father. Why then do you weave delays? Am I feared? Will Atlas not be able to bear Hercules laid upon him together with the sky? Why the stars, my father, why deny them? Death has surely sent me back to you; every evil has yielded that earth brought forth, or sea, or air, or the powers below: no lion roams the Arcadian towns, the Stymphalian bird is struck down, on Maenalus no beast is left; the slain serpent has drenched the golden grove, the hydra has laid down its strength, and the herds fat with the blood of guests, known to the Hebrus, I have broken, and dragged off the spoils of the Thermodontian foe. I have seen the fate of the silent dead, and not only returned — the trembling day saw black Cerberus, and he saw the sun. No Libyan Antaeus takes back his breath; Busiris fell before his own altars; Geryon was scattered by a single hand, and the bull, the terror of a hundred peoples. Whatever the hostile earth has borne has perished and been laid low by my right hand: against the angry gods it was not permitted to exist. If the world denies me beasts, my stepmother her wrath, give the son his father back now, or the stars to a brave man. I do not ask you to show the way — only grant it, father: I will find the road. Or if you fear the earth may conceive new beasts, let whatever evil there is make haste, while earth holds Hercules and sees him: for who will assail those evils, or who through the Argive cities will again be worthy of Juno’s hatred? I have brought my glories into safety; no land keeps silent about me: the cold race beneath the Scythian Bear has felt me, and the Indian beneath the Sun, the Libyan beneath the Crab; you, bright Titan, I call to witness: I have met you wherever you blaze, and your light could not keep pace with my triumphs — I outran the turnings of the sun, and the day halted within the bounds I set. Nature gave way; the earth failed my stride: it tired the first of us. Night and the uttermost chaos rushed upon me, and from there I came back to this world, the place from which no one turns back. I bore the threats of Ocean, and no tempest had the strength to shake the ship on whatever vessel I pressed — how small a fraction of me is Perseus? Now the empty sky can no longer suffice for your wife’s hatred, and the beasts I would subdue earth is afraid to conceive, and finds no monsters. Beasts are denied me: Hercules has begun to stand in a monster’s place; for how great the evils I have broken, how many crimes, unarmed! Whatever monstrous thing stood against me, my hands alone laid low; not as a youth did I fear the beasts, nor as an infant; whatever is commanded is a light thing, and no idle day has ever dawned for me. Oh, how many monsters, untaught, that no king set me against! My own valor pressed upon me, worse than Juno. But what does it profit to have made a fearless race? The gods have no peace: the wholly cleansed earth sees in heaven everything it feared — Juno has carried the beasts aloft. The slain Crab circles the burning zone and is borne as Libya’s star and feeds the harvests; the Lion hands the fleeting year to Astraea, and he, tossing the hot mane on his neck, dries the dripping south wind and snatches off the rain-clouds. See, now every beast has stormed the sky and gone before me: a victor, from the earth I look up at my own labors. Juno gave the stars to portents and to beasts before me, to make heaven a thing for me to fear; yet though she strew the world, though in her wrath she make heaven worse than the lands and worse than Styx, a place will be given to Alcides. If after the beasts, after the wars, after the Stygian dog I have not yet earned the stars, let Sicilian Pelorus touch the Hesperian flank, and there will now be one land; from there I will put the seas to flight: if you bid them join, let the Isthmus bring its waters together, and over the joined sea let Attic ships be carried by a new road. Let the world be changed: let the Hister run through new valleys, and the Tanais take new ways. Give me, Jupiter, give me at least the gods to guard: on the side that I will keep, you may lay aside your lightning — whether you bid me guard the icy pole or guard for you the burning region, count the gods on that side safe. Paean earned the Cirrhaean temples and his home in heaven by slaying one serpent: oh, how many times does Python lie dead within the hydra! Bacchus and Perseus have already brought themselves among the gods: but how small a part of the world is the conquered East, how small a beast the Gorgon? What son, born of you and a stepmother, has earned the stars by his own glories? I ask for the heaven I once carried.
Sator deorum, cuius excussum manu utraeque Phoebi sentiunt fulmen domus, secure regna— protuli pacem tibi, quacumque Nereus porrigi terras vetat, non est tonandum: perfidi reges iacent, saevi tyranni, fregimus quicquid fuit tibi fulminandum. sed mihi caelum, parens, adhuc negatur? parui certe Iove ubique dignus teque testata est meum patrem noverca, quid tamen nectis moras? numquid timemur? numquid impositum sibi non poterit Atlas ferre cum caelo Herculem? quid astra, genitor, quid negas? mors me tibi certe remisit, omne concessit malum quod terra genuit, pontus aer inferi: nullus per urbes errat Arcadias leo, Stymphalis icta est, Maenali nulla est fera; sparsit peremptus aureum serpens nemus et hydra vires posuit et notos Hebro cruore pingues hospitum fregi greges hostisque traxi spolia Thermodontiae. vidi silentum fata nec tantum redi, sed trepidus atrum Cerberum vidit dies et ille solem, nullus Antaeus Libys animam resumit, cecidit ante aras suas Busiris, una est Geryon sparsus manu taurusque populis horridus centum pavor. quodcumque tellus genuit infesta occidit meaque fusum est dextera: iratis deis non licuit esse. si negat mundus feras, animum noverca, redde nunc nato patrem, vel astra forti, nec peto ut monstres iter; permitte tantum, genitor: inveniam viam. vel si times ne terra concipiat feras, properet malum quodcumque, dum terra Herculem habet videtque: nam quis invadet mala aut quis per urbes rursus Argolicas erit Iunonis odio dignus? in tutum meas laudes redegi, nulla me tellus silet: me sensit ursae frigidum Scythicae genus Indusque Phoebo subditus, cancro Libys; te, clare Titan, testor: occurri tibi quacumque fulges, nec meos lux prosequi potuit -triumphos, solis excessi vices intraque nostras substitit metas dies. natura cessit, terra defecit gradum: lassata prior est. nox et extremum chaos in me incucurrit: inde ad hunc orbem redi, nemo unde retro est. tulimus Oceani minas, nec ulla valuit quatere tempestas ratem quamcumque pressi— pars quota est Perseus mei? iam vacuus aether non potest odio tuae sufficere nuptae quasque devincam feras tellus timet concipere nec monstra invenit. ferae negantur: Hercules monstri loco iam coepit esse; quanta enim fregi mala. quot scelera nudus! quicquid immane obstitit, solae manus stravere; nec iuvenis feras timui nec infans, quicquid est iussum, leve est, nec ulla nobis segnis illuxit dies. o quanta rudi monstra quae nullus mihi rex imperavit! institit virtus mihi Iunone peior, sed quid inpavidum genus fecisse prodest? non habent pacem dei: purgata tellus omnis in caelo videt quodcumque timuit: transtulit Iuno feras. ambit peremptus cancer ardentem plagam Libyaeque sidus fertur et messes alit; annum fugacem tradit Astraeae leo, at ille, iactans fervidam collo iubam, austrum madentem siccat et nimbos rapit. invasit omnis ecce iam caelum fera meque antecessit: victor e terris meos specto labores, astra portentis prius ferisque Iuno tribuit, ut caelum mihi faceret timendum, sparserit mundum licet caelumque terris peius ac peius Styge irata faciat, dabitur Alcidae locus. si post feras, post bella, post Stygium canem haud dum astra merui, Siculus Hesperium latus tangat Pelorus, una iam tellus erit; illinc fugabo maria: si iungi iubes, committat undas Isthmos, et iuncto salo nova ferantur Atticae puppes via. mutetur orbis, vallibus currat novis Hister novasque Tanais accipiat vias. da, da tuendos, Iuppiter, saltem deos: illa licebit fulmen a parte auferas, ego quam tuebor, sive glacialem polum, seu me tueri fervidam partem iubes, hac esse superos parte securos puta. Cirrhaea Paean templa et aetheriam domum serpente caeso meruit: o quotiens iacet Python in hydra! Bacchus et Perseus deis iam se intulere: sed quota est mundi plaga oriens subactus aut quota est Gorgon fera? quis astra natus laudibus meruit suis ex te et noverca? quem tuli mundum peto.
But you, Lichas, companion of Hercules’ labor, carry word of the triumphs — the conquered house of Eurytus, the kingdom brought low. You others, drive the cattle off, quickly, to where the headland of Cenaean Jupiter, raising his temple, looks out on the Euboean sea, to be dreaded when the south wind blows.
Equal to the gods is the man for whom day and fortune ran alike; he takes death’s part for the better when life is dragged out slowly amid groaning. Whoever has set beneath his feet the greedy fates and the boat of the last river, he will give no captive arms to chains nor come as a noble showpiece in the procession: never is that man wretched for whom it is easy to die. Though the raft fail him in mid-sea, when the African wind has driven out Boreas or Eurus the Zephyr, and they split the waters, he gathers no fragments of the shattered ship to hope for shore in the middle of the deep: he who can hand back his life at once, he alone cannot suffer shipwreck. But us a shameful gauntness holds, and tears, and hair befouled with our fatherland’s dust. No ravening flame, no crash has overwhelmed us: the fortunate you pursue, O Death, the wretched you flee. We stand on. And there will be no room, alas, for our country’s harvests, but room for woods; the fallen shrines will become the temples of a squalid hut. Now the cold Dolopian will lead his flocks here, where, buried and still warm, lies the ash that survives of leveled Oechalia; there, in that place, the poor Thessalian shepherd, playing untaught songs on his pipe, will sing of our days in a tearful strain; and in the few generations a god will draw to a close, men will ask where our country once stood. Happy, I dwelt by hearths that were not barren, nor on the hungry acres of Thessalian soil: to Trachis I am summoned, to stiffened rocks and thickets bristling on the parched ridges, a grove scarcely welcome even to the mountain-roaming herd. But those of us a better lot calls to servitude, either the swift Inachus will carry them off, or they will dwell within the Dircaean walls, where flows Ismenos, languid with his thin stream — here the mother of overweening Hercules had been wed. False is the tale of the twin nights, when the sky held its stars the longer, and Lucifer traded turns with Hesperus, and the Delian, slower, forbade the Sun to rise: what crag of Scythia, what stone, begot him? Did Rhodope bear you, savage Titan, did sheer Athos bear you, the wild Caspian beast that offered you her striped dugs to suck? His limbs are pierceable by no wounds: iron feels blunt against him, steel goes soft; the sword shatters on his naked body and the stone springs back; he scorns the fates and challenges death with his unconquered frame. No spear-points had power to fix him, no bow drawn with a Scythian reed, none of the weapons the cold Sarmatian bears, nor he who, set beneath the sun-bearing zone, near the Nabataean, aims his wounds — the Parthian, surer than Cnossian strokes. With his own body he battered down the walls of Oechalia. Nothing has the strength to stand against him; what he sets out to take is already taken — how few fell by a wound? His grimmer face stood in for death itself, and merely to have seen the menace of Hercules was enough. What huge Briareus, what swollen Gyas, when he stood upon the Thessalian rampart and thrust his snaky hands into the sky, froze stiff at such a face? Great rewards lie open to great disasters; nothing worse remains: we, the wretched, have seen Hercules in his wrath.
Par ille est superis cui pariter dies et fortuna fuit, mortis habet vices lente cum trahitur vita gementibus. quisquis sub pedibus fata rapacia et puppem posuit fluminis ultimi, non captiva dabit bracchia vinculis nec pompae veniet nobile ferculum: numquam est ille miser cui facile est mori. illum si medio decipiat ratis ponto, cum Borean expulit Africus aut Eurus Zephyrum, cum mare dividunt, non puppis lacerae fragmina conligit, ut litus medio speret in aequore: vitam qui poterit reddere protinus, solus non poterit naufragium pati. Nos turpis macies et lacrimae tenent et crinis patrio pulvere sordidus. nos non flamma rapax, non fragor obruit: felices sequeris, mors, miseros fugis, stamus, nec patriae messibus heu locus at silvis dabitur, lapsaque sordidae fient templa casae; iam gelidus Dolops hac ducet pecudes qua tepet obrutus stratae qui superest Oechaliae cinis, illo Thessalicus pastor inops loco indocta referens carmina fistula cantu nostra canet tempora flebili; et dum pauca deus saecula contrahet, quaeretur patriae quis fuerit locus, felix incolui non steriles focos nec ieiuna soli iugera Thessali: ad Trechina vocor, saxa rigentia et dumeta iugis horrida torridis, vix gratum pecori montivago nemus, at si quas melior sors famulas vocat, illas aut volucer transferet Inachus aut Dircaea colent moenia, qua fluit Ismenos tenui numine languidus— hic mater tumidi nupserat Herculis. Falsa est de geminis fabula noctibus, aether cum tenuit sidera longius commisitque vices Lucifer Hespero et Solem vetuit Delia tardior: quae cautes Scythiae, quis genuit lapis? num Titana ferum te Rhodope tulit, te praeruptis Athos, te fera Caspias, quae virgata tibi praebuit ubera? nullis vulneribus pervia membra sunt: ferrum sentit hebes, lentior est chalybs; in nudo gladius corpore frangitur et saxum resilit, fataque neglegit et mortem indomito corpore provocat, non illum poterant figere cuspides, non arcus Scythica tensus harundine, non quae tela gerit Sarmata frigidus aut qui soliferae suppositus plagae vicino Nabatae vulnera dirigit Parthus Gnosiacis certior ictibus, muros Oechaliae corpore propulit, nil obstare valet; vincere quod parat iam victum est— quota pars vulnere concidit? ’pro fato patuit vultus iniquior et vidisse sat est Herculeas minas, quis vastus Briareus, quis tumidus Gyas, supra Thessalicum cum stetit aggerem caeloque inseruit vipereas manus, hoc vultu riguit? commoda cladibus magnis magna patent; nil superest mali: iratum miserae vidimus Herculem.
But I, unhappy, do not bewail temples collapsed upon their gods, or scattered hearths, fathers burned mingled with their children, gods with men, temples with tombs; I lament no common calamity: to another grief my fortune calls my tears, the fates command me to weep over other ruins. What shall I mourn first? What last shall I groan for? I long to weep for all alike, and Earth gave me no more breasts to beat that the blows might sound out worthy of my fate. Make me, you gods above, the weeping rock of Sipylus, or set me on the banks of Eridanus, where the sorrowing wood of Phaethon’s sisters murmurs; set me among the Sicilian crags, where as a Thessalian Siren I may bewail my fate, or lift me into the Edonian woods, such as the Daulian bird that is wont to mourn her son beneath the Ismarian shade; fit a shape to my tears, and let rugged Trachis echo back my woes. Myrrha guards her Cyprian tears, a wife bewails her ravished Ceyx, the Tantalid was made to outlive herself, Philomela fled her own face, and the tearful Attic bird sings of her son: why do my arms not yet take on a bird’s feathers? Happy, happy I, when a wood shall be called our home, and perched, a bird, in my native field, I shall tell over my misfortunes in a plaintive murmur, and rumor will speak of Iole turned bird. I saw, I saw the pitiable fate of my father, when, struck by the death-dealing club, he lay scattered all across the hall: ah, had the fates but granted a tomb, how often, father, would I have had to seek you out? Could I bear to watch your death, your tender cheeks not yet clothed, nor yet with manly blood, Toxeus? Why do I lament your fates, my kin, whom an even-handed death has carried into safety? My own fortune asks my tears of me. Now, now, a captive, I shall take up my mistress’s distaff and spindles. O cruel beauty, O loveliness that will bring forth death for me, for you alone my whole house has fallen, while my father refused me to Alcides and feared to be Hercules’ father-in-law. But now let me make for my mistress’s house. Why, distraught, do you look back at the bright realm of your father, and at your own fall? Let your former fortune flee your sight; happy whoever has learned to bear slave and king alike, and can change the look upon his face. He has stripped the strength and weight from his troubles, the man who has borne his lot with an even mind.
At ego infelix non templa suis conlapsa deis sparsosve focos, natis mixtos arsisse patres hominique deos, templa sepulchris, nullum querimur commune malum: alio nostras fortuna vocat lacrimas, alias flere ruinas Me fata iubent. quae prima querar? quae summa gemam? pariter cuncta a deflere iuvat nec plura dedit pectora Tellus ut digna sonent verbera fatis, me vel Sipylum flebile saxum fingite, superi, vel in Eridani ponite ripis, ubi maesta sonat Phaetontiadum silva sororum; me vel Siculis addite saxis, ubi fata gemam Thessala Siren, vel in Edonas tollite silvas qualis natum Daulias ales solet Ismaria flere sub umbra; formam lacrimis aptate meis resonetque malis aspera Trachin, Cyprias lacrimas Myrrha tuetur, raptum coniunx Ceyca gemit, sibi Tantalis est facta superstes; fugit vultus Philomela suos. natumque sonat flebilis Atthis: cur mea nondum capiunt volucres bracchia plumas? felix, felix, cum silva domus nostra feretur, patrioque sedens ales in agro referam qnerulo murmure casus volucremque Iolen fama loquetur. Vidi, vidi miseranda mei fata parentis, cum letifero stipite pulsus tota iacuit sparsus in aula: a si tumulum fata dedissent, quotiens, genitor, quaerendus eras? potuine tuam spectare necem, nondum teneras vestite genas necdum forti sanguine, Toxeu? quid vestra queror fata, parentes, quos in tutum mors aequa tulit? mea me lacrimas fortuna rogat. Iam iam dominae captiva colus fusosque legam, pro saeve decor formaque mortem paritura mihi, tibi cuncta domus concidit uni, dum me genitor negat Alcidae atque Herculeus socer esse timet, sed iam dominae tecta petantur. Quid regna tui clara parentis casusque tuos respicis amens? fugiat vultus fortuna prior, felix quisquis novit famulum regemque pati vultusque suos variare potest. rapuit vires pondusque malis casus animo qui tulit aequo.
Oh, how bloodily frenzy goads women on, when one house has lain open to concubine and wife alike! Scylla, and Charybdis whirling the Sicilian straits, are less to be feared; no beast is not better than this. For when the beauty of the captive rival shone out and Iole blazed like a cloudless day, or a bright star sparkling on clear nights, the wife of Hercules stood like one possessed, glaring grimly; just as a tigress, lying pregnant beneath an Armenian crag, leaps up at the sight of a foe, or as a Maenad, bidden to shake the thyrsus, carrying the Lyaean god conceived within her, unsure where to bend her step, paused a moment. Through the halls of Hercules she is borne, thunderstruck; the whole house is scarcely room enough: she runs, she wanders, halts; into her face all her grief has come forth; almost nothing is left in the depths of her breast; weeping follows on her threats. No single look holds, nor does she rage content with one expression: now her cheeks flame. Pallor drives out the flush, and grief wanders through every shape: she complains, implores, groans. The doors have sounded: see, with headlong step she pours out the secrets of her mind in confused speech.
O quam cruentus feminas stimulat furor, cum patuit una paelici et nuptae domus! Scylla et Charybdis Sicula contorquens freta minus est timenda, nulla non melior fera est. namque ut reluxit paelicis captae decus et fulsit Iole qualis innubis dies purisve clarum noctibus sidus micat, stetit furenti similis ac torvum intuens Herculea coniunx; feta ut Armenia iacens sub rupe tigris hoste conspecto exilit aut iussa thyrsum quatere conceptum ferens Maenas Lyaeum, dubia quo gressus ferat haesit parumper; tura per Herculeos lares attonita fertur; tota vix satis est domus: incurrit, errat, sistit, in voltus dolor processit omnis, pectori paene infimo nihil est relictum; fletus insequitur minas. nec unus habitus durat aut uno furit contenta voltu: nunc inardescunt genae. pallor ruborem pellit et formas dolor errat per omnes: queritur, implorat, gemit. sonuere postes: ecce praecipiti gradu secreta mentis ore confuso exerit.
Whatever quarter of the ethereal seat you tread, wife of the Thunderer, send against Alcides a beast that may be enough for me. If somewhere a serpent vaster than the whole marsh stirs its teeming head, that knows not how to be conquered; if anything has outgrown the beasts — monstrous, dread, horrible, at whose sight Hercules would turn his eyes away — let it come out of its vast cave; or, if beasts are denied, this soul of mine, I pray, turn into something: with this mind I can become any evil you please; lend me a shape to match my grief; my breast cannot hold its threats. Why do you ransack the recesses of the farthest earth and turn the world over? Why beg evils of Dis? All the beasts she could dread you will find within this breast; take up this weapon for your hatred: let me be the stepmother — through me you can destroy Alcides; carry my hands wherever you will. Why hold back, goddess? Use me in my frenzy! What unspeakable deed do you command? I have found it. Why do you delay? Now you yourself may stop — this wrath is enough.
Quamcumque partem sedis aetheriae premis, coniunx Tonantis, mitte in Alciden feram quae mihi satis sit. si qua fecundum caput palude tota vastior serpens movet, ignara vinci, si quid excessit feras immane dirum horribile, quo viso Hercules avertat oculos, hoc specu immenso exeat, vel si ferae negantur, hanc animam precor converte in aliquod: quodlibet possum malum hac mente fieri, commoda effigiem mihi parem dolori: non capit pectus minas, quid excutis telluris extremae sinus orbemque versas? quid rogas Ditem mala? omnes in isto pectore invenies feras quas timeat; odiis accipe hoc telum tuis: ego sim noverca, perdere Alciden potes: perfer manus quocumque; quid cessas, dea? utere furente! quod iubes fieri nefas? reperi, quid haeres? ipsa" iam cesses licet, haec ira satis est.
Calm the surge of a heart too little sound, my child, and master your flames; rein in your grief; show yourself the wife of Hercules.
Pectoris sani parum aestus, alumna, comprime et flammas doma; frena dolorem, coniugem ostende Herculis.
Will Iole, a captive, give brothers to my children, and from a slave-girl will there come a daughter-in-law for Jove? Will flame and torrent run their course together, and the dry Bear drink the blue sea? I will not go unavenged: though you have borne the sky and the whole world owes its peace to you. There is something worse than the hydra: the grief of an angry wife. What fire so great rages skyward from burning Etna? Whatever has been conquered by you, this spirit will conquer. Shall a captive snatch my marriage-bed? Until now I feared monsters; now there is no evil left: the plagues are gone, and into the beast’s place has come a hated rival. O supreme ruler of the gods, and bright Titan, I was the wife of Hercules only while he was in danger; the vows I offered the gods have gone to the captive; I was fortunate for my rival’s sake; for her you heard my prayers, O gods above, for her he comes back unharmed. O grief content with no penalty, seek out tortures dread, unthought-of, unspeakable; teach Juno what hatred can do: she does not know how to rage enough. For me you waged your wars; because of me Achelous stained his wandering waters with his own blood, when now he turned into a sluggish serpent, now, laying the serpent by, bent his menace into a savage bull, and in one foe you conquered a thousand beasts. Now I am out of favor; a captive is preferred to me. She shall not be preferred: the day that will be the last of our marriage, this will be the last of your life. What is this? My spirit withdraws and lays down its threats; now my anger fails. Why, wretched grief, do you grow faint? You are losing your frenzy; once again you give me back the loyalty of a silent wife. Why forbid the flames to be fed? Why break the fires? Keep this onset for me, let us go as equals; there will be no need of prayers: the stepmother will be at hand to guide my hands, even unsummoned.
Iole meis captiva germanos dabit natis Iovisque net ex famula nurus? num flamma cursus pariter et torrens ferent et ursa pontum sicca caeruleum bibet? non ibo inulta: gesseris caelum licet totusque pacem debeat mundus tibi. est aliquid hydra peius: iratae dolor nuptae, quis ignis tantus in caelum furit ardentis Aetnae? quicquid est victum tibi hic vincet animus, capta praeripiet toros? adhuc timebam monstra, iam nullum est malum: cessere pestes, in locum venit ferae invisa paelex, summe pro rector deum et clare Titan, Herculis tantum fui coniunx timentis; vota quae superis tuli, cessere captae, paelici felix fui, illi meas audistis, o superi, preces, incolumis illi remeat. o nulla dolor contente poena, quaere supplicia horrida, incogitata, infanda, Iunonem doce, quid odia valeant: nescit irasci satis. pro me gerebas bella, propter me vagas Achelous undas sanguine infecit suo, cum lenta serpens fieret, in taurum trucem nunc flecteret serpente deposita minas, et mille in hoste vinceres uno feras. iam displicemus, capta praelata est mihi. non praeferetur: qui dies thalami ultimus nostri est futurus, hic erit vitae tuae. quid hoc? recedit animus et ponit minas; iam cessat ira. quid miser langues dolor? perdis furorem, coniugis tacitae fidem mihi reddis iterum.— quid vetas flammas ali? quid fragilis ignes? hunc mihi serva impetum, pares eamus, non erit votis opus: aderit noverca quae manus nostras regat vel invocata.
What crime are you preparing, madwoman? Will you kill your husband, whose last day and first alike have known glories, whose fame, reared up to heaven, holds the lands below it? The land of the Greeks will rise up against this house, and your father’s house first, and the whole Aetolian race will be laid low; stones and torches even now will be hurled at you; every land will defend its own champion: how many penalties will you pay, alone? Suppose you could escape the lands and the human race — the father of Alcides wields the lightning: see now the threatening firebrands move across the sky, and the day thundering, its bolt let fly. Fear even death itself, which you think safe: there your Alcides’ uncle holds dominion. Wherever you turn, poor woman, you will see there the kindred gods.
Quod paras demens scelus? perimes maritum, cuius extremus dies primusque laudes novit et caelo tenus erecta terras fama suppositas habet? Graiorum in istos terra consurget lares domusque soceri prima et Aetolum genus sternetur omne, saxa iam dudum ac faces in te ferentur, vindicem tellus suum defendet omnis: una quot poenas dabis? effugere terras crede et humanum genus te posse, fulmen genitor Alcidae gerit: iam iam minaces ire per caelum faces specta et tonantem fulmine excusso diem. mortem quoque ipsam, quam putas tutam, time: dominatur illic patruus Alcidae tui. quocumque perges, misera, cognatos deos illic videbis,
That a most monstrous crime is being done I confess myself; but grief commands it be done.
Maximum fieri scelus et ipsa fateor, sed dolor fieri iubet.
You will die —
Moriere,
I shall die the wife of Hercules, to be sure, and no day, once the night is scattered, will mark me out a widow, nor shall a captive concubine take my bed: sooner shall day be born out of the west, sooner shall the icy pole stain the Indians dark, or Phoebus with his warm wheel the Scythians, than the brides of Thessaly look on me cast aside; with my blood I will quench the wedding-torches. Let him die, or let him kill me; to the beasts he has crushed let him add a wife as well; among the labors of Hercules he may count me too: dying, at least, I will embrace Alcides’ bed with my own body. To go, to go to the shades as the bride of Hercules pleases me, but not unavenged: if Iole has conceived anything from my Hercules, I will tear it out with my own hands first, and fall upon my rival amid the very torches. Let him strike me down as a victim on his wedding day, in his hatred, so long as I fall upon Iole’s lifeless body. Happy he lies, whoever crushes those he hates.
Moriar Herculis nempe induti coniunx nec ullus nocte discussa dies viduam notabit nec meos paelex toros captiva capiet, ante ab occasu dies nascetur, Indos ante glacialis polus Scythasve tepida Phoebus inficiet rota, quam me relictam Thessalae aspiciant nurus, meo iugales sanguine extinguam faces. aut pereat aut me perimat; elisis feris et coniugem addat, inter Herculeos licet me quoque labores numeret: Alcidae toros moritura certe corpore amplectar meo. ire, ire ad umbras Herculis nuptam libet, sed nοn inultam: si quid ex nostro Hercule concepit Iole, manibus evellam meis ante et per ipsas paelicem invadam faces. me nuptiali victimam feriat die infestus, Iolen dum supra exanimem ruam. felix iacet quicumque quos odit premit.
Why do you yourself feed the flames and nurse a vast grief unbidden? Wretched woman, why fear in vain? He loved Iole — yes, while her father stood and he sought a king’s daughter; now the queen has fallen into a slave’s place: love has lost its strength, and her wretched condition has stripped much away from her. What is forbidden is loved; what is permitted loses its charm.
Quid ipsa flammas pascis et vastum foves ultro dolorem? misera, quid cassum times? dilexit Iolen: nempe cum staret parens regisque natam peteret, in famulae locum regina cecidit: perdidit vires amor multumque ab illa traxit infelix status. illicita amantur, excidit quicquid licet.
Worse fortune inflames love the more: he loves her the more for the very fact she lacks her father’s home, that her hair lies bare of gold and jewels; in pity, perhaps, he loves her very hardships; this is Hercules’ habit: he loves the women he takes captive.
Fortuna amorem peior inflammat magis: amat vel ipsum quod caret patrio lare, quod nudus auro crinis et gemma iacet, ipsas misericors forsan aerumnas amat; hoc usitatum est Herculi: captas amat.
The sister of Dardanian Priam, his beloved, was handed over as a slave; add how many wives before, how many maidens he loved: he roamed and strayed. The Arcadian maid — Auge — while she wove Pallas’s dances, suffered his violence and was cast off, and Hercules keeps no mark of that love. Why recall the others? The daughters of Thespius lie forgotten, and Alcides burned for them with a brief flame. A guest on Tmolus, he cherished the Lydian woman and, captured by love, sat at the light distaffs, twisting the damp thread with his fierce hand. Yes, that neck laid aside the beast’s spoils, a turban bound his hair, and he stood a slave, his rough hair sleeked with Sabaean myrrh — everywhere he has burned, but burned with a passing flame. Lovers, after their roving fires, are wont to settle. Will he prefer a slave, an enemy’s daughter, to you?
Dilecta Priami nempe Dardanii soror concessa famula est; adice quot nuptas prius, quot virgines dilexit: erravit vagus. Arcadia nempe virgo, Palladios choros dum nectit, Auge, vim stupri passa excidit nullamque amoris Hercules retinet notam. referam quid alias? nempe Thespiades vacant brevique in illas arsit Alcides face. hospes Timoli Lydiam fovit nurum et amore captus ad leves sedit colus, udum feroci stamen intorquens manu. nempe illa cervix spolia deposuit ferae crinemque mitra pressit et famulus stetit, hirtam Sabaea marcidus myrrha comam ubique caluit, sed levi caluit face. Haerere amantes post vagos ignes solent. Faraulamne et hostis praeferet gnatam tibi?
As the trees’ high beauty holds the woods green in spring, when the first warmth clothes the grove that was bare, but when Boreas has driven out the loosened south winds and savage winter has shaken down all their leaves, you see the grove made ugly, with bare trunks alone: so our beauty, running its long road, always loses something and shines the less, and is no longer what it was. Whatever in me was once sought after has fallen, or is slipping likewise. Age, the elder, with quickened step has stolen much, and motherhood has snatched much of it away from me. Do you see how the slave loses none of her high beauty? All adornment is gone, and squalor sits upon her; yet through her very hardships her beauty shines, and nothing has her downfall and heavy fate taken from her but her kingdom. This is the fear in my heart, nurse, that galls me; this is the dread that robs me of sleep. I was a wife renowned among all nations, and every bride longed for my marriage with envious prayer; whatever a mind might beg of any god — among Argive brides I was the measure of their wishing. What father-in-law equal to Jove, nurse, shall I have? What husband under this sky will be given me? Though Eurystheus himself, who commands Alcides, should join me to his own wedding-torches, it would be less; to have lost the bed of a king is a light thing: she has fallen far who lacks Hercules for a husband.
Vt alta silvas forma vernantes habet, quas nemore nudo primus investit tepor, at cum solutos expulit Boreas Notos et saeva totas bruma discussit comas, deforme solis aspicis truncis nemus: sic nostra longum forma percurrens iter deperdit aliquid semper et fulget minus nec illa vetus est. quicquid in nobis fuit olim petitum cecidit aut pariter labat. aetas citato senior eripuit gradu materque multum rapuit ex illo mihi. vides ut altum famula non perdat decus? cessere cultus penitus et paedor sedet; tamen per ipsas fulget aerumnas decor nihilque ab illa casus et fatum grave nisi regna traxit, hic meum pectus timor. altrix, lacessit, hic rapit somnos pavor. praeclara totis gentibus coniunx eram thalamosque nostros invido voto nurus optabat omnis, quaeve mens quicquam deos ’ orabat ullos: nuribus Argolicis fui mensura voti. quem Iovi socerum parem, altrix, habebo? quis sub hoc mundo mihi dabitur maritus? ipse, qui Alcidae imperat, facibus suis me iungat Eurystheus licet, minus est; toris caruisse regnantis leve est: alte illa cecidit quae viro caret Hercule.
Children commonly reconcile the hearts of the married.
Conciliat animos coniugum partus fere.
Perhaps that very offspring will divide our beds.
Hic ipse forsan dividet partus toros.
Meanwhile that slave-girl is led here as a gift to you.
Famula illa trahitur interim donum tibi.
This man you see going glorious through the cities, bearing the tawny spoils of the beast on his back, who gives kingdoms to the wretched and snatches them from the high, his grim hand weighed down with a vast club, whose triumphs the farthest Seres sing, and whoever else lies within the compass of the world — he is fickle, and the glory of renown does not goad him; he wanders the world, not to be made the equal of Jove, nor to walk in greatness through the Argive cities: he is looking for something to love, he makes for maidens’ chambers. If any is refused, she is seized; he rages against whole peoples, seeks brides amid ruins, and unbridled vice is given the name of virtue. Famed Oechalia has fallen, and one Sun, one day, saw it standing and falling; the cause of the war was love. A father will dread Hercules for his daughter’s sake as often as he refuses her; he is an enemy as often as he declines to be made a father-in-law: if he is not made a son-in-law, he strikes. After this, why do I keep these hands innocent, until he feigns madness and with savage hand bends his bow and cuts down me and my son? This is how Alcides drives out his wives, these are his divorces; and he cannot be made guilty: he has made the world believe his stepmother the cause of his own crimes. Why stand stunned, sluggish frenzy? The crime must be seized first: finish it while the hand is hot.
Hic quem per nrbes ire praeclarum vides et fulva tergo spolia -gestantem ferae, qui regna miseris donat et celsis rapit, vasta gravatus horridam clava manum, cuius triumphos ultimi Seres canunt et quisquis alius orbe † concepto iacet, levis est nec illum gloriae stimulat decof; errat per orbem, non ut aequetur Iovi nec ut per urbes magnus Argolicas eat: quod amet requirit, virginum thalamos petit. si qua est negata, rapitur; in populos furit, nuptas ruinis quaerit et vitium impotens virtus vocatur, cecidit Oechalia inclita unusque Titan vidit atque unus dies stantem et cadentem; causa bellandi est amor. totiens timebit Herculi natam parens quotiens negabit, hostis est quotiens socer fieri recusat: si gener non fit. ferit, post haec quid istas innocens servo manus, donec furentem simulet ac saeva manu intendat arcus meque natumque opprimat? sic coniuges expellit Alcides suas, haec sunt repudia; nec potest fieri nocens: terris videri sceleribus causam suis fecit novercam. quid stupes, segnis furor? scelus occupandum est: perage dum fervet manus.
Will you kill your husband?
Perimes maritum?
My rival’s husband, to be sure.
Paelicis certe meae.
But one begotten by Jove —
At Iove creatum,
And sprung from Alcmena too, no doubt.
Nempe et Alcmena satum.
With the sword?
Ferrone?
With the sword.
Ferro.
And if you cannot?
Si nequis?
I will kill him by guile.
Perimam dolo.
What madness is this?
Quis iste furor est?
The madness my husband teaches.
Quem meus coniunx docet.
Will you kill the man even his stepmother could not?
Quem nec noverca potuit, hunc perimes virum?
The wrath of heaven makes wretched those it crushes; human wrath makes no one wretched.
Caelestis ira quos premit, miseros facit: humana nullos,
Spare him, poor woman, and be afraid.
Parce, miseranda, et time.
He has scorned all things who has first scorned death; it pleases me to go upon the sword.
Contempsit omnes ille qui mortem prius; libet ire in enses.
Your grief, my child, is greater than the offense; let your hatred match the fault. Why decree savage penalties for moderate wrongs? Grieve as you were hurt.
Maior admisso tuus, alumna, dolor est; culpa par odium exigat. cur saeva modicis statuis? ut laesa es, dole.
Do you think a rival a light evil for a wife? Whatever feeds grief, count it excessive.
Leve esse credis paelicem nuptae malum? quicquid dolorem pascit, hoc nimium puta.
Has your love for famed Alcides fled you?
Amorne clari fugit Alcidae tibi?
It has not fled, nurse; it stays and sits deep, fixed in my marrow, believe me; but a great grief is love turned angry.
Non fugit, altrix, remanet et penitus sedet fixus medullis, crede; sed magnus dolor iratus amor est.
By magic arts, often, wives bind their marriages, with prayers mixed in. I have bidden a grove turn green in the dead of winter, and the launched lightning to stand still; I have shaken the strait with the wind at rest, unfurled the troubled sea, and the dry earth opened with new springs; the rocks moved. I have burst open the gates and the shadows of Dis, and at my prayer the dead speak. The infernal dog fell silent; midnight saw the sun, and day saw night: sea, earth, sky, and Tartarus obey me, and nothing holds to its laws against my songs: we will bend him; my spells will find a way.
Artibus magicis fere coniugia nuptae precibus admixtis ligant. vernare iussi frigore in medio nemus missumque fulmen stare; concussi fretum cessante Tento, turbidum explicui mare et sicca tellus fontibus patuit novis; habuere motum saxa. discussi fores umbrasque Ditis, et mea iussi prece manes locuntur. tacuit infernus canis; nox media solem vidit et noctem dies: mare terra caelum et Tartarus servit mihi nihilque leges ad meos cantus tenet: flectemus illum, carmina invenient iter.
What herbs does Pontus breed, or what herbs does Pindus nourish beneath its Thessalian crag? Where shall I find the bane to which he would yield? Though by magic song the Moon come down to earth, her stars abandoned, and winter see the harvest, and the fleeing lightning, caught by the spell, stand still, and, the order reversed, midday blaze with the stars forced together — none of it will bend him.
Quas Pontus herbas generat aut quas Thessala sub rupe Pindus alit: ubi inveniam malum cui cedat ille? carmine in terras mago descendat astris Luna desertis licet et bruma messes videat et cantu fugax stet deprehensum fulmen et versa vice medius coactis ferveat stellis dies: non flectet illum.
Love has conquered even the gods above.
Vicit et superos Amor.
He will be conquered by one thing, perhaps, and yield his spoils, and Love will become the last labor of Alcides. But I beg you by every power of the heavens, by this fear of mine: whatever secret I am preparing, hide it deep, and keep it under silent faith.
Vincetur uni forsan et spolium dabit Amorque summus fiet Alcidae labor.— sed te per omne caelitum numen precor, per hunc timorem: quicquid arcani apparo penitus recondas et fide tacita premas.
What is this you ask to be kept secret?
Quid istud est quod esse secretum petis?
It is no weapon, no arms, no threatening fire.
Non tela sunt, non arma, non ignis minax.
I admit I can keep silent faith, if it is free of crime: sometimes keeping faith is itself a crime.
Praestare fateor posse me tacitam fidem, si scelere careat: interim scelus est fides.
Look around now, in case anyone seizes on our secret, and let your gaze go searching in every direction.
Circumspice agedum, ne quis arcana occupet, partemque in omnem vultus inquirens eat.
See, the place is safe and free of any witness.
En locus ab omni tutus arbitrio vacat.
In a remote corner of the royal house there is a cave, silent, guarding our secrets. That place does not catch the first rays of the sun, nor the last, when Titan, bearing the day, sinks his weary yoke in the reddening Ocean. There the pledge of Hercules’ love lies hidden. Nurse, I will confess it: the author of the device is Nessus, whom pregnant Nephele bore to the Thessalian chief, where anxious Pindus thrusts its head among the stars and Othrys, raised beyond the clouds, stands stiff. For when Achelous, subdued by the club of dread Hercules — Achelous, who could slip easily into every shape — at last, when all his beast-forms were spent, lay open, and bowed his shamed head with its one remaining horn, while the victor Alcides took me as his wife and was making back for Argos — by chance, wandering through the fields, Evenus, carrying its deep flood into the sea, was turbid almost to the tops of the woods. Nessus, who was used to crossing the eddy at its fords, demanded a fee; and now, carrying me on his back, where his spine, failing the horse, joins on the man, he was breaking the very threats of the swollen river. Fierce Nessus had now come wholly clear of the waters, and Alcides was still struggling in mid-ford, cleaving the greedy eddy with his huge stride; but when Nessus saw that Alcides was far off: "You will be my prey," he said, "and my wife; he is held back by the water" — and clasping me, carrying me, he quickened his pace: the waters do not hold Hercules. "Faithless carrier," he cried, "though Ganges and Hister should flow mingled in one joined channel, I will overcome them both; I will catch your flight with a shaft." The bow outran his words; then the arrow, dealing a long wound, held the fleeing back where it clung and fixed his death. He, now seeking the last light of day, caught with his right hand the gore flowing from the wound and handed it to me, soaked into a piece of his own hoof, which by chance he had torn off with his savage hand. Then, dying, he added these words: "This," he said, "the witches have told can pin love fast by its power; this Mycale, the learned one, taught the brides of Thessaly, for of all the witches whom the Moon follows, the stars deserted, she alone could compel her — you will give him a garment smeared with this very gore," he said, "if a hated rival takes your marriage-bed, and your fickle husband gives the high-thundering god another daughter-in-law. Let no light look on this, let the shadows cover it, kept far away: so the gore, still potent, will hold its strength." Death’s rest cut short his words, and sleep brought death upon his weary limbs. You, whom my trust admits to my secrets, go on, ready to work the poison into the gleaming robe, that it may reach his mind through his limbs and, passing silently, enter his marrow.
Est in remoto regiae sedis loco arcana tacitus nostra defendens specus. non ille primos accipit soles locus, non ille seros, cum ferens Titan diem lassum rubenti mergit Oceano iugum. illic amoris pignus Herculei latet. altrix, fatebor: auctor est Nessus mali quem gravida Nephele Thessalo genuit duci, qua trepidus astris inserit Pindus Caput ultraque nubes Othrys eductus riget. namque ut subactus Herculis clava horridi Achelous omnis facilis in species dari tandem peractis omnibus patuit feris unoque turpe subdidit cornu caput, me coniugem dum victor Alcides habet, repetebat Argos, forte per campos vagus Euenos altum gurgitem in pontum ferens iam paene summis turbidus silvis erat. transire Nessus verticem solitus vadis pretium poposcit; meque iam dorso ferens qua iungit hominem spina deficiens equo, frangebat ipsas fluminis tumidi minas. iam totas undis Nessus exierat ferox medioque adhuc errabat Alcides vado, vasto rapacem verticem scindens v gradu; at ille ut esse vidit Alciden procul: ’tu praeda nobis’ inquit ’et coniunx eris; prohibetur undis’, meque complexus ferens gressum citabat: non tenent undae Herculem: ’infide vector’ inquit ’immixti licet Ganges et Hister vallibus iunctis eant. vincemus ambos, consequar telo fugam.’ praecessit arcus verba; tum longum ferens harundo vulnus tenuit haerentem fugam mortemque fixit. ille. iam quaerens diem, tabum fluente volneris dextra excipit traditque nobis ungulae insertum suae, quam forte saeva sciderat avolsam manu. tunc verba moriens addit: ’hoc’ inquit ’magae dixere amorem posse defigi malo; hoc docta Mycale Thessalas docuit nurus, nam inter omnis Luna quam sequitur magas stris relictis, inlitas vestes dabis hac’ inquit ’ipsa tabe, si paelex tuos invisa thalamos tulerit et coniunx levis aliam parenti dederit altisono nurum. hoc nulla lux conspiciat, hoc tenebrae tegant tantum remotae: sic potens vires suas sanguis tenebit.’ verba deprendit quies mortemque lassis intulit membris sopor. tu, quam meis admittit arcanis fides, perge’ ut nitentem virus in vestem datura mentem per artus adeat et tacitum means intret medullas,
I will carry out your bidding quickly, my child; you, call upon the unconquered god with prayers, who looses his sure shafts with a tender hand.
Ocius iussa exequar, alumna, precibus tu deum invictum advoca, qui certa tenera tela dimittit manu.
I entreat you, whom the world and the gods above dread, and the sea, and he who shakes the Aetnaean bolt; you, winged boy, feared even by your own savage mother: aim your swift dart with a sure hand, not from the light arrows — from the heavier store, I pray, draw one out that your hands have not yet sent against anyone; there is no need of a light shaft to make Hercules able to love. Bend your stiff hands and ready the bow, its horns drawn together. Now, now bring out the arrow with which once you struck dread Jove, when the god, casting aside his bolt, swelled with sudden horns upon his brow, and as a bull, the bearer of the Assyrian girl, clove the raging sea. Send love upon him; let it surpass all examples: let him learn to love his wife. If Iole’s beauty has burned any torches into the breast of Hercules, quench them all; let him drink in the sight of me. You have often tamed the lightning-wielding Jove, you him who bears the dark scepter of the black pole, lord of the greater throng and master of the Styx; and you, O god more grievous than an angry stepmother, take this triumph alone, and conquer Hercules.
Te deprecor, quem mundus et superi timent et aequor et qui fulmen Aetnaeum quatit, timendo matri te aliger saevae puer: intende certa spiculum velox manu, non ex sagittis levibus: e numero precor graviore prome quod tuae nondum manus misere in aliquem; non levi telo est opus, ut amare possit Hercules, rigidas manus intende et arcum cornibus iunctis para. nunc, nunc sagittam prome qua quondam horridum Iovem petisti, fulmine abiecto deus cum fronte subita tumuit et rabidum mare taurus puellae vector Assyriae scidit; immitte amorem, vincat exempla omnia: amare discat coniugem, si quas decor Ioles inussit pectori Herculeo faces, extingue totas, perbibat formam mei. tu fulminantem saepe domuisti Iovem, tu furva nigri sceptra gestantem poli, turbae ducem maioris et dominum Stygis, tuque o noverca gravior irata deus, cape hunc triumphum solus et vince Herculem.
The robe is brought out, the weaving that wearied every slave-woman’s hand at Pallas’s distaff. Now let the poison be heaped on, and let the garment drink the bane meant for Hercules; with prayers I will swell the evil. Just in time, busy Lichas comes to meet me: the dread power must be hidden, lest the trick lie open. O Lichas — a thing that proud houses never possess, a name forever faithful to kings — take this robe, which my own hand has woven, while he roams across the world and, mastered by wine, holds the Lydian woman in his fierce embrace, while he demands Iole; but perhaps I may yet soften his savage heart by my deserving — good deeds have conquered evil men. Bid my husband not put on the robe before he feeds the flames with incense and appeases the gods, his stiff hair bound with grey poplar. I myself will carry my steps into the royal house and worship, with prayers, the mother of rough Love. You, whom I brought as companions from my father’s hearth, Calydonian women, mourn a lot that calls for tears.
Prolata vis est quaeque Palladia colu lassavit omnem texta famularum manum. nunc congeratur virus et vestis bibat Herculea pestem; precibus augebo malum. in tempore ipso navus occurrit Lichas: celanda vis est dira, ne pateant doli. O quod superbae non habent umquam domus, fidele semper regibus nomen Licha, cape hos amictus, nostra quos nevit manus, dum vagus in orbe fertur et victus mero tenet feroci Lydiam gremio nurum, dum poscit Iolen; sed iecur fors horridum Sectam merendo: merita vicerunt malos. non ante coniunx induat vestes iube quam ture flammas pascat et placet deos, cana rigentem populo cinctus comam. ipsa in penates regios gressus feram precibusque Amoris horridi matrem colam. vos, quas paternis extuli comites focis, Calydoniae lugete deflendam vicem.
We weep your misfortunes, daughter of Oeneus, we, the throng of your companions from your earliest years; we weep, lady, your imperiled marriage. We, wont with you to beat the ford of Achelous, when, the spring now over, he laid down his swollen waters and crept on slender with an even pace, and rolled no headlong torrent — the tawny Lycormas, its spring burst open; we, wont to go among Pallas’s altars and keep the dances of the maidens; we, wont with you to carry the rites hidden in Cadmean baskets, when, the winter-star now driven off, the third summer calls forth its suns, and Attic Eleusis, granted to the corn-bearing goddess, shuts in her initiates. Now too, whatever fate you fear, take us as faithful companions in it: for loyalty is rare once the better fortune has fallen. You, whoever you are who hold the scepter, though all the crowd in your hall beat at a hundred thresholds at once, though you walk hemmed in by so many peoples, among so many peoples there is scarcely one true heart. The Fury holds the gilded threshold, and when the great doors have opened, in come frauds and wary deceits and the hidden blade; and when you prepare to go out among the people, envy is your companion: as often as Dawn drives off the night, believe that just so often a king is born. Few honor the king, and not the kingdom; the glitter of the court stirs the greater number: one longs, next to the king himself, to walk renowned through the wide cities — glory scorches his wretched breast; another longs to fill his hunger with treasures, yet not the whole region of the gem-bearing Hister suffices him, nor does all Lydia quench his thirst, nor the land that, set beneath the Zephyr, marvels at golden Tagus shining bright with its stream; nor though all Hebrus should serve him and rich Hydaspes join its fields, and he should watch the whole Ganges running within his own borders: for the greedy, for the greedy, nature is too little. One man courts kings and the halls of kings, not that with pressed plowshare the bent plowman should never cease, or a thousand farmers cut his fields: he wishes only for wealth he can lay up. One courts kings so that he may trample all, ruin some, and relieve none: merely to do harm he longs to be powerful. Rare is the man both fortunate and old: how small a part die at their destined hour? those whom the Moon saw fortunate, the dawning day has seen wretched. The turf, softer than Tyrian purple, is wont to draw out fearless sleep; gilded roofs break rest, and purple draws out the wakeful nights. Oh, if the hearts of the rich lay open! how great the fears that lofty fortune drives within! The Bruttian wave, when the Northwest wind beats the strait, is gentler than they. The poor man carries an untroubled breast. He holds cups carved from broad beechwood, but he holds them with no trembling hand; he takes his food, easy and cheap, but he looks back at no drawn swords: it is in golden cups that blood is mixed. A wife wedded to a modest husband does not, bright with a well-set necklace, wear the gifts of the reddening sea, nor does the stone gathered in the Eastern wave drag down her jeweled ears, nor does soft wool, dipped again in the Sidonian cauldron, drink in its scarlet, nor does she pick out with Maeonian needle what the Seres, set beneath Phoebus’s eastern winds, gather from the trees of the dawn. Common herbs have dyed her threads, which untaught hands have spun: but she nurses no imperiled marriage-bed. The Fury follows with her dread torch those whose wedding-day the peoples have thronged, nor does the poor man count himself fortunate unless he sees the fortunate fallen. Whoever shuns the middle road never runs on a steady path: while the boy sought to furnish a single day and took his stand upon his father’s car and did not run down the accustomed road, but, with Phoebus’s flames, sought unknown stars, his wheel wandering, he destroyed the world along with himself. While he furrowed the middle road of heaven, Daedalus kept to the shores he had chosen and gave his name to no sea; but while Icarus dares to outdo the true birds, and the boy scorns his father’s wings, and flies nearest to Phoebus himself, he gave his name to an unknown sea: great things are ill paid for with ruin. Let another be called fortunate and great; let no crowd call me powerful. Let my slight skiff hug the shores, and let no great wind bid my little boat cut across the middle of the sea: Fortune passes by the safe bays and seeks out the ships far on the deep, whose topsails strike the clouds. But why, terrified, with frightened face, like a Maenad wounded by Bacchus, does the queen carry her step into our midst? What fortune whirls you about again? Tell us, poor woman: though you yourself deny it, your face speaks whatever you would hide.
Flemus casus, Oenei, tuos comitum primos turba per annos, flemus dubios, veneranda, toros. nos Acheloi tecum solitae pulsare vadum, quom iam tumidas vere peracto poneret undas gracilisque gradu serperet aequo nec praecipitem volveret amnem flavus rupto fonte Lycormas; nos Palladias ire per aras.et virgineos celebrare choros. nos Cadmeis orgia ferre tecum solitae condita cistis, quom iam pulso sidere brumae tertia soles evocat aestas" et spiciferae concessa deae Attica mystas cludit Eleusin. nunc quoque casum quemcumque times, fidas comites accipe fatis: nam rara fides ubi iam melior fortuna ruit. Tu quicumque es qui sceptra tenes, licet omne tua vulgus in aula centum pariter limina pulset: quom tot populis stipatus eas, in tot populis vix una fides, tenet auratum limen Erinys, et quom magnae patuere fores, intrant fraudes cautique doli ferrumque latens; cumque in populos prodire paras, comes invidia est: noctem quotiens summovet Eos, regem totiens credite nasci. pauci reges, non regna colunt: plures fulgor concitat aulae; cupit hic regi proximus ipsi clarus latas ire per urbes: urit miserum gloria pectus; cupit hic gazis implere famem, nec tamen omnis plaga gemmiferi sufficit Histri nec tota sitim Lydia vincit nec quae Zephyro subdita tellus stupet aurato flumine clarum radiare Tagum; nec si totus serviat Hebrus ruraque dives iungat Hydaspes intraque suos currere fines spectet toto flumine Gangen: avidis, avidis natura parum est. colit hic reges regumque lares, non ut presso vomere semper numquam cesset curvus arator vel mille secent arva coloni: solas optat quas ponat opes. colit hic reges, calcet ut omnes perdatque aliquos nullumque levet: tantum ut noceat, cupit esse potens, rarum est felix idemque senex: quota pars moritur tempore fati? quos felices Cynthia vidit, vidit miseros enata dies. Caespes Tyrio mollior ostro solet inpavidos ducere somnos; aurea rumpunt tecta quietem vigilesque trahit purpura noctes, o si pateant pectora ditum! quantos intus sublimis agit fortuna metus! Bruttia Coro pulsante fretum lenior unda est; pectora pauper secura gerit. tenet e patula pocula fago, sed non trepida tenet illa manu; carpit faciles vilesque cibos, sed non strictos respicit enses: aurea miscet pocula sanguis. coniunx modico nupta marito non disposito clara monili gestat pelagi dona rubentis, nec gemmiferas detrahit aures lapis Eoa lectus in unda, nec Sidonio mollis aeno repetita bibit lana rubores, nec Maeonia distinguit acu quae Phoebeis subditus euris legit Eois Ser arboribus. quaelibet herbae tinxere colus quas indoctae nevere manus: sed non dubios fovet illa toros. sequitur dira lampade Erinys quarum populi coluere diem, nec sibi felix pauper habetur nisi felices cecidisse videt. Quisquis medium defugit iter stabili numquam tramite currit: dum petit unum praebere diem patrioque puer constitit axe nec per solitum decurrit iter, sed Phoebeis ignota petens sidera flammis errante rota, secum pariter perdidit orbem. medium caeli dum sulcat iter, tenuit placitas Daedalus oras nullique dedit nomina ponto; sed dum volucres vincere veras Icarus audet patriasque puer despicit alas Phoeboque volat proxumus ipsi, dedit ignoto nomina ponto: male pensantur magna ruinis. felix alius magnusque sonet; me nulla vocet turba potentem. stringat tenuis litora puppis nec magna meas aura phaselos iubeat medium scindere pontum: transit tutos Fortuna sinus medioque rates quaerit in alto, quarum feriunt sipara nubes. Sed quid pavido territa vultu, qualis Baccho saucia maenas, fert in medium regina gradum? quae te rursus fortuna rotat? miseranda, refer: licet ipsa neges, vultus loquitur quodcumque tegis.
A wandering tremor runs through my shaken limbs, my hair stands up and bristles, terror still stands in my struck spirit, and my stunned heart leaps, and my frightened vitals throb in quaking veins. As the sea, broken by the south wind, still swells even when the day grows calm with languid winds, so my mind is still tossed though the fear is shaken off. Once a god has begun to press the fortunate down, he drives them on; such are the ends great things come to.
Vagus per artus errat excussos tremor, erectus horret crinis, impulsis adhuc stat terror animis et cor attonitum salit pavidumque trepidis palpitat venis iecur, ut fractus austro pontus etiamnum tumet, quamvis quiescat languidis ventis dies, ita mens adhuc vexatur excusso metu. semel profecto premere felices deus cum coepit, urget, hos habent magna exitus.
What disaster so violent, poor woman, whirls you?
Quis tam impotens, miseranda, te casus rotat?
When the robe was sent off, smeared with the gore of Nessus, and grieving I carried my step into my chamber, my heart feared something — or was a trick being laid? I resolved to test it. The dire Nessus had forbidden his savage blood to be shown to the sun or to flames: this very caution warned me there was a trick. And by chance, his radiance flecked by no cloud, burning Titan was unfolding the blazing day. Even now fear scarcely lets me loosen my lips. Trembling, I threw into the midst of the sun’s fires the wool with which the robe had been steeped and the garment smeared; the cast-off tuft shudders and loses its nap, and, warmed by the sun, it barely holds together. I tell you a marvel. As Eurus melts the snows, or the warm South wind, the snows that bright Mimas loses in early spring, and as Leucas, set against them, breaks the rolling waves on the Ionian sea, and the weary swell foams on the very shore, or as incense, sprinkled on the warm altar-fires, dissolves, so the whole fleece grows limp and loses its hairs. And while I wonder at it, the cause of my wonder vanishes; indeed the very ground heaves with a foaming motion, and whatever has been touched by that gore melts away — and, swelling, it churns in silence. I see my son, frightened, hurrying with burning step; tell me what news you bring.
Vt missa palla est tabe Nessea inlita thalamisque maerens intuli gressum meis, nescio quid animus timuit, an fraudem struit? libet experiri, solibus dirus ferum flammisque Nessus sanguinem ostendi arcuit: hic ipse fraudes esse praemonuit dolus. et forte, nulla nube respersus iubar, laxabat ardens fervidum Titan diem. vix ora solvi patitur etiam nunc timor. medios in ignes solis eieci pavens quo tincta fuerat palla vestisque inlita; abiectus horret villus et perdit comam † tepefactus astris vix quoque est. monstrum elocor. nives ut Eurus solvit aut tepidus Notus, quas vere primo lucidus perdit Mimans, utque evolutos frangit Ionio salo opposita fluctus Leucas et lassus tumor in litore ipso spumat, aut caelestibus aspersa tepidis tura laxantur focis, sic languet omne vellus et perdit comas. dumque ista miror, causa mirandi perit; quin ipsa tellus spumeos motus agit et quicquid illa tabe contactum est labat. tumensque tacita quassat caput natum paventem cerno et ardenti pede gressus ferentem, prome quid portes novi.
Go, flee, seek out whatever lies further off than lands, sea, stars, Ocean, the world below; flee, mother, beyond the labors of Alcides.
I, profuge, quaere si quid ulterius patet terris freto sideribus Oceano inferis, ultra labores, mater, Alcidae fuge.
My mind forebodes some great evil.
Nescio quod animus grande praesagit malum.
Make for the realm of Triumph, the temples of Juno: these lie open to you; all other shrines are closed.
Regna triumphi, templa Iunonis pete: haec tibi patent, delubra praeclusa omnia.
Tell me what disaster crushes me, who am guiltless.
Effare quis me casus insontem premat.
That glory of the world, its one defense, whom the fates had given to earth in Jove’s place — O mother, he is gone: some plague I know not burns his limbs and the mighty frame of Hercules; he who tamed the beasts, he, he the conqueror, is conquered, he mourns, he grieves. Why ask more?
Decus illud orbis atque praesidium unicum, quem fata terris in locum dederant Iovis, o mater, abiit: membra et Herculeos toros urit lues nescio qua; qui domuit feras, ille ille victor vincitur maeret dolet. quid quaeris ultra?
The wretched are quick to hear their own miseries; speak, in what state does our house now stand? O home, wretched home! now widowed, now cast out, now I shall be called overwhelmed.
Miserias properant suas audire miseri; fare, quo posita in statu iam nostra domus est? o lares, miseri lares! nunc vidua, nunc expulsa, nunc ferar obruta.
You do not mourn alone. Hercules lies to be lamented by the whole world; do not, mother, think your fate a private one: now the whole race cries out. This grief you groan for, see, all men groan for; you suffer an evil shared by every land. You have only got ahead in grief: first, not alone, poor woman, you mourn Hercules.
Non sola maeres. Herculem, toto iacet mundo gemendus; fata nec, mater, tua privata credas: iam genus totum obstrepit. hunc ecce luctum quem gemis cuncti gemunt, commune terris omnibus pateris malum. luctum occupasti: prima, non sola Herculem, miseranda, maeres.
Yet how near to death — tell me, tell me, I pray — does my Alcides lie?
Quam prope a leto tamen ede, ede quaeso iaceat Alcides mens.
Death flees him, death that was conquered once in its own kingdom; nor do the fates dare to commit so vast a sin; perhaps trembling Clotho has thrown the distaff from her hand and fears to finish out the destiny of Hercules. O day, unspeakable day! Is this how great Alcides will be at his last?
Mors refugit illum victa quae in regno suo semel est nec audent fata tam vastum nefas admittere, ipsas forsitan trepida colus Clotho manu proiecit et fata Herculis timet peragere, pro diem, infandum diem! hocne ille summo magnus Alcides erit?
Do you say he goes before me to the fates and the shades and the worse pole? Or can I seize death first? Speak, if he has not yet fallen.
Ad fata et umbras adque peiorem polum praecedere illum dicis? an possum prior mortem occupare? fare, si nondum occidit.
The Euboean land, swelling with a vast headland, is beaten on every side: the Phrixean sea Caphereus cleaves; this flank lies open to the South wind; but where it endures the threats of snowy Aquilo, the unstable Euripus turns its wandering waves and rolls seven currents and draws back as many, until weary Titan sinks his yoke in the Ocean. Here, on a high cliff that many a cloud strikes, the ancient temple of Cenaean Jupiter gleams. When all the votive herd had taken its stand at the altars, and the whole grove groaned with gilded bulls, he stripped off the lion’s spoil, foul with gore, laid down the weight of his club, and freed his shoulders of the heavy quiver; then, shining in your robe, his bristling hair bound with grey poplar, he kindled the altars: "Receive these offerings," he said, "father not false, and let the sacred fire blaze bright with lavish incense, which, in worship of Phoebus, the rich Arab gathers from his Sabaean trees. The earth is at peace," he said, "and sky and seas, all the beasts subdued; I have come home a victor: lay down your bolt." A groan, in the midst of his prayers, broke from him, while he himself stood stunned; then he fills the sky with a dreadful cry: as a fleeing bull, bearing the wound and the weapon of the axe driven into it, fills the trembling shrine with a vast bellow, or as a bolt launched at the world thunders, so he struck the stars and the sea with his groaning. Vast Chalcis rang, and every Cyclad caught up his cries; here the Capherean rocks, there the whole grove gives back the cries of Hercules. We see him weeping; the crowd thinks his old madness has returned; then the servants take to flight. But he, rolling his face with its fiery glare, hunts one man through them all and seeks Lichas. Lichas, clutching the altars with trembling hand, spent his death in fear, and left but a little of himself for the punishment; and while Hercules held the dying body in his hand: "By this hand, this," he cried, "O fates, am I beaten? Has Lichas conquered Hercules? see, another ruin: Hercules destroys Lichas. Let my deeds be befouled: let this be my last labor." Flung up to the stars, he is hurled off, and sprinkles the clouds with scattered blood; so leaps toward the sky an arrow, seen loosed from a Getic hand, or one a Cydonian has shot: yet even weapons will fly lower; the trunk falls into the sea, the head onto the rocks: one man lies in two places. "Hold back," he said; "no madness has carried off my mind; this evil is worse than madness and than rage: it pleases me to vent my fury on myself." Scarcely does he name the plague than he rages: he tears his own limbs apart and plucks at his flesh, wrenching with his huge hand. He tries to strip off the robe: this one thing alone I have seen Hercules unable to do; yet, trying to drag it off, he dragged his own flesh too: the robe is now part of his shaggy body; the plague mixes into his skin. Nor does the cause of the dire ruin lie open to view, yet a cause there is; and scarcely able to bear the evil, now, faint, he presses the earth with face bent down, now he calls for water: the water does not master the evil; he seeks the wave-resounding shores and makes for the sea: the hands of his companions hold him back as he wanders. O bitter fate! we had been the equals of Alcides. Now a ship carries him back from the Euboean shore, and a gentle south wind sweeps the weight of Hercules along; his spirit has failed his limbs, and night presses on his eyes.
Euboica tellus vertice immenso tumens pulsatur omni latere: Phrixeum mare scindit Caphereus, servit hoc Austro latus; at qua nivosi patitur Aquilonis minas, Euripus undas flectit instabilis vagas septemque cursus volvit et totidem refert, dum lassa Titan mergat Oceano iuga. hic rupe celsa, multa quam nubes ferit, annosa fulgent templa Cenaei Iovis. ut stetit ad aras omne votivum pecus totumque tauris gemuit auratis nemus, spolium leonis sordidum tabo exuit posuitque clavae pondus et pharetra graves laxavit umeros, veste tum fulgens tua, cana revinctus populo horrentem comam, succendit aras: ’accipe has’ inquit ’focis non false messis genitor et largo sacer splendescat ignis ture, quod Phoebum colens dives Sabaeis colligit truncis Arabs. pacata tellus’ inquit ’et caelum et freta, feris subactis omnibus victor redi: depone fulmen.’ gemitus in medias preces stupente et ipso cecidit; hinc caelum horrido clamore complet: qualis impressa fugax taurus bipenni volnus et telum ferens delubra vasto trepida mugitu replet, aut quale mundo fulmen emissum tonat, sic ille gemitu sidera et pontum ferit, et vasta Chalcis sonuit et voces Cyclas excepit omnis; hinc petrae Capherides, hinc omne voces reddit Herculeas nemus. flentem videmus, volgus antiquam putat rabiem redisse; tum fugam famuli petunt. at ille voltus ignea torquens face imum inter omnis sequitur et quaerit Lichan. complexus aras ille tremibunda manu mortem metu consumpsit et parvum sui poenae reliquit, dumque moribundum manu tenuit cadaver: ’hac manu, hac’ inquit ’ferar, o fata, victus? Herculem vicit Lichas? ecce alia clades: Hercules perimit Lichan. facta inquinentur: fiat hic summus labor.’ in astra missus fertur et nubes vago spargit cruore; talis in caelum exilit harundo Getica visa dimitti manu aut quam Cydon excussit: inferius tamen et tela fugient, truncus in pontum cadit, in saxa vertex: unus ambobus iacet. ’resistite’ inquit ’non furor mentem abstulit, furore gravius istud atque ira malum est: in me iuvat saevire.’ vix pestem indicat et saevit: artus ipse dilacerat suos et membra vasta carpit avellens manu. exuere amictus quaerit: hoc solum Herculem non posse vidi; trahere conatus tamen et membra traxit: corporis palla horridi pars est et ipsa: pestis immiscet cuti. nec causa dirae cladis in medio patet, sed causa tamen est; vixque sufficiens malo nunc ore terram languidus prono premit, nunc poscit undas: unda non vincit malum; fluctisona quaerit litora et pontum occupat: familiaris illum retinet errantem manus. o sortem acerbam! fuimus Alcidae pares. nunc puppis illum litore Euboico refert Austerque lenis pondus Herculeum rapit; destituit animus membra, nox oculos premit.
Why, my soul, do you hold back? why stand stunned? the crime is done, Jupiter demands his son back, Juno her rival. He must be given back to the world: render what you can render: let the sword, driven home, pass through my limbs. Thus, thus it must be done. Does so feeble a hand exact penalties so great? Destroy your wicked daughter-in-law with your lightnings, father-in-law. Let my hand be armed with no light weapon: let that bolt leap from the pole with which, had Alcides not been born your son, you would have burned the hydra: strike me as a strange new plague, and as an evil worse than an angry stepmother. Send out such a shaft as once was hurled at wandering Phaethon: I too, in Hercules alone, have destroyed whole peoples; why beg a weapon of the gods? Now spare your father-in-law: let me be ashamed to ask another to kill the wife of Alcides: this hand will serve my prayer, let it be sought from me; seize the sword, the sooner. Why the sword, after all? whatever drags one toward death is weapon enough: I will throw myself from a sky-high crag. This, this peak that first calls back the new-born day, let Oeta be chosen; I am pleased to be flung from here; let the broken cliff rend me, and let every stone bear away a part of me, let my torn hands hang, and the whole flank of the rugged mountain run red. A single death is too light — too light? yet it can be drawn out. You do not know, my soul, on what weapon to fall; would that there were, would that fixed in my chamber there stood the sword of Hercules: on that blade it would be fitting to die. Is it enough for me to perish by a single hand? Come together, you peoples; let the world hurl stones and vast firebrands; let no hand now hold back, snatch up your weapons; I have taken away your champion: now with impunity savage kings will wield their scepters, now with impunity will untamed evil be born; the altars used to seeing a victim like their worshiper will be sought again: I have opened a road for crimes, I have exposed you to tyrants, kings, monsters, beasts, and savage gods, now that your champion is snatched away. Do you hold back, partner of the Thunderer? Do you not hurl the torch, in imitation of your brother, and let fly the bolt snatched from Jove, and destroy me yourself? A glorious praise has been snatched from you, a vast triumph, Juno: that your rival’s death is being forestalled.
Quid, anime, cessas? quid stupes? factum est scelus, natum reposcit Iuppiter, Iuno aemulum. reddendus orbi est: quod potes redde exhibe: eat per artus ensis exactus meos. sic, sic agendum est. tam levis poenas manus tantas reposcit? perde fulminibus, socer, nurum scelestam. nec levi telo manus armetur: illud fulmen exiliat polo, quo, nisi fuisset genitus Alcides tibi, hydram cremasses: pestem ut insolitam feri et ut noverca potius irata malum. emitte telum quale in errantem prius Phaethonta missum est: perdidi in solo Hercule et ipsa populos, quid rogas telum deos? iam parce socero: coniugem Alcidae necem optare pudeat: haec erit voto manus, a me petatur; occupa ferrum ocius. cur deinde ferrum? quicquid ad mortem trahit telum est abunde: rupe ab aetheria ferar. haec, haec renatum prima quae poscit diem, Oeta eligatur, corpus hinc mitti placet; abrupta cautes scindat et partem mei ferat omne saxum, pendeant lacerae manus totumque rubeat asperi montis latus. levis una mors est— levis? at extendi potest. eligere nescis, anime, cui telo incubes; utinam esset, utinam fixus in thalamis meis Herculeus ensis: huic decet ferro inmori. una perire dextera nobis sat est? coite, gentes, saxa et immensas faces iaculetur orbis, nulla nunc cesset manus, corripite tela, vindicem vestram abstuli: impune saevi sceptra iam reges gerent, impune iam nascetur indomitum malum; repetentur arae cernere assuetae hostiam similem colenti: sceleribus feci viam, ego vos tyrannis regibus monstris feris saevisque rapto vindice opposui deis. cessas, Tonantis socia? non spargis facem imitata fratrem et mittis ereptam Iovi meque ipsa perdis? laus tibi erepta incluta est, ingens triumphus: aemuli, Iuno, tui mortem occupari,
Why drag down a house already toppling? Whatever guilt there is here, it all belongs to error. No one is guilty who is not guilty of his own will.
Quid domum impulsam trahis? erroris est hic omne quodcumque est nefas. haut est nocens quicumque non sponte est nocens.
Whoever pardons himself by pleading fate, and spares himself, has earned the right to keep on erring: I choose to be condemned to death.
Quicumque fato ignoscit et parcit sibi, errare meruit: morte damnari placet.
One who seeks death wants to seem guilty.
Nocens videri, qui mori quaerit, cupit.
Death alone makes the deceived innocent.
Mors innocentes sola deceptos facit.
Fleeing the sun —
Titana fugiens—
The Sun himself flees me.
Ipse me Titan fugit.
Will you leave life?
Vitam relinques?
A wretched life, to follow Alcides.
Miseram, ut Alciden sequar.
He still survives and draws the breath of heaven.
Superest et auras ille caelestes trahit.
When Hercules could be conquered, from that moment he began to die.
Vinci Hercules cum potuit, hinc coepit mori.
You will follow your husband.
Virum sequeris.
Chaste wives are wont to go on ahead of him.
Praegredi castae solent.
Will you leave your son and break off your own life?
Natum relinques fataque abrumpes tua?
Whatever woman her son buries has lived long enough.
Quamcumque natus sepelit haec vixit diu.
If you condemn yourself, poor woman, you charge yourself with crime.
Si te ipsa damnas, scelere te misera arguis.
No guilty person inflicts punishment on himself.
Nemo nocens sibi ipse poenas inrogat.
Life has been spared to many whose error did the harm, not their hand; who condemns himself for his fate?
Multis remissa est vita quorum error nocens, non dextra fuerat, fata quis damnat sua?
Whoever has drawn an unjust lot.
Quicumque fata" iniqua sortitus fuit.
This very man surely laid Megara low, pierced through with his own arrows, and the young brood of his children, fixing his Lernaean shafts with a raging hand; three times made the murderer of his kin, yet he forgave himself — not his madness: in the Cinyphian spring he washed the crime away under the Libyan sky, and cleansed his right hand. Where, poor woman, are you going? why condemn your own hands?
Hic ipse Megaram nempe confixam suis stravit sagittis atque natorum indolem Lernaea figens tela furibunda manu; ter parricida factus ignovit tamen sibi. non furori: fonte Cinyphio scelus sub axe Libyco tersit et dextram abluit. quo. misera, pergis? cur tuas damnas manus?
Alcides, vanquished, condemns my hands: I choose to punish the crime.
Damnat meas devictus Alcides manus:
If I know Hercules, he will come perhaps, victor over the bloody evil, and the pain, once broken, will yield to your Alcides.
placet scelus punire. Si novi Herculem. aderit cruenti forsitan victor mali dolorque fractus cedet Alcidae tuo.
The hydra’s venom has eaten his limbs, so report says; a measureless plague has carried off my husband’s body.
Exedit artus virus ut fama est hydrae; immensa pestis coniugis membra abstulit.
Do you suppose the venom of a serpent already slain cannot be overcome by him who bore the evil alive? He crushed the hydra, holding it though its fang was fixed in him, victor in the midst of the marsh, overwhelmed in his limbs with the spilled poison — and shall the blood of Nessus crush him, who conquered the very hands of dread Nessus?
Serpentis illi virus enectae autumas haut posse vinci qui malum vivum tulit? elisit hydram, dente † cum fixo tenens media palude victor, effuso obrutus artus veneno, sanguis hunc Nessi opprimet, qui vicit ipsas horridi Nessi manus?
In vain is he held back who has resolved to die. He has lived enough, whoever dies with Alcides: and so it is settled for me to flee the light.
Frustra tenetur ille qui statuit mori. vixit satis quicumque cum Alcide occidit: proinde lucem fugere decretum est mihi.
See, by these aged locks of mine I beg you, a suppliant, and by this breast that was almost a mother’s, I implore you: lay down the swollen threats of your wounded heart and drive out the grim resolve of a dreadful death.
Per has aniles ecce te supplex comas atque ubera ista paene materna obsecro: depone tumidas pectoris laesi minas mortisque dirae expelle decretum horridum.
Whoever, by chance, dissuades a wretch from dying, he is cruel: sometimes death is a punishment, but often a gift; to many it has been a pardon.
Quicumque misero forte dissuadet mori, crudelis ille est: interim poena est mori, sed saepe donum; pluribus veniae fuit.
At least defend your right hand, unhappy woman, and let the world know the deed was the fraud’s, not the wife’s.
Defende saltem dexteram, infelix, tuam fraudisque facinus esse, non nuptae, sciat.
I will be defended there: the powers below will acquit the accused; by myself I am condemned; let Pluto cleanse these hands. I will stand before your banks, Lethe, still remembering, and as a sorrowing shade I will receive my husband. But you, who turn the realms of the blackening pole, prepare a labor — whatever crimes any has dared, this error outdoes them: Juno did not dare to snatch Hercules from the earth — prepare a dread punishment. Let Sisyphus’s neck rest, and let his stone weigh upon my shoulders; let the waters of Tagus flee me and the deceiving wave cheat my thirst; I have deserved to give my hands to your whirling, O wheel that tortures the Thessalian king; let the greedy vulture dig out its portions from me on either side; one place among the Danaids stands empty: that turn I will fill: make room, you shades; take me as your companion, wife of Phasis: this hand is worse, worse than either of your crimes, whether as a guilty mother or as a dread sister; add me as a companion to your crimes, Thracian wife; and your daughter, mother Althaea, take back; now acknowledge me as your true offspring — yet what so great did your hands carry off? Close Elysium against me, all you faithful wives who hold the groves of the sacred wood; if any has spattered her hands with a husband’s blood, and, forgetful of the chaste torch, a daughter of Belus stood bloody with drawn sword, let her recognize her own hands in mine, and praise them; into this throng of wives I am glad to go; but even that throng will flee from hands so dread. Unconquered husband, my intent was innocent, my hand is criminal. Oh, too-trusting mind, oh, treacherous Nessus and the guile of the half-beast! wishing to take him from my rival, I have torn him from myself. Withdraw, Sun; and you, life, who hold the wretched by flattery in the light: that light, soon to lack Hercules, is worthless. I will pay the penalty to you and give back my life — or shall I prolong my fate and keep my death, husband, for your hands? Is any strength left in you, and can your armed hands bend the bow, ready to loose the shafts? or do your weapons fail, and does the bow not obey your faltering hand? If you can deal death, brave husband, I await your right hand. let my death be put off: shatter me as you shattered innocent Lichas; scatter me into other cities, and fling me into a world unknown to you: destroy me as you destroyed the horror of Arcadia and whatever else withstood you: yet from those, husband, you came back.
Defendar illic: inferi absolvent ream, a me ipsa damnor; purget has Pluton manus.. stabo ante ripas immemor, Lethe, tuas et umbra tristis coniugem excipiam meum. sed tu, nigrantis regna qui torques poli, para laborem (scelera quae quisquam ausus est, hic vincit error: Iuno non ausa Herculem est eripere terris) horridam poenam para. Sisyphia cervix cesset et nostros lapis impellat umeros; me Tagus fugiat latex meamque fallax unda deludat sitim; merui manus praebere turbinibus tuis, quaecumque regem Thessalum torques rota; effodiat avidus hinc et hinc vultur libras; vacat una Danais, has ego explebo vices: laxate manes, recipe me comitem tibi, Phasiaca coniunx: peior haec, peior tuo utroque dextra est scelere, seu mater nocens seu dira soror’ es; adde me comitem tuis, Threicia coniunx, sceleribus; natam tuam, Althaea mater, recipe, nunc veram tui agnosce prolem— quid tamen tantum manus vestrae abstulerunt? claudite Elysium mihi quaecumque fidae coniuges nemoris sacri lucos tenetis; si qua ’respersit manus viri cruore nec memor castae facis stricto cruenta Belias ferro stetit, in me suas agnoscat et laudet manus, in hanc abire coniugum turbam libet; sed et illa fugiet turba tam diras manus, invicte coniunx, innocens animus mihi, scelesta manus est. pro nimis mens credula, pro Nesse fallax atque semiferi doli! auferre cupiens paelici eripui mihi. recede, Titan, tuque quae blanda tenes in luce miseros vita: caritura Hercule lux vilis ista est. exigam poenas tibi reddamque vitam, fata an extendo mea mortemque, coniunx, ad tuas servo manus? virtusne superest aliqua et armatae manus intendere arcum tela missurum valent? an arma cessant teque languenti manu non audit arcus? si potes letum dare, animose coniunx, dexteram expecto tuam. mors differatur: frange ut insontem Lichan. alias in urbes sparge et ignotum tibi inmitte in orbem: perde ut Arcadiae nefas et quicquid aliud restitit: ab illis tamen, coniunx, redisti.
Spare yourself now, mother, I beg you, forgive the fates; error is free of guilt.
Parce iam, mater, precor, ignosce fatis; error a culpa vacat.
If you must seek true devotion, Hyllus, kill your mother now — why has your hand trembled in fear? why turn your face away? this crime will be your piety. Do you hesitate, coward? This hand snatched Hercules from you, this, this right hand killed him — the hand to which you owe your father and a grandfather who is the Thunderer. I have robbed you of a greater glory than I gave in giving you life; if such a crime is unknown to you, learn it from your mother; whether it pleases you to plunge the sword into my throat, or whether you would assail your mother’s womb, your mother will offer you a fearless spirit. This crime will not be wholly accomplished by you: I shall be laid low by your hand, but by my own intent. Son of Alcides, do you fear? Will you carry out no commands, then, nor crush evils, and wander the world if some beast is born that takes after its parent? Make ready a fearless hand. see, my breast lies open, full of sorrows: strike. I remit the crime; the very Eumenides will spare your hand — the sound of their scourges has cracked. Who is this, twisting her hair with a brandished snake, shaking black wings at her squalid temples? Why, dread one, do you pursue me with blazing torch, Megaera? Do you demand the penalty for Alcides? I will pay it. Have the judges of the dead taken their seats, fearsome one? they sit; I see the prison gates flung open. Who is that, now grown old, who bears the huge stone on his worn shoulders? see, now the conquered stone seeks to roll back? Who is it shaken, his limbs upon the wheel? here, see, pale dread Tisiphone has taken her stand, she demands the charge; spare me your scourges, I pray, Megaera, spare me, hold back your Stygian torches: it is a crime of love — but what is this? the earth gives way and the hall has cracked, its roof shaken loose — whence this menacing throng? the whole world rushes down upon my face; on this side and that the peoples roar and the whole world demands its champion back. Spare me now, you cities; where shall I drive my headlong flight? death alone will be granted as a haven for my woes. I call to witness the fiery wheel of shining Phoebus and the gods above I call to witness: dying, I leave Hercules still upon the earth.
Si vera pietas, Hylle, quaerenda est tibi, iam perime matrem— trepida quid tremuit manus? quid ora Sectis? hoc erit pietas scelus. ignave dubitas? Herculem eripuit tibi haec, haec peremit dextra cui debes patri avum Tonantem. maius eripui decus, quam in luce tribui, si tibi ignotum est nefas, a matre disce, seu tibi iugulo placet mersisse ferrum sive maternum libet invadere uterum, mater intrepidum tibi praebebit animum, non erit tantum scelus a te peractum: dextera sternar tua, sed mente nostra, natus Alcidae, times? ita nulla perages iussa nec franges mala erres per orbem, si qua nascetur fera referens parentem? dexteram intrepidam para. patet ecce plenum pectus aerumnis: feri. scelus remitto, dexterae parcent tuae Eumenides ipsae— verberum crepuit sonus. quaenam ista torquens angue vibrato comam temporibus atras squalidis pinnas quatit? quid me flagranti dira persequeris face, Megaera? poenas poscis Alcidae? dabo. iamne inferorum, dira. sedere arbitri? sedent, reclusas carceris video fores. quis iste saxum immane detritis gerit iam senior umeris? ecce iam victus lapis quaerit relabi? membra quis quatitur rota? hic ecce pallens dira Tisiphone stetit, causam reposcit; parce verberibus precor, Megaera, parce, sustine Stygias faces: scelus est amoris, sed quid hoc? tellus labat et aula tectis crepuit excussis— minax unde iste coetus? totus in vultus meos decurrit orbis, hinc et hinc populi fremunt totusque poscit vindicem mundus suum. iam parcite, urbes, quo fugam praeceps agam? mors sola portus dabitur aerumnis meis. testor nitentis flammeam Phoebi rotam superosque testor: Herculem in terris adhuc moritura linquo.
She has fled, distraught — ah, woe is me! the mother’s part is now played out: she has resolved to die; now mine remains: to ward off the onset of her death. O wretched duty: if you forbid your mother to die, you sin against your father; if you let her die, still you sin against your mother — crime presses from this side and that. yet she must be stopped, that I may snatch away a real crime.
Fugit attonita, ei mihi. peracta iam pars matris est: statuit mori; nunc nostra superest, mortis auferre impetum. o misera pietas: si mori matrem vetas, patri es scelestus; si mori pateris, tamen in matre peccas— urget hinc illinc scelus. inhibenda tamen est, verum ut eripiam scelus.
True is what he sang, the holy one, beneath the ridges of Thracian Rhodope, tuning his Pierian lyre — Orpheus, the child of Calliope: that nothing becomes eternal. At his measures stood still the roar of the rushing torrent, and the water, forgetting to pursue its flight, lost its onrush; and while the rivers lingered, the Getae think, the farthest Bistones, that Hebrus had run dry. The grove brought its birds along, and the woodland came and settled near; or if any bird flew through the air, wandering, when it heard his songs, it fell, its strength failing. Athos breaks off its crags, carrying its Centaurs as it comes, and stood beside Rhodope, its snow loosened by the songs; and, fleeing its own oak, the Dryad hastens toward the bard; to your songs there come the wild beasts, dens and all, and beside the unfrightened flock the Marmaric lion lay down, nor do the does tremble at the wolves, and the serpent flees its lair, then forgetful of its venom. Nay, when through the Taenarian gates he came to the silent shades, striking his mournful lyre, with tearful song he conquered Tartarus and the gloomy gods of Erebus, and did not fear the lake of Styx by which the gods above swear. The never-resting wheel stood fast, its whirling overcome and slack; the liver of Tityos grew whole again, while his song held back the birds; and the relentless stone could be conquered and could follow the bard; then for the first time the Phrygian old man, the waters standing still, forgot and shook off his raging thirst, and reached no hand toward the fruit. The boatman too gave ear, and came on, the pilot of the infernal water’s raft, with no oar at all. So when Orpheus was conquering the powers below utterly with his song, the goddesses once more refill the spent distaff of Eurydice! but while Orpheus, forgetting, and not believing she had been given back to him, looked back to watch Eurydice follow, he lost the prize of his song: she who had been reborn died once more. Then, seeking comfort in his songs, in tearful strains Orpheus sang this to the Getae: the laws laid down even for the gods above, and the god who marshals the seasons — four — of the headlong year has appointed their changing turns; for none is the distaff not greedy: the Fates spin their threads for all; whatever is born will be able to die. Conquered Hercules now bids us believe the Thracian bard: now, now, when the laws are overwhelmed and the last day comes upon the world, the southern pole will bury whatever lies across Libya and the scattered Garamantian holds; the northern pole will bury whatever lies beneath its skies and dry Boreas strikes, and Titan, trembling, his pole lost, will shake off the day. The palace of heaven, falling, will drag down both the risings and the settings, and some death and chaos will destroy all the gods alike, and death will decree for itself its own last doom. What place will hold the world? will the road of Tartarus open, to lie bare when the poles are shattered? Or is the space that parts the sky from the lands enough — and too much for the ruined world? What place will hold so great a doom, so great a horror, what place the gods? sea, Tartarus, stars — one place will hold the three realms. But what is this, no slight crash, that stirs our astonished ears? it is, it is the sound of Hercules.
Verum est quod cecinit sacer Thressae sub Rhodopes iugis aptans Pieriam chelyn Orpheus Calliopae genus, aeternum fieri nihil. Illius stetit ad modos torrentis rapidi fragor, oblitusque sequi fugam amisit liquor impetum; et dum fluminibus mora est, defecisse putant Getae Hebrum Bistones ultimi. advexit volucrem nemus et silva residens venit: aut si qua aera pervolat, auditis vaga cantibus ales deficiens cadit; abrumpit scopulos Athos Centauros obiter ferens et iuxta Rhodopen stetit laxata nive cantibus; et quercum fugiens suam ad vatem properat Dryas; ad cantus veniunt tuos ipsis cum latebris ferae, iuxtaque inpavidum pecus sedit Marmaricus leo nec dammae trepidant lupos et serpens latebras fugit. tunc oblita veneni. Quin per Taenarias fores manes cum tacitos adit maerentem feri ens chelyn, cantu Tartara flebili et tristes Erebi deos vicit nec timuit Stygis iuratos superis lacus. haesit non stabilis rota victo languida turbine, increvit Tityi iecur, dum cantu volucres tenet; et vinci lapis improbus et vatem potuit sequi; tunc primum Phrygius senex undis stantibus immemor excussit rabidam sitim nec pomis adhibet manus. auditum quoque navita, inferni ratis aequoris nullo remigio venit. sic cum vinceret inferos Orpheus carmine funditus, consumptos iterum deae supplent Eurydices colus! sed dum respicit immemor nec credens sibi redditam Orpheus Eurydicen sequi, cantus praemia perdidit: quae nata est iterum perit. tunc, solamina cantibus quaerens, flebilibus modis haec Orpheus cecinit Getis: Leges in superos datas et qui tempora digerit quattuor praecipitis deus anni, disposuit vices; nulli non avidi colus Parcas stamina nectere: quod natum est, † poterit mori. Vati credere Thracio devictus iubet Hercules, iam, iam legibus obrutis mundo cum veniet dies, australis polus obruet, quicquid per Libyam iacet et sparsus Garamas tenet; arctous polus obruet quicquid subiacet axibus et siccus Boreas ferit, amisso trepidus polo Titan excutiet diem. caeli regia concidens ortus atque obitus trahet atque omnis pariter deos perdet mors aliqua et chaos, et mors fata novissima in se constituet sibi. quis mundum capiet locus? discedet via Tartari, fractis ut pateat polis? an quod dividit aethera a terris spatium sat est †et mundi nimium malis? quis tantum capiet (nefas) fatum, quis superos locus? pontum Tartara sidera regna unus capiet tria. Sed quis non modicus fragor aures attonitas movet? est est Herculeus sonus.
Turn back, bright Titan, your panting horses, send out the night: let this day perish from the world, the day I die on; let the sky bristle with a black cloud; stand against my stepmother. Now, father, blind chaos ought to be brought back; on this side and that, the joints being broken, both poles ought to be shattered; why do you spare the stars? You are losing Hercules, father. Now, Jupiter, look to every quarter of the sky, lest some Gyas hurl the Thessalian ridges, and Othrys become a light weight for Enceladus. Even now proud Pluto will unloose the gates of his black prison, will strike the chains from his father and give the sky back; I, who in place of your bolt and your firebrands was born upon the earth, am returning to the Styx: fierce Enceladus will rise and hurl against the gods the weight that now holds him down; my death, father, will make your whole reign of the sky uncertain — before all heaven becomes your spoil, bury me, father, in the whole ruin of the world; shatter the pole you are losing.
Converte, Titan clare, anhelantes equos, emitte noctem: pereat hic mundo dies quo morior, atra nube inhorrescat polus; obsta novercae, nunc, pater, caecum chaos reddi decebat, hinc et hinc compagibus ruptis uterque debuit frangi polus; quid parcis astris? Herculem amittis, pater, nunc partem in omnem, Iuppiter, specta poli, ne quis Gyas Thessalica iaculetur iuga et fiat Othrys pondus Encelado leve. laxabit atri carceris iam iam fores Pluton superbus, vincula excutiet patri caelumque reddet, ille qui pro fulmine tuisque facibus natus in terris eram, ad Styga revertor: surget Enceladus ferox mittetque quo nunc premitur in superos onus; regnum omne, genitor, aetheris dubium tibi mors nostra faciet— antequam spolium tui caelum omne fiat, conde me tota, pater, mundi ruina, frange quem perdis polum.
You do not fear in vain, son of the Thunderer: now Pelion will press the Thessalian Ossa, and Athos, heaped on Pindus, will thrust its forest among the ethereal stars; then Typhoeus will surmount the crags and heave up Tyrrhenian Inarime; then Enceladus, not yet conquered by the bolt, will heave up the furnaces of Etna and split the side of the opened mountain: now the realms of heaven follow you in ruin.
Non vana times, gnate Tonantis: nunc Thessalicam Pelion Ossam. premet et Pindo congestus Athos nemus aetheriis inseret astris; vincet scopulos inde Typhoeus et Tyrrhenam feret Inarimen; feret Aetnaeos inde caminos scindetque latus montis aperti nondum Enceladus fulmine victus: iam te caeli regna secuntur.
I who, leaving death behind, scorning the Styx, came back through the very pools of Lethe with my spoil, at which Titan almost fell, his horses slipping, I whom the three kingdoms of the gods have felt, I am dying, and no sword whistles, driven through my side; the weapon of my death is no boulder, nor is the whole of Othrys my undoing, like the flank of a sheared-off mountain. No giant with savage jaws has buried my corpse under the whole of Pindus: I am conquered with no enemy, and — what tortures me more (O wretched valor!) — the last day of Alcides lays low no evil; I spend, ah me, my life on no deeds. O arbiter of the world and you gods, once witnesses of my right hand, O all the earth, does it please you that your Hercules be struck down by such a death? O cruel shame to me, O base fate: a woman will be named the author of Hercules’ death! By what do I, Alcides, die? if the unconquered fates willed me to fall by a woman’s hand, and my death ran out along so base a thread — I might have fallen, ah me, by Juno’s hatred: I would have died by a woman’s hand, but one who holds heaven; if that was too much, gods, let an Amazon, born beneath the Scythian sky, have subdued my strength — by what woman’s hand am I, Juno’s foe, conquered? from this, stepmother, your shame grows heavier. Why call this day a glad one? what such thing did the earth bear for you in your wrath? a mortal woman has outdone your hatred. until now you bore to be no match for Alcides: you are beaten by two — let the gods be ashamed of their wraths. Would that the Nemean plague had glutted its jaws with my blood, or that, ringed with a hundred snakes, I had fed the hydra with my own gore, would that I had been given as prey to the Centaurs, or sat, wretched, bound among the shades to an eternal rock! Now I have dragged off the last spoils, Fate looking on stunned; now from the infernal Styx I won back the light, I broke through the delays of Dis — everywhere death has fled me, that I might lack a death of glorious lot. O beasts, conquered beasts! the three-formed dog did not lead me back to the Styx when it saw the sun; not under the western sky did the Iberian herd of the savage herdsman conquer me, nor the twin serpent: I have lost a death, ah me, so often honorable: what is my last title?
Ego qui relicta morte, contempta Styge per media Lethes stagna cum spolio redi quo paene lapsis excidit Titan equis, ego quem deorum regna senserunt tria, morior nec ullus per meum stridet latus transmissus ensis, haut meae telum necis saxum est nec instar montis abrupti latus est totus Othrys. non truci rictu gigans Pindo cadaver obruit toto meum: sine hoste vincor, quodque me torquet magis (o misera virtus!) summus Alcidae dies nullum malum prosternat, inpendo, ei mihi, in nulla vitam facta, pro mundi arbiter superique quondam dexterae testes meae, pro cuncta tellus, Herculem vestrum placet †morte ferire? dirus o nobis pudor, o turpe fatum, femina Herculeae necis auctor feretur! morior Alcides quibus? invicta si me cadere feminea manu voluere fata perque tam turpes colus mea mors cucurrit, cadere potuissem, ei mihi, Iunonis odio: feminae caderem manu, sed caelum habentis, si nimis, superi, fuit, Scythico sub axe genita domuisset meas vires Amazon— feminae cuius manu Iunonis hostis vincor? hinc gravior tibi, noverca, pudor est. quid diem hunc laetum vocas? quid tale tellus genuit iratae tibi? mortalis odia femina excessit tua. adhuc ferebas esse te Alcidae imparem: victa es duobus— pudeat irarum deos. utinam meo cruore satiasset suos Nemeaea rictus pestis aut centum anguibus vallatus hydram tabe pavissem mea, utinam fuissem praeda Centauris datus aut inter umbras vinctus aeterno miser saxo sederem! spolia nunc traxi ultima Fato stupente, nunc ab inferna Styge lucem recepi, Ditis evici moras— ubique mors me fugit, ut leto inclitae sortis carerem. pro ferae, victae ferae! non me triformis sole conspecto canis ad Styga reduxit, non sub Hesperio polo Hibera vicit turba pastoris feri, non gemina serpens, perdidi mortem, ei mihi, totiens honestam: titulus extremus quis est?
Do you see how valor, conscious of its glory, does not shudder at the streams of Lethe? he is ashamed of the author, he does not grieve at death: he longs to end his last day under the vast mass of a swollen giant, to endure a mountain-bearing Titan, and to owe his death to some raging beast. but the cause, poor man, is your own hand, that there is no beast, no giant left: for what author worthy of Hercules’ death remains, except your own right hand?
Viden ut laudis conscia virtus non Lethaeos horreat amnes? pudet auctoris, non morte dolet: cupit extremum finire diem vasta tumidi mole gigantis et montiferum Titana pati rabidaeque necem debere ferae. sed tua causa est, miserande, manus, quod nulla fera est nullusque gigas: nam quis dignus necis Herculeae superest auctor nisi dextra tui?
Alas, what a scorpion within me! what crab, torn from the burning zone, fixed fast, scorches my marrow? My heart, once able to hold the blood of a swelling lung, with fire spreads wide its parched fibers. My liver burns, its gall dried up, and a slow vapor has carried off all my blood, it has consumed the outer skin; from there the abomination made its way into my limbs; the plague has carried off my side. the evil has eaten deep into my limbs and ribs, drained my marrow: it sits in the empty bones; nor do the bones themselves hold, but, their joints burst apart, they collapse and flow in a mass, the huge body has failed, and the limbs of Hercules are not enough for the plague — O how great the evil that I confess to be vast, O dread abomination! see, behold, you cities, behold what is left of that Hercules, what is left. Do you know Hercules, father? was it with these arms that I crushed the throat of the Nemean evil? did the bow, drawn by this hand, bring down the Stymphalian birds from the very stars? with these strides did I outrun the swift beast that bore on its brow the head bright with radiance? by these hands was Calpe broken and let the sea through? by these do so many beasts, so many crimes, so many kings lie dead? did the world rest on these shoulders? Is this mass mine, is this that neck? did I set these hands against the falling sky? what Stygian guardian will be dragged out beyond by my hand now? where is the strength that was buried within me before? why do I call Jove father? why, wretched, do I claim heaven through the Thunderer? now, now Amphitryon will be believed my father. whatever plague you are, lurking in my flesh, come forth — why attack me with a hidden wound? what Scythian sea beneath the cold sky, what sluggish Tethys bore you, or Iberian Calpe pressing the Moorish shore? O dreadful evil! are you a serpent, brandishing your squalid head by its crest, or some evil unknown even to me? were you born from the blood of the Lernaean beast, or did the Stygian dog leave you behind on earth? you are every evil and none — what face have you? grant me at least to know by what evil I perish; whatever plague, or whatever beast you are, show yourself to be feared! who made you a place in the midst of my marrow? see, my skin torn away, my hand has laid bare my entrails; yet a deeper hiding-place is found — O evil that is Hercules’ equal! whence these tears? whence tears upon these cheeks? a face once unconquered, and never wont to yield tears to its own sufferings (I am ashamed) has now learned to weep. What day, what land has seen the weeping of Hercules? Dry-eyed I bore my woes. to you that valor, which crushed so many evils, to you alone has yielded; first and before all you drew tears from me: harder than rugged rock and steel my face, and than the wandering Symplegades, yet this evil has broken my features and forced out a tear. weeping and groaning, O supreme ruler of the sky, the earth has seen me, and what tortures me more, my stepmother has seen me; see, again it burns my fibers, the blaze flares up — where now is a thunderbolt for me?
Heu qualis intus scorpios. quis fervida plaga revulsus cancer infixus meas urit medullas? sanguinis quondam capax tumidi igne cor pulmonis arentes fibras distendit. ardet felle siccato iecur totumque lentus sanguinem avexit vapor, primam cutem consumpsit, hinc aditum nefas in membra fecit, abstulit pestis latus. exedit artus penitus et costas malum, hausit medullas: ossibus vacuis sedet; nec ossa durant ipsa, sed compagibus discussa ruptis mole conlapsa fluunt, defecit ingens corpus et pesti satis Herculea non sunt membra— pro quantum est malum quod esse vastum fateor, o dirum nefas! en cernite, urbes, cernite ex illo Hercule quid, quid supersit. Herculem agnoscis, pater? hisne ego lacertis colla Nemeaei mali elisa pressi? tensus hac arcus manu astris ab ipsis detulit Stymphalidas? his ego citatam gressibus vici feram radiante clarum fronte gestantem caput? his fracta Calpe manibus emisit fretum? his tot ferae, tot scelera, tot reges iacent? his mundus umeris sedit? haec moles mea est, haecne illa cervix? hasne ego opposui manus caelo ruenti? quis mea custos manu trahetur ultra Stygius? ubi vires prius memet sepultae? quid patrem appello Iovem? quid per Tonantem vindico caelum miser? iam. iam meus credetur Amphitryon pater. quaecumque pestis viscere in nostro lates, procede— quid me vulnere occulto petis? quis te sub axe frigido pontus Scythes, quae pigra Tethys genuit aut Maurum premens Hibera Calpe litus? o dirum malum! utrumne serpens squalidum crista caput vibrans an aliquod et mihi ignotum malum? numquid cruore es genita Lernaeae ferae an te reliquit Stygius in terris canis? omne es malum nullumque— quis voltus tibi est? concede saltem scire quo peream malo; quaecumque pestis sive quaecumque es fera, palam timere! quis tibi in medias locum fecit medullas! ecce direpta cute viscera manus detexit; ulterior tamen inventa latebra est— o malum simile Herculi! unde iste fletus? unde in has lacrimae genas? invictus olim voltus et numquam malis lacrimas suis praebere consuetus (pudet) iam flere didicit, quis dies fletum Herculis, quae terra vidit? siccus aerumnas tuli. tibi illa virtus, quae tot elisit mala. tibi cessit uni; prima et ante omnis mihi fletum abstulisti: durior saxo horrido et chalybe voltus et vaga Symplegade rictus meos infregit et lacrimam expulit, flentem gementem, summe pro rector poli, me terra vidit, quodque me torquet magis, noverca vidit, urit ecce iterum fibras, incaluit ardor— unde nunc fulmen mihi?
What might he not overcome — once harder than Getic Haemus and no gentler than the Parrhasian sky, he has surrendered his limbs to savage pain, and, moving his weary head along his neck, bends his side with shifting weight; valor often swallows back its tears. so, though Titan would loosen the northern snows with his warming star, yet he does not dare, and the icy radiance of the full-grown sun overcomes his fires.
Quid non possit superare quondam Getico durior Haemo nec Parrhasio lenior axe saevo cessit membra dolori fessumque movens per colla caput latus alterno pondere flectit, fletum virtus saepe resorbet. sic arctoas laxare nives quamvis tepido sidere Titan non tamen audet vincitque faces solis adulti glaciale iubar.
Turn your face to my disasters, father: never has Alcides fled to your hands for help, not when the hydra spread its teeming head through my limbs; among the infernal lakes, gripped by black night, I stood with Fate and did not call on you; so many dread beasts I conquered, kings, tyrants, yet I never turned my face to the stars: always this hand of mine has been my pledge; no lightnings have ever flashed for my sake from the sacred sky — this day has bidden me wish for something; let it be the first to hear my prayers and also the last: I ask a single bolt; count me a giant: I could no less have claimed heaven for myself — while I thought you my true father, I spared the sky; whether you are cruel, father, or whether merciful, lend your son your hand, with death already hastening, and seize this glory for yourself. or if it irks you and your hand refuses the deed, send out from the Sicilian peak, father, the burning Titans against me, to hurl Pindus with their hands or to crush me with Ossa flung as a mountain. let Bellona burst the bars of Erebus, attack me with drawn sword; send savage Gradivus, let the dread one arm against me: he is a brother, true, but by my stepmother. You too, sister of Alcides only by our father — hurl your spear-point at your brother, Pallas. I stretch out suppliant hands to you, stepmother: you at least, I pray, hurl your weapon (I can die by a woman’s hand), now broken, now sated — why do you feed your threats? what do you seek further? you see Alcides a suppliant, yet no land, no beast has seen me entreating you. Now I have need of a stepmother angry with me — now does your wrath fail? now you lay aside your hatred? you spare me where my prayer is to die? O earth and cities, will no one hand Hercules a torch, no one weapons? do you withhold the shafts from me? then let no land conceive savage beasts after I am buried, nor let the world ever implore my hands; if any evils are born, let an avenger be born: from every side assail this luckless head with stones, overcome my woes. ungrateful world, do you hold back? have I slipped your memory? you would still be exposed to evils and to beasts, had you not borne me. Snatch your champion from his sufferings, you peoples: this is the time given to you to repay my deserts — my death will be the price of all.
Converte voltus ad meas clades, pater: numquam ad tuas confugit Alcides manus, non cum per artus hydra fecundum meos caput explicaret; inter infernos lacus possessus atra nocte cum Fato steti nec invocavi; tot feras, vici horridas, reges, tyrannos, nec tamen voltus meos in astra torsi: semper haec nobis manus votum spopondit; nulla propter me sacro micuere caelo fulmina— hic aliquid dies optare iussit, primus audierit preces idemque summus: unicum fulmen peto; giganta crede: non minus caelum mihi asserere potui— dum patrem verum puto, caelo peperci, sive crudelis, pater, sive es misericors, commoda nato manum properante morte et occupa hanc laudem tibi. vel si piget manusque detrectat nefas, emitte Siculo vertice ardentes, pater, Titanas in me, qui manu Pindon ferant † aut Ossa qui me monte proiecto opprimat. abrumpat Erebi claustra, me stricto petat Bellona ferro; mitte Gradivum trucem, armetur in me dirus: est frater quidem, sed ex noverca, tu quoque, Alcidae soror tantum ex parente, cuspidem in fratrem tuum iaculare, Pallas, supplices tendo manus ad te, noverca: sparge tu saltem, precor, telum (perire feminae possum manu) iam fracta, iam satiata— quid pascis minas? quid quaeris ultra? supplicem Alciden vides, at nulla tellus, nulla me vidit fera te deprecantem. nunc milli irata † pater opus est noverca— nunc tuus cessat dolor? nunc odia ponis? parcis ubi votum est mori, o terra et urbes, non facem quisquam Herculi. non arma tradet? tela subtrahitis mihi? ita nulla saevas terra concipiat feras post me sepultum nec meas umquam manus imploret orbis, si qua nascentur mala, nascatur ultor: undique infelix caput mactate saxis, vincite aerumnas meas. ingrate cessas orbis? excidimus tibi? adhuc malis forisque suppositus fores, ni me. tulisses. vindicem vestri malis eripite, populi: tempus hoc vobis datur pensare merita— mors erit pretium omnium.
What lands shall I, the wretched mother of Alcides, make for? where is my son, where? if my sight marks truly, see, he lies back, heaving with panting heart; he groans: it is finished. Let me embrace his limbs for the last time, my son; let the fleeing breath be gathered by my mouth: take my arms, my embrace. where are his limbs? where is that star-bearing neck that bore the world? who has left you so small a part of yourself?
Quas misera terras mater Alcidae petam? ubi natus, ubinam? certa si visus notat, reclinis ecce corde anhelante aestuat; gemit: peractum est. membra conplecti ultima, o nate, liceat, spiritus fugiens meo legatur ore: bracchia, amplexus cape. ubi membra sunt? ubi illa quae mundum tulit stelligera cervix? quis tibi exiguam tui partem reliquit?
You look on Hercules indeed, mother, but a shade, and some worthless remnant of myself. know me, mother — why do you turn your face away and hide your countenance? are you ashamed that Hercules is called your child?
Herculem spectas quidem, mater, sed umbram et vile nescio quid mei. agnosce, mater— ora quid Sectis retro voltumque mergis? Herculem dici tuum partum erubescis?
What world bore a strange new beast, what land, to bring forth this? what abomination so dire triumphs over you? who is the conqueror of Hercules?
Quis feram mundus novam, quae terra genuit? quodve tam dirum nefas de te triumphat? victor Herculeus quis est?
You see Alcides laid low by a wife’s guile.
Nuptae iacentem cernis Alciden dolis.
What guile is great enough to conquer Alcides?
Quis tantus est qui vincat Alciden dolus?
Whatever, mother, suffices for an angry woman.
Quicumque, mater, feminae iratae sat est.
And how did the plague fall upon your limbs or bones?
Et unde in artus pestis aut ossa incidit?
A robe gave the woman’s poisons their way in.
Aditum venenis palla femineis dedit.
Where is that robe? I see your limbs laid bare.
Vbinam ista palla est? membra nudata intuor.
It has been consumed along with me.
Consumpta mecum est.
Was so great a plague ever found?
Tantane inventa est lues?
Believe that in the midst of my flesh there wander, O mother, the hydra and a thousand beasts with Lerna. what so great cloud of flame cleaves the Sicilian skies, what burning Lemnos, what region of the fire-bearing sky that forbids the day to run in the blazing zone? fling me into the fires themselves. O companions, into the straits, into the midst of rivers — what Hister is enough for me? not Ocean itself, greater than the lands, will break my burning; every moisture, against my evils, will fail, every stream will run dry. why, ruler of Erebus, were you sending me back to Jove? you should have kept me; give me back to your shadows, show such a Hercules to the underworld you subdued. I will take nothing from there; why do you fear Hercules again? fall on me, death, do not tremble: now I can die.
Errare mediis crede visceribus meis, o mater, hydram et mille cum Lerna feras. quae tanta nubes flamma Sicanias secat, quae Lemnos ardens, quae plaga igniferi poli vetans flagranti currere in zona diem? in ipsa me iactate. pro comites, freta mediosque in amnes— quis;sat est Hister mihi? non ipse terris maior Oceanus meos franget vapores, omnis in nostris malis deficiet umor, omnis arescet latex. quid, rector Erebi, me remittebas Iovi? decuit tenere; redde me tenebris tuis, talem subactis Herculem ostende inferis. nil inde ducam, quid times iterum Herculem? invade, mors, non trepida: iam possum mori.
Restrain your tears at least, and master your woes, and amid such great evils show Hercules unconquered, and put off death: conquer the powers below, as you are wont.
Compesce lacrimas saltem et aerumnas doma malisque tantis Herculem indomitum refer mortemque differ: quos soles, vince inferos.
If grim Caucasus held me bound in its chains, a feast for the greedy bird, though Scythia groaned, no tearful groan would have escaped me; if the wandering Symplegades pressed me with either cliff, I would bear their threatening crashes as they return; let Pindus lie on me, and Haemus, and Athos that breaks the Thracian waves, and Mimas that catches the bolt of Jove: not even if this whole sky fell upon me, mother, and Phoebus’s car blazed, kindled, above my bier, would a degenerate cry master the mind of Hercules; let a thousand beasts rush down and tear at me at once, here with savage screeching let the ethereal Stymphalian bird strike me, there a threatening bull with its whole neck, and whatever there ever was huge upon the earth too; let a forest rise on either side and let harsh Sinis fling my limbs: torn apart, I will be silent — no beasts will wring from me, no weapons, a groan, nothing that can be hurled against me.
Si me catenis horridus vinctum suis praeberet avidae Caucasus volucri dapem. Scythia gemente flebilis gemitus mihi non excidisset; si vagae Symplegades utraque premerent rupe. redeuntis minax ferrem ruinas; Pindus incumbat mihi atque Haemus et qui Thracios fluctus Athos frangit Iovisque fulmen excipiens Mimas: non ipse si in me, mater, hic mundus ruat superque nostros flagret incensus toros Phoebeus axis, degener mentem Herculis clamor domaret; mille decurrant ferae pariterque Iacerent, hinc feris clangoribus aetheria me Stymphalis, hinc taurus minax cervice tota pulset et quicquid fuit solum quoque ingens; surgat hinc illinc nemus artusque nostros durus immittat Sinis: sparsus silebo— non ferae excutient mihi, non arma gemitus, nil quod impelli potest.
It is no woman’s poison, son, that sears your limbs, but the hard succession of your toil, and your long labor has perhaps fed these bloody diseases.
Non virus artus, nate, femineum coquit, sed dura series operis et longus tibi pavit cruentos forsitan morbos labor.
Where is the disease, where? is there yet some evil left in the world with me? let it come; let someone here bend the bow for me: my bare hand will be enough. let it come forward, then, here.
Vbi morbus, ubinam est? estne adhuc aliquid mali in orbe mecum? veniat, huc aliquis mihi intendat arcus: nuda sufficiet manus. procedat agedum huc.
Ah me. even his senses the excess of pain has shaken from him with its blow. take away, I beg, his weapons, and snatch away, I pray, these deadly arrows: his cheeks, suffused with fire, threaten violence; what hiding-place shall I, an old woman, seek? this pain is madness: it alone masters Hercules. why then, distraught, should I seek hiding or flight? Alcmena has deserved to die by a brave hand: let me die even by his crime, before some coward orders my death and a base hand triumphs over me. See, wearied by his evils, pain binds his tired veins in sleep and shakes his panting breast with a heavy heaving. Be gracious, gods: if you have denied me my son clothed in glory, at least, I pray, keep the avenger for the earth; let the pain depart, shaken off, and let the body of Hercules restore its strength.
Ei mihi. sensum quoque excussit illi nimius impulsu dolor. removete quaeso tela et infestas precor rapite hinc sagittas: igne suffuso genae scelus minantur; quas petam latebras anus? dolor iste furor est: Herculem solus domat. cur deinde latebras aut fugam vaecors petam? obire forti meruit Alcmene manu: vel scelere pereat, antequam letum mihi ignavus aliquis mandat ac turpis manus de me triumphat, ecce lassatus malis sopore fessas alligat venas dolor gravique anhelum pectus impulsu quatit. favete, superi, si mihi gnatum indutum miserae negastis, vindicem saltem precor servate terris, abeat excussus dolor corpusque vires reparet Herculeum suas.
O bitter light, O day with room for crimes! the Thunderer’s daughter-in-law has died, his son lies dying, I, the grandson, survive; this one perishes by a mother’s crime, she was caught by another’s fraud — who, through all the turns of the years and a whole lifetime, could in old age recount sorrows so great? one day has snatched away both my parents; to say nothing of my other ills and to spare the fates: I am losing Hercules my father.
Pro lux acerba, pro capax scelerum dies! nurus Tonantis occidit, natus iacet, nepos supersum; scelere materno hic perit, fraude illa capta est— quis per annorum vices totoque in aevo poterit aerumnas senex referre tantas? unus eripuit dies parentem utrumque; cetera ut sileam mala parcamque fatis: Herculem amitto patrem.
Hush your words, offspring sprung of Alcides and grandson like wretched Alcmena in your fate: a long sleep, perhaps, will conquer his pain. but see, rest deserts his weary mind and gives the body back to its sickness, and grief back to me.
Compesce voces, indutum Alcidae genus miseraeque fato similis Alcmenae nepos: longus dolorem forsitan vincet sopor. sed ecce, lassam deserit mentem quies redditque morbo corpus et luctum mihi.
What is this? The peaks stand rigid! Trachis is seen on its ridge, see, set among the stars, I have at last escaped the mortal race: who prepares heaven for me? you, you, father, now I see, and I behold my stepmother appeased as well. What sound strikes my heavenly ears? Juno calls me her son-in-law. I see the shining palace of the bright sky and the zone worn smooth by Phoebus’s fiery wheel. I see the couch of Night; from here the shadows fly. what is this? who shuts the citadel and leads me down, father, from the very stars? Just now Phoebus’s car was breathing on my face, just now I was near heaven — I see Trachis: who has given me back the earth? Oeta just now had stood below me, and the whole world lay beneath me; how well you had slipped away, my pain! you force me to confess — spare me, and take back this cry. this, Hyllus, this is what your mother’s gifts prepare. would that I might, with my club brought down upon her, break out her impious life, as I tamed the Amazonian evil about the flank of snowy Caucasus. O dear Megara, were you my wife when I raged? Give me my club and bow. let my right hand be defiled, I will stamp a stain on my glories, let Hercules’ last labor be counted a woman.
Quid hoc? rigent! cernitur Trachin iugo, en inter astra positus evasi genus mortale tandem, quis mihi caelum parat? te te, pater, iam video, placatam quoque specto novercam. quis sonus nostras ferit caelestis aures? Iuno me generum vocat. video nitentem regiam clari aetheris Phoebique tritam flammea zonam rota. cubile video Noctis; hinc tenebrae volant. quid hoc? quis arcem cludit et ab ipsis, pater, deducit astris? ora Phoebeus modo afflabat axis, iam prope a caelo fui— Trachina video; quis mihi terras dedit? Oete modo infra steterat ac totus fuit suppositus orbis; quam bene excideras, dolor! cogis fateri— parce et hanc vocem occupa. hoc, Hylle, dona matris hoc munus parant. utinam liceret stipite ingesto impiam effringere animam quale Amazonium malum circa nivalis Caucasi domui latus. o cara Megara, tune cum furerem mihi coniunx fuisti? stipitem atque arcus date. dextra inquinetur, laudibus maculam imprimam, summus legatur femina Herculeus labor.
Check your dire threats of wrath, father; she has it, it is done, she has paid the penalty you seek: my mother lies slain by her own hand.
Compesce diras, genitor, irarum minas; habet, peractum est, quas petis poenas dedit: sua perempta dextera mater iacet.
She fell by guile: she deserved to die by the hands of an angry Hercules; Lichas has lost a companion. to vent my fury on her very lifeless body my rage compels me; why should the corpse itself go free of my threats? let the beasts take it for fodder.
Cecidit dolose: manibus irati Herculis occidere meruit; perdidit comitem Lichas. saevire in ipsum corpus exanime impetus atque ira cogit, cur minis nostris caret ipsum cadaver? pabulum accipiant ferae.
The poor woman grieved more than the one she wronged: from this would you still take something away? she died by her own hand, for grief of you: she has borne more than you demand. but you do not lie low by the crimes of a bloody wife, nor by a mother’s fraud: Nessus laid these snares, Nessus, who, struck by your arrows, spat out his life. the robe was steeped in the half-beast’s gore, father, and Nessus now exacts this revenge for himself.
Plus misera laeso doluit: hinc aliquid quoque detrahere velles? occidit dextra sua, tuo dolore: plura quam poscis tulit. sed non cruentae sceleribus nuptae iaces nec fraude matris: Nessus hos struxit dolos ictus sagittis qui tuis vitam expuit. cruore tincta est palla semiferi, pater, Nessusque nunc has exigit poenas sibi.
It is settled, it is done, my destiny unfolds; this is my last light: the prophetic oak had once given me this lot, and the Cirrhaean cave, shaking the Parnassian temples with its bellowing: "Victor by the hand of a man you slew, Alcides, you will one day lie low; this, when you have traversed the seas and lands and shades, is the last end given you." I complain no more: it was fitting this end be given, that no conqueror of Hercules should outlive him. now let a death be chosen, bright, memorable, renowned, wholly worthy of me; I will make this day a noble one. let the whole forest be felled and the grove of Oeta sink down: let a huge pyre receive Hercules, but before my death, you, son of Poeas, prepare this sad service for me, young man; let the flame of Hercules set the whole day ablaze. to you now, Hyllus, I bring my last requests. among the captives there is one of note, whose face recalls her birth and kingdom, a maiden born to Eurytus, Iole: prepare her for your wedding-torches and bed. a bloody victor, I took from her her country and home and gave the poor girl nothing but Alcides: and he too is snatched away; let her weigh her sorrows against this, let her cherish a grandson of Jove and a son of Hercules; let her bear to you whatever she has from me. and you yourself, lay aside your funeral laments, I pray, O illustrious mother: Alcides lives for you. by my valor I have made your rival be thought a stepmother. whether, at Hercules’ birth, that night is true, or whether my father is mortal — though my descent be false, let a mother’s blame cease, and the charge against Jove: I have earned my parentage; I have brought glory to heaven, and my mother conceived me for the glory of Jove. nay, Jove himself, though Jupiter, rejoices to be believed my father; spare your tears now, mother: you will be proud among the mothers of Argos. what such son did Juno bear, who wields the heavenly scepter and is wedded to the Thunderer? yet, mortal, holding heaven, I made her envious. she wished Alcides to be called her own. now, Titan, run your course alone, left behind: I, who had everywhere been your companion, make for Tartarus and the shades. yet this glory I will carry, renowned, down to the depths: that no plague laid Alcides low in open fight, and Alcides conquered every plague in open fight.
Habet, peractum est, fata se nostra explicant; lux ista summa est: quercus hanc sortem mihi fatidica quondam dederat et Parnassio Cirrhaea quatiens templa mugitu specus: ’dextra perempti victor, Alcide, viri olim iacebis; hic tibi emenso freta terrasque et umbras finis extremus datur.’ nil querimur ultra: decuit hunc finem dari, ne quis superstes Herculis victor foret. nunc mors legatur clara memoranda incluta, me digna prorsus, nobilem hunc faciam diem. caedatur omnis silva et Oetaeum nemus considat: ingens Herculem accipiat rogus, sed ante mortem, tu, genus Poeantium, hoc triste nobis, iuvenis, officium appara; Herculea totum flamma succendat diem. ad te preces nunc, Hylle, supremas fero. est clara captas inter, in voltu genus regnumque referens, Euryto virgo edita Iole: tuis hanc facibus et thalamis para. victor cruentus abstuli patriam lares nihilque miserae praeter Alciden dedi: et ipse rapitur, penset aerumnas suas, Iovis nepotem foveat et natum Herculis; tibi illa pariat quicquid ex nobis habet. tuque ipsa planctus pone funereos, precor, o clara genetrix: vivit Alcides tibi. virtute nostra paelicem feci tuam credi novercam. sive nascente Hercule nox illa certa est sive mortalis meus pater est— licet sit falsa progenies mei, materna culpa cesset et crimen Iovis merui parentem: contuli caelo decus materque me concepit in laudes Iovis. quin ipse, quamquam Iuppiter, credi meus pater esse gaudet; parce iam lacrimis, parens: superba matres inter Argolicas eris. quid tale Iuno genuit aetherium gerens sceptrum et Tonanti nupta? mortali tamen caelum tenens invidit. Alciden suum dici esse voluit, perage nunc. Titan, vices solus relictus: ille qui vester comes ubique fueram. Tartara et manes peto. hanc tamen ad imos perferam laudem inclutam. quod nulla pestis fudit Alciden palam ’ omnemque pestem vicit Alcides palam.
O glory of the world, radiant Titan, at whose first beams Hecate lifts the weary faces of her nocturnal team to depart, tell the Sabaeans set beneath the Dawn, tell the Iberians set beneath the sunset, and those who endure beneath the Bear’s wain, and those shaken by the burning zone, tell them that Hercules hastens to the eternal shades and to the realm of the restless dog, whence he will never return. take up beams that clouds may follow, pale, look down on the mourning lands, and let foul mists wander over your head. when, O Titan, where, beneath what sky will you follow another Hercules on earth? what hands will the wretched world call upon, if some many-headed plague beneath Lerna should spread its fury into a hundred serpents, if some boar should make the woods unquiet for the ancient peoples of Arcadia, if some nursling of Thracian Rhodope, harder than the lands of snowy Helice, should spatter his stable with human blood? who will give peace to a fearful people, if the angry gods bid some new thing be born across the world? he lies dead, the equal of all, whom earth bore the equal of the Thunderer. let lamentation echo through the vast cities, and with no knot binding their hair let women beat their bared arms, and let the temples of the gods stand shut, and only the stepmother’s lie open, free of care. You go to Lethe and the Stygian shore, whence no ships will carry you back: you go, pitiable, to the shades, from which you had once carried off a triumph, death conquered, coming now as a shade, your arms stripped bare, with languid face and thin neck; and that boat will carry not you alone, yet you will not be cheap among the shades: among Aeacus and the two Cretans you will judge deeds, striking down the tyrants. spare, O you mighty, hold back your hands: it is a thing of praise to have kept the sword unstained, and, while you reigned, to have let fate have less power over your cities amid the storms. But valor has a place among the stars. will you hold the space of the northern seat, or where Titan brings forth his heavy heats? or will you shine beneath the warm sunset, whence you will hear Calpe resound, the sea joined to ocean? what places of the serene sky will you press down? what place will be safe, once Alcides is received among the stars? only far from the dread Lion let your father grant you a seat, and from the hot Crab, lest the stars, made to tremble at your face, confound their laws, and Titan quake. while flowers come in the warming spring, or summer calls the foliage back to the woods, and fruits give way as autumn flees, or winter cuts the foliage back from the woods: you, a companion to Phoebus, will go a companion to the stars. no age will tear you from the earth’s memory: sooner will a harvest spring up in the deep or the sea resound with a sweet wave, sooner will the star of the icy Bear sink down and enjoy the forbidden sea, than the peoples fall silent on your praises. you, father of all things, we wretches beseech: let no beast be born, no plague, let the pitiable earth not dread savage leaders, let no court hold sway that thinks the only glory of a kingdom to have held the sword forever poised; if anything on earth is feared again, we ask an avenger for the forsaken earth. Alas, what is this? the world resounds; see, it mourns, the father mourns Alcides; or is it the gods’ outcry, or the voice of the fearful stepmother? at the sight of Hercules has Juno fled the stars? or has Atlas, bearing the weight, staggered? or rather have the dread shades trembled at the sight of Hercules, and has the dog of the underworld fled in terror, its chains burst? we are mistaken: see, with glad face he comes, whom Poeas begot, and on his shoulders he bears the weapons and the quivers known to the peoples, the heir of Hercules.
O decus mundi, radiate Titan, cuius ad primos Hecate vapores lassa nocturnae levat ora bigae..dic sub Aurora positis Sabaeis, dic sub occasu positis Hiberis, quique sub plaustro patiuntur ursae quique ferventi quatiuntur axe, dic sub aeternos properare manes Herculem et regnum canis inquieti, unde non umquam remeabit ille. sume quos nubes radios sequantur, pallidus maestas speculare terras et caput turpes nebulae pererrent. quando, pro Titan, ubi, quo sub axe Herculem in terris alium sequeris? quas manus orbis miser invocabit, si qua sub Lenia numerosa pestis sparget in centum rabiem dracones, Arcadum si quis populis vetustis fecerit silvas aper inquietas, Thraciae si quis Rhodopes alumnus durior terris Helices nivosae sparget humano stabulum cruore? quis dabit pacem populo timent!, si quid irati superi per orbem iusserint nasci? iacet omnibus par, quem parem tellus genuit Tonanti. planctus immensas resonet per urbes et comas nullo cohibente nodo feminae exertos feriant lacertos, solaque obductis foribus deorum templa securae pateant novercae. Vadis ad Lethen Stygiumque litus, unde te nullae referent carinae: vadis ad manes miserandus, unde Morte devicta tuleras triumphum, umbra nudatis veniens lacertis languido vultu tenuique collo; teque non solum feret illa puppis non tamen vilis eris inter umbras: Aeacos inter geminosque Cretas facta discernens, feriens tyrannos. parcite, o dites, inhibete dextras: laudis est puram tenuisse ferrum, cumque regnabas, minus in procellis in tuas urbes licuisse fatis. Sed locum virtus habet inter astra., sedis arctoae spatium tenebis an graves Titan ubi promit aestus? an sub occasu tepido nitebis, unde commisso resonare ponto audies Calpen? loca quae sereni deprimes caeli? quis erit recepto tutus Alcide locus inter astra? horrido tantum procul a leone det pater sedes calidoque cancro, ne tuo vultu tremefacta leges astra conturbent trepidetque Titan. vere dum flores venient tepenti vel comam silvis revocabit aestas pomaque autumno fugiente cedent, vel comam silvis hiemes recident: tu comes Phoebo, comes ibis astris. nulla te terris rapiet vetustas: ante nascetur seges in profundo vel fretum dulci resonabit unda, ante descendet glacialis ursae sidus et ponto vetito fruetur, quam tuas laudes populi quiescant, te, pater rerum, miseri precamur: nulla nascatur fera, nulla pestis, non duces saevos miseranda tellus horreat, nulla dominetur aula qui putet solum decus esse regni semper impendens tenuisse ferrum; si quid in terris iterum timetur, vindicem terrae petimus relictae. Heu quid hoc? mundus sonat, ecce maeret, maeret Alciden pater; an deorum clamor, an vox est timidae novercae Hercule et viso fugit astra Iuno? passus an pondus titubavit Atlas? an magis diri tremuere manes Herculem et visum canis inferorum fugit abruptis trepidus catenis? fallimur: laeto venit ecce voltu quem tulit Poeans umerisque tela gestat et notas populis pharetras, Herculis heres.
Tell us the fortunes of Hercules, young man, I pray, and with what face Alcides bore his death.
Effare casus, iuvenis, Herculeos precor voltuque quonam tulerit Alcides necem.
With a face no one wears for life.
Quo nemo vitam.
So gladly did he leap into the final fires?
Laetus adeone ultimos invasit ignes?
He showed that flames are now nothing. What under this heaven did Hercules leave free from being conquered? see, all is tamed.
Esse iam flammas nihil ostendit ille. quid sub hoc mundo Hercules immune vinci liquit? en domita omnia.
Amid the flames, what room was there for valor?
Inter vapores quis fuit forti locus?
The one evil in the world he had not yet conquered, the flame too is conquered; this too is added to the beasts: fire passes among the labors of Hercules.
Quod unum in orbe vicerat nondum malum, et flamma victa est; haec quoque accessit feris: inter labores ignis Herculeos abit.
Tell us, then, in what way was the flame conquered?
Edissere agedum, flamma quo victa est modo?
When the whole mournful company set on Oeta, here a beech loses its shade and lies felled, its whole trunk down; here a fierce man bends a pine that threatens the stars and calls it down from the midst of the cloud: about to fall, it shifted a rock and carried off a lesser wood with it, like the once-speaking oak of Chaonia: a vast oak stands wide and shuts out Phoebus, and stretches its branches beyond the whole grove; it groans, menacing, under many a wound driven in, and breaks the wedges; the driven steel springs back and the iron suffers a wound and is too little hard. at last, shaken, as it fell, drawing a broad ruin of itself, at once the place let in all the sunbeams: driven from their homes, the birds wander the daylight, the wood cut down, and chattering, with weary wings, seek their nests. now every tree has rung, and even the sacred oaks have felt the dread hand with its iron, and ancient honor availed no grove; the whole forest is heaped up, and beams crosswise raise to the stars a pyre too narrow for Hercules: the pine that will catch the flames, the tough oak, and the shorter holm-oak; but white poplar fills the pyre, the adornment of Hercules’ brow. but he, as a huge lion beneath a Nasamonian grove bellows, leaning back on its sick breast, is borne on: who would believe he was being hurried to the flames? his was the face of one seeking the stars, not the fire, when he trod Oeta and surveyed the whole pyre with his own eyes, he broke the beams as he lay upon them. he called for his bow: "Receive these gifts," he said, "son of Poeas; take this offering of Alcides. these the hydra felt, by these the Stymphalian birds lie dead, and whatever other evil I conquered from afar. fortunate in your victory, young man, never in vain will you shoot them at a mark; or if from the midst of a cloud you wish to take birds, the birds will come down and the sure shafts will flow with their prey from the sky, and this bow will never fail your right hand: it has learned to balance the shafts and to give the arrows a sure flight; once loosed from the string, they themselves do not miss their way: only do you, I pray, bring up the fires and the last torch for me. this club," he said, "which no hand could lift, let it blaze with me through the fires; this one weapon will follow Hercules alone; this too you would receive," he said, "if you could carry it; let it serve its master’s pyre." then he asks that the stiff spoils of the Nemean evil burn with him; the pyre lay hidden in the spoil. the whole crowd groaned, nor did grief allow anyone’s tears to be held back; the mother, raging into grief, laid open her eager breast and, bared down to the womb, beat her great breasts in lamentation, and assailing with her cries the gods above and Jove himself, she filled the whole place with a woman’s voice. "you make Hercules’ death unseemly, mother; restrain your tears," he said; "let a woman’s grief go back within; why should Juno pass a glad day while you weep? she rejoices to watch the tears of her rival; restrain your weak heart, mother: it is wrong for you to tear the breasts and womb that bore me." and roaring terribly, as when he led the dog through the Argive cities, when, victor over Erebus, with Dis scorned, he returned, Fate trembling — so he lay down upon the pyre. who ever stood so triumphant and glad in his chariot, a victor? what tyrant gave laws to the nations with such a face? how great a peace his bearing wore! our tears stopped, grief fell away, driven off even from us ourselves; no one groaned for the dying man: now it is shame to weep; even she whom her sex bids mourn, Alcmena, stood with dry cheeks and stood, a parent now almost the equal of her son.
Vt omnis Oeten maesta corripuit manus, huic fagus umbras perdit et toto iacet succisa trunco, flectit hic pinum ferox astris minantem et nube de media vocat: ruitura cautem movit et silvam tulit secum minorem, ut Chaonis quondam loquax: stat vasta late quercus et Phoebum vetat ultraque totum porrigit ramos nemus; gemit illa multo volnere impresso minax frangitque cuneos, resilit incussus chalybs volnusque ferrum patitur et rigidum est parum. commota tandem cum cadens latam sui duxit ruinam, protinus radios locus admisit omnis: sedibus pulsae suis volucres pererrant nemore succiso diem quaeruntque lassis garrulae pinnis domus. iamque omnis arbor sonuit et sacrae quoque sensere quercus horridam ferro manum nullique priscum profuit luco decus; aggeritur omnis silva et alternae trabes in astra tollunt Herculi angustum rogum: raptura flammas pinus et robur tenax et brevior ilex. alba sed complet rogum populea silva, frontis Herculeae decus. at ille, ut ingens nemore sub Nasamonio aegro reclinis pectore immugit leo, fertur: quis illum credat ad flammas rapi? voltus petentis astra, non ignes erat, ut pressit Oeten ac suis oculis rogum lustravit omnem, fregit impositus trabes. arcus poposcit, ’accipe haec’ inquit, ’sate Poeante, dona, hoc munus Alcidae cape. has hydra sensit, his iacent Stymphalides et quicquid aliud eminus vici malum. † victrice felix, iuvenis, has numquam irritas mittes in postem; sive de media voles auferre volucres nube, descendent aves et certa praedae tela de caelo fluent, nec fallet umquam dexteram hic arcus tuam: librare tela didicit et certam dare fugam sagittis, ipsa non fallunt iter emissa nervo tela: tu tantum precor accommoda ignes et facem extremam mihi. hic nodus’ inquit ’nulla quem cepit manus, mecum per ignes flagret; hoc telum Herculem tantum sequetur, hoc quoque acciperes’ ait ’si ferre posses, adiuvet domini rogum.’ tum rigida secum spolia Nemeaei mali arsura poscit; latuit in spolio rogus. ingemuit omnis turba nec lacrimas dolor cuiquam remisit, mater in luctum furens diduxit avidum pectus atque utero tenus exerta vastos ubera in planctus ferit. superosque et ipsum vocibus pulsans Iovem implevit omnem voce feminea locum. ’deforme letum, mater, Herculeum facis, compesce lacrimas’ inquit, ’introrsus dolor femineus abeat; Iuno cur laetum diem te flente ducat? paelicis gaudet suae spectare lacrimas, comprime infirmum iecur, mater: nefas est ubera atque uterum tibi laniare, qui me genuit.’ et dirum fremens, qualis per urbes duxit Argolicas canem, cum victor Erebi Dite contempto redit tremente fato, talis incubuit rogo. quis sic triumphans laetus in curru stetit victor? quis illo gentibus voltu dedit leges tyrannus? quanta pax habitum tulit! haesere lacrimae, cecidit impulsus dolor nobis quoque ipsis, nemo periturum ingemit: iam flere pudor est; ipsa quam sexus iubet maerere,, siccis haesit Alcmene genis stetitque nato paene iam similis parens.
Did he send no prayers to the stars, to the gods above, as he was about to burn, or look to Jove in his vows?
Nullasne in astra misit ad superos preces arsurus aut in vota respexit Iovem?
He lay careless of himself, and gazing at the sky sought with his eyes whether from some quarter his father was looking down on him; then, stretching out his hands, he said: "from whatever quarter you look upon your son, father, you, you I beseech, for whom a single day rested, its night joined to it. if my praises are sung by both shores of Phoebus and the Scythian race and every burning coast that the day scorches, if the earth is full of peace, if no cities groan, and no one defiles the altars with impiety, if crimes are wanting, admit this spirit, I pray, among the stars; the place of infernal death and the gloomy realms of the black Jove do not terrify me, but to go as a shade to those gods I conquered, father, I blush. scatter the cloud, lay open the day, that the faces of the gods may watch Hercules burning; though you deny me the stars and the sky, even against your will, father, you will be forced: if pain wrings any cries from me, then open the Stygian lakes and give me back to the fates; but first approve your son: this day will make me seem worthy of the stars. what I have done is a light thing; this day, father, will discover Hercules, or condemn him." after he had uttered this, he called for the flames. "to work, companion of Alcides, and no laggard," he said; "snatch up the Oetaean torch. let my stepmother see in what way I bear the flames. why has your right hand trembled? does your fearful hand shrink from an impious deed? give me back my quivers now, coward, helpless, unarmed — see, the hand that should bend my bow! why does pallor sit on your cheeks? fall on the torch with the same courage with which you see Alcides lie; look on the man about to burn, poor soul. see, now my father calls me and opens the poles; I am coming, father." and his face was no longer the same.
Iacuit sui securus et caelum intuens quaesivit oculis, parte an ex aliqua pater despiceret illum, tum manus tendens ait: ’ quacumque parte prospicis natum pater, te te precor, cui nocte commissa dies quievit unus. si meas laudes canit utrumque Phoebi litus et Scythiae genus et omnis ardens ora quam torret dies. si pace tellus plena, si nullae gemunt urbes nec aras impias quisquam inquinat, si scelera desunt, spiritum admitte hunc precor in astra, non me mortis infernae locus nec maesta nigri regna conterrent Iovis, sed ire ad illos umbra, quos vici, deos, pater, erubesco, nube discussa diem pande, ut deorum voltus ardentem Herculem spectet; licet tu sidera et mundum neges, ultro, pater, cogere: si voces dolor abstulerit ullas, pande tum Stygios lacus et redde fatis: approba natum prius: ut dignus astris videar, hic faciet dies. leve est quod actum est; Herculem hic, genitor, dies inveniet aut damnabit.’ haec postquam edidit, flammas poposcit. ’hoc age, Alcidae comes non segnis’ inquit ’corripe Oetaeam facem, noverca cernat quo feram flammas modo. quid dextra tremuit? num manus pavida impium scelus refugit? redde iam pharetras mihi, isnave iners inermis— en nostros manus quae tendat arcus! quid sedet pallor genis? animo faces invade quo Alciden vides voltu iacere, respice arsurum, miser. vocat ecce iam me genitor et pandit polos; venio, pater.’ voltusque non idem fuit.
With trembling hand he thrust the burning pine into the pyre. the fire recoils, and the torches struggle and shun his limbs, but Hercules pursues the retreating flame. Caucasus, or Pindus, or Athos you would think ablaze: no sound bursts out, only the fire groans. O hard heart! monstrous Typhon, laid on that pyre, would himself have groaned, and fierce Enceladus who set Ossa, torn from the ground, on his shoulders; but he, rising up amid the flames, half-burnt and mangled, gazing undaunted: "now you are the mother of Hercules: thus to stand by the pyre, mother," he said, "thus it is fitting to mourn Hercules." set amid the flames and the menace of the fire, unmoved, unshaken, turning his seized limbs to neither side, he exhorts, he counsels, he accomplishes something even as he burns; to all the attendants he gave brave spirit; you would think that he, burning, was the one who set the fire. the whole crowd is stunned, the flames scarcely win belief, so calm is his brow, so great the majesty of the man. nor does he hasten to burn; and when he judged enough had been given to a brave death, the fire-bearing beams he dragged from here and there, those the smallest flame had caught, and turned them wholly into the fire, and where the flame surges most, he seeks it out, undaunted, fierce, then he fills his face with flames: but his thick beard blazed; and when now the menacing fire sought his face, and the flames licked his head, he did not shut his eyes. but what is this? I see, mournful, carrying in her bosom the remains of great Hercules, and tossing her squalid hair, Alcmena, groaning.
tremente pinum dextera ardentem impulit. refugit ignis et reluctantur faces et membra vitant, sed recedentem Hercules insequitur ignem. Caucasum aut Pindum aut Athon ardere credas: nullus erumpit sonus, tantum ingemescit ignis. o durum iecur! Typhon in illo positus immanis rogo gemuisset ipse quique convulsam solo imposuit umeris Ossan Enceladus ferox; at ille medias inter exurgens faces, semiustus ac laniatus, intrepidum tuens: ’nunc es parens Herculea: sic stare ad rogum te, mater’ inquit, ’sic decet Heri Herculem.’ inter vapores positus et flammae minas immotus, inconcussus, in neutrum latus correpta torquens membra adhortatur, monet, gerit aliquid ardens, omnibus fortem addidit animum ministris; urere ardentem putes. stupet omne volgus, vix habent flammae fidem, tam placida frons est, tanta maiestas viro. nec properat uri; cumque iam forti datum leto satis pensavit, igniferas trabes hinc inde traxit, minima quas flamma occupat, totasque in ignes vertit et quis plurimus exundat ignis repetit intrepidus ferox, tunc ora flammis implet: ast illi graves luxere barbae; cumque iam voltum minax appeteret ignis, lamberent flammae caput, non pressit oculos, sed quid hoc? maestam intuor sinu gerentem reliquias magni Herculis crinemque iactans squalidum Alcmene gemit.
Fear the fates, you gods: so small an ash is left of Hercules; to this, to this that giant has shrunk! O Titan, how great a mass comes to nothing; an old woman’s bosom, alas, receives Alcides, this is his tomb: see, Hercules has scarcely filled the whole urn; how light a weight to me, to whom the whole sky was a light weight to bear. once to Tartarus and the farthest realms, my son, you used to go, sure to return — when from the infernal Styx will you come back again? not to drag off spoil, and so that Theseus may again owe you the light — but when, alone? will the world laid upon you restrain your shade, and will the Tartarean dog be able to hold you back? when will you knock at the Taenarian gates? or to what jaws of death shall I, your mother, be driven, where death is entered? you go to the shades, to make the journey only once. why do I waste the day in lament? why, wretched life, do you endure? why hold the light? what Hercules can I bear again to Jove? what son so great will call me, Alcmena, his mother? O too fortunate, too fortunate, Theban husband, you entered the places of Tartarus while your son flourished, and the powers below feared you perhaps as you came, because you were the father of Hercules, even though falsely. what lands shall I, an old woman, seek, hated by savage kings (if any savage king is left at all)? ah, woe is me! whatever son groans for slaughtered fathers will seek vengeance from me; all will crush me: if some lesser Busiris or some lesser Antaeus terrifies the world of the burning zone, I will be led off as prey; if some avenger of the bloody Thracian’s Ismarian herd comes, the dread herds will tear my limbs; perhaps angry Juno will demand penalties: her whole grief will turn this way; at last, with Alcides conquered, she is at ease and free of care — I, her rival, survive — ah, what tortures she will seek, that I may bear no more! this son has made my womb a thing to fear. what places shall I, Alcmena, seek? what place, what region, what quarter of the world will protect me, or into what hiding-places shall I, a mother, be driven, known everywhere because of you? shall I so seek my homeland and my wretched home? Eurystheus holds Argos; shall I seek the marriage-realm of Thebes, and Ismenos, and my marriage-chamber, in which once I saw Jove, his beloved? O too fortunate, too fortunate, had I too felt the lightning-wielding Jove! would that Alcides had been cut, an infant, from my womb! now it has been granted: it has been granted to see my son rivaling Jove in glory, that this too might be given: to know what fate could snatch from me. what people lives that remembers you, my son? now every race is ungrateful. shall I seek Cleonae? shall I seek the peoples of Arcadia and seek out lands made noble by your labors? here the dread serpent fell, here the savage bird, here the bloody king, here the lion, broken by your hand, that now you are buried possesses the sky: if the land is grateful, let all its people defend your Alcmena. shall I seek the Thracian nations and the peoples of Hebrus? this land too has been defended by your deserts: the stables lie low with the kingdom. here peace was given when the bloody king was laid low: for where was it ever denied? what tomb shall I, an unhappy old woman, seek for you? over your pyre let the whole world contend; what people, what temples, what nations ask for the remains of great Hercules? who, who seeks, who demands the burden Alcmena carries? what sepulcher, my son, what tomb is enough for you? the whole world will be the inscription of your fame. why, my soul, do you tremble? you hold the ashes of Hercules; embrace his bones: the remains will give help, they will be defense enough; your shade, even, will terrify kings.
Timete, superi, fata: tam parvus cinis Herculeus, huc huc ille decrevit gigans! o quanta, Titan, ad nihil moles abit; anilis, heu me, recipit Alciden sinus, hic tumulus illi est: ecce vix totam Hercules complevit urnam; quam leve est pondus mihi, cui totus aether pondus incubuit leve. ad Tartara olim regnaque, o nate, ultima rediturus ibas— quando ab inferna Styge remeabis iterum? non ut et spolium trahas rursusque Theseus debeat lucem tibi— sed quando solus? mundus impositus tuas compescet umbras teque Tartareus canis inhibere poterit? quando Taenarias fores pulsabis. aut quas mater ad fauces agar qua mors aditur? vadis ad manes iter habiturus unum. quid diem questu tero? quid misera duras vita? quid lucem tenes? quem parere rursus Herculem possum Iovi? quis me parentem natus Alcmenen suam tantus vocabit? o nimis felix nimis, Thebane coniunx, Tartari intrasti loca florente nato teque venientem inferi timuere forsan, quod pater tantum Herculis, vel falsus, aderas: quas petam terras anus, invisa saevis regibus (si quis tamen rex est relictus saevus)? ei miserae mihi! quicumque caesos ingemit natus patres, a me petet supplicia, me cuncti obruent: si quis minor Busiris aut si quis minor Antaeus orbem fervidae terret plagae, ego praeda ducar; si quis Ismarius gregis Thracis cruenti vindicat, carpent greges mea membra diri; forsitan poenas petet irata Iuno: totus huc verget dolor; secura victo tandem ab Alcide vacat, paelex supersum— a quanta supplicia expetet, ne parere possim! fecit hic natus mihi uterum timendum. quae petam Alcmene loca? quis me locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga defendet aut quas mater in latebras agar ubique per te nota? sic patriam petam laresque miseros? Argos Eurystheus tenet; marita Thebas regna et Ismenon petam thalamosque nostros, in quibus quondam Iovem dilecta vidi? pro nimis felix, nimis, si fulminantem et ipsa sensissem Iovem! utinam meis visceribus Alcides foret exectus infans! nunc datum est tempus: datum est videre natum laude certantem Iovi, ut et hoc daretur, scire quid fatum mihi eripere posset, quis memor vivit tui, o nate, populus? omne iam ingratum est genus. petam Cleonas? Arcadum populos petam mentisque terras nobiles quaeram tuis? hic dira serpens cecidit, hic ales fera, hic rex cruentus, hic tua fractus manu qui te sepulto possidet caelum leo: si grata terra est, populus Alcmenen tuam defendat omnis. Thracias gentes petam Hebrique populos? haec quoque est meritis tuis defensa tellus: stabula cum regno iacent. hic pax cruento rege prostrato data est: ubi enim negata est? quod tibi infelix anus quaeram sepulchrum? de tuis totus rogis contendat orbis, reliquias magni Herculis quis populus aut quae templa, quae gentes rogant? quis, quis petit, quis poscit Alcmenes onus? quae tibi sepulchra, nate, quis tumulus sat est? hic totus orbis famae erit titulus tibi. quid, anime, trepidas? Herculis cineres tenes; complectere ossa: reliquiae auxilium dabunt, erunt satis praesidia, terrebunt tuae reges vel umbrae.
Restrain, indeed, the tears owed to your son, mother of Alcides now clothed in glory; he is not to be mourned, nor pressed with heavy prayer, whoever by his valor has taken a road from the fates: eternal valor forbids Hercules to be made a shade. the brave forbid mourning; the base command it.
Debitos nato quidem compesce fletus, mater Alcidae induti, non est gemendus nec gravi urgendus prece, virtute quisquis abstulit fatis iter: aeterna virtus Herculem fieri vetat. fortes vetant maerere, degeneres iubent.
Shall I, a mother, calm my laments with my champion lost? Earth and sea, and wherever the crimson day with its bright wheel beholds both Oceans — how many sons, wretched mother, have I buried in one? I lacked a kingdom, but I could give kingdoms. alone among all the mothers the earth bears I spared my prayers; nothing did I need to ask of the gods while my son was safe: what could the zeal of Hercules not give me? what god could deny me anything? my prayers were in this hand of his: whatever Jupiter denied, Hercules would give. what such thing did any mortal mother bear? one mother stiffened to stone, when she stood cut down with all her brood, and one woman bewailed a flock of twice seven: to what flocks could my son be matched, and how many? to wretched mothers a vast example was still lacking: I, Alcmena, will give it. cease, you mothers, if any stubborn grief still bids you mourn, whom heavy sorrow has turned to stone; yield, all of you, to these evils. come now, aged breast, O wretched hands, beat. but is one woman enough for so great a funeral, an aged crone, worn out, for what the whole world soon will mourn? yet make ready for the beating, though your arms are weary: that you may make the gods envied by your grief, call the race to the lament. Go, mourn the son of Alcmena and great Jove, at whose conceiving one day perished and Dawn joined two nights together: something more than the daylight itself has perished. mourn together, all you nations, whose savage tyrants he bade pass into the Stygian halls and lay down the sword that ran wet over the peoples. give weeping in return for deserts so great, let the whole, the whole world resound: let blue-sea Crete weep for Alcides, the land dear to the great Thunderer: let a hundred peoples beat their arms; now you Curetes, now you Corybantes, shake the arms of Ida in your hands: it is fitting to mourn him with arms; now, now beat your breasts for a true death: Alcides lies dead, no less, Crete, than the Thunderer himself. weep, Arcadians, for the death of Hercules, a race older than the not-yet-born Moon: let the ridges of Parthenius and Pheneus ring, and let heavy beating strike Maenalus; the bristly boar laid low on your fields demands a groan for great Alcides, and the bird bidden to flee his arrows, its wing veiling the whole day. weep, Argive Cleonae, weep: here the hand of my son broke the lion that once terrified your walls: give your blows, Bistonian mothers, and let icy Hebrus resound with lament: weep for Alcides, because no infant is born for the stables and the herds no longer feed on your flesh; let the land freed from Antaeus weep, and the region snatched from fierce Geryon: mourn with me, you wretched nations, let both seas hear the blows, you too, swift throng of the firmament, weep, you powers, for the fortunes of Hercules: my Alcides bore your world, you gods, and your heaven, on his neck, when the bearer of star-bearing Olympus, Atlas, freed of the weight, drew breath: where now, Jupiter, are your citadels? where the palace of the promised heaven? surely Alcides dies a mortal, surely is buried. how often he spared your shafts and your firebrands, how often the fire ought to have been scattered! at me at least hurl a torch, and think me Semele. do you now, my son, hold the Elysian homes, now the shore to which nature calls all peoples? or, after the dog was carried off, has black Styx shut the road, and do the fates delay you on the very threshold of Dis? what uproar now, my son, holds the shades and the dead? does the boatman flee, his skiff withdrawn, and, the Thessalian Centaurs stirred up, does the hoof strike the astonished shades, and has the hydra, terrified, plunged its snakes beneath the waters, and do the labors fear you, my son? I am wrong, I am wrong, raving and mad. neither the dead nor the shades fear you. the tawny hide, stripped from the Argive lion, covered with its mane, does not cloak your dread left arm, nor do the beast’s teeth wall your temples: your quivers have passed on as a gift, and a lesser hand will now loose your shafts; you go unarmed, my son, among the shades, among which you will remain forever.
Sedabo questus vindice amisso parens? Terra atque pelagus quaque purpureus dies utrumque clara spectat Oceanum rota Quot "misera in uno condidi natos parens? regno carebam, regna sed poteram dare. una inter omnes terra quas matres gerit votis peperci, nil ego a superis peti incolume nato: quid dare Herculeus mihi non poterat ardor? quis deus quicquam mihi negare poterat? vota in hac fuerant manu: quicquid negaret Iuppiter, daret Hercules. quid tale genetrix ulla mortalis tulit? deriguit aliqua mater, ut toto stetit succisa fetu, bisque septenos gregem deplanxit una: gregibus aequari meus quot ille poterat? matribus miseris adhuc exemplar ingens derat: Alcmene dabo. cessate, matres, pertinax si quas dolor adhuc iubet lugere, quas luctus gravis in saxa vertit; cedite his cunctae malis. agedum senile pectus, o miserae manus, pulsate, at una funeri tanto sat est grandaeva anus defecta, quod totus brevi † iam quaeret orbis? expedi in planctus tamen defessa quamquam bracchia: invidiam ut deis lugendo facias, advoca in planctus genus. Ite Alcmenae magnique Iovis plangite natum, cui concepto lux una perit noctesque duas contulit Eos: ipsa quiddam plus luce perit, totae pariter plangite gentes, quarum saevos ille tyrannos iussit Stygias penetrare domos populisque madens ponere ferrum. fletum meritis reddite tantis, totus, totus personet orbis: fleat Alciden caerula Crete, magno tellus cara Tonanti: centum populi bracchia pulsent; nunc Curetes, nunc Corybantes arma Idaea quassate manu: armis illum lugere decet; nunc, nunc funus plangite verum: iacet Alcides non minor ipso, Creta, Tonante. flete Herculeos, Arcades, obitus, nondum Phoebe nascente genus: iuga Parthenii Pheneique sonent feriatque gravis Maenala planctus magno Alcidae poscit gemitum stratus vestris saetiger agris alesque sequi iussa sagittas totum pinna velante diem. flete Argolicae, flete, Cleonae: hic terrentem moenia quondam vestra leonem fregit nostri dextera nati: date Bistoniae verbera matres gelidusque sonet planctibus Hebrus: flete Alciden. quod non stabulis’ nascitur infans nec vestra greges viscera carpunt; fleat Antaeo libera tellus et rapta fero plaga Geryonae: mecum miserae plangite gentes, audiat ictus utraque Tethys, vos quoque, mundi turba citati, flete Herculeos. numina, casus: vestrum Alcides cervice meus mundum, superi, caelumque tulit, cum stelligeri vector Olympi pondere liber spiravit Atlans: ubi nunc vestrae, Iuppiter, arces? ubi promissi regia mundi? nempe Alcides mortalis obit, nempe sepultus. quotiens telis facibusque tuis ille pepercit, quotiens ignis spargendus erat! in me saltem iaculare facem Semelenque puta. iamne Elysias, o nate, domus, iam§ litus habes ad quod populos natura vocat? an post raptum Styx atra canem praeclusit iter teque in primo limine Ditis fata morantur? quis nunc umbras, nate, tumultus manesque tenet? fugit abducta navita cumba et Centauris Thessala motis ferit attonitos ungula manes anguesque suos hydra sub undas territa mersit teque labores, o nate. timent? fallor, fallor vaesana furens. nec te manes umbraeque timent. non Argolico rapta leoni fulva pellis contecta iuba laevos operit dira lacertos vallantque ferae tempora dentes: donum pharetrae cessere tuae t telaque mittet iam dextra minor; vadis inermis, nate, per umbras, ad quas semper mansurus eris.
Why, when I hold the realms of the starry pole and am at last restored to heaven, do you bid me feel my fate with your lament? cease: now my valor has made a road for me to the stars and the very gods.
Quid me tenentem regna siderei poli ’ caeloque tandem redditum planctu iubes sentire fatum? parce: iam virtus mihi in astra et ipsos fecit ad superos iter.
whence, whence does a sound strike my trembling ears? whence does a crash check my tears? I know that chaos is conquered. from the Styx, my son, do you return to me again, and has grim death been broken more than once? have you again conquered the places of death, and the sad shallows of the infernal boat? is Acheron now passable, grown sluggish, and is it permitted to you alone to return, nor do the fates hold you after your funeral? or has Pluto barred the road to you and, in fear, dreaded for his kingdom? surely I saw you set on the blazing woods, when most fiercely the terror of the flame raged toward heaven: you burned. why, why did the farthest places not hold your shade? what did your ghost fear, I pray? are you, even as a shade, too dreadful for Dis?
Vnde, unde sonus trepidas aures ferit? unde meas inhibet lacrimas fragor? agnosco victum esse chaos. A Styge, nate, redis iterum mihi fractaque nou semel est mors horrida? vicisti rursus mortis loca puppis et infernae vada tristia? pervius est Acheron iam languidus et remeare licet soli tibi nec te fata tenent post funera? an tibi praeclusit Pluton iter et pavidus regni metuit sibi? certe ego te vidi flagrantibus impositum silvis, cum plurimus in caelum fureret flammae metus: arsisti. cur te, cur ultima non tenuere tuas umbras loca? quid timuere tui manes, precor? umbra quoque es Diti nimis horrida?
The pools of groaning Cocytus do not hold me, nor has the dark boat ferried my shade across; now spare your laments, mother: the shades and the ghosts I saw but once; whatever in me was yours, the mortal part, the conquered fire has taken away: the father’s part is given to heaven, your part to the flames. therefore lay aside the laments that a mother prepares for a worthless son; let mourning go to the base: valor strives toward the stars, fear toward death. present from the stars, mother, I, Alcides, proclaim: Eurystheus, now bloody, will pay you the penalty; borne in your chariot, you will pass over his proud head. now it befits me to enter the celestial region: once again Alcides has conquered the regions below.
HERC Non me gementis stagna Cocyti tenent nec puppis umbras furva transvexit meas; iam parce, mater, questibus: manes semel umbrasque vidi; quicquid in nobis tui mortale fuerat, ignis evictus tulit: paterna caelo, pars data est flammis tua. proinde planctus pone, quos nato paret genetrix inerti; luctus in turpes eat: virtus in astra tendit, in mortem timor. praesens ab astris, mater, Alcides cano: poenas, cruentus iam tibi Eurystheus dabit; curru superbum vecta transcendes caput. me iam decet subire caelestem plagam: inferna vici rursus Alcides loca.
wait a little — he is gone, out of my sight, he departs, he is borne to the stars. do I deceive myself, or does my face think it has seen my son? my wretched mind cannot believe it. you are a god, and the world holds you forever; I believe in your triumphs. I will seek the realm of Thebes and sing a new god added to the temples.
Mane parumper, cessit, ex oculis, abit, in astra fertur, fallor an voltus putat vidisse natum? misera mens incredula est. es numen et te mundus aeternum tenet, credo triumphis, regna Thebarum petam novumque templis additum numen canam.
Never to the Stygian shades is illustrious valor borne: the brave live on, nor will cruel fates drag you through the streams of Lethe, but when the spent day claims its last hours, glory will open the road to the gods above. but you, great tamer of beasts and pacifier of the world alike, be near; now too look upon our lands, and if any monster with strange face shall shake the peoples with grave terror, shatter it with your three-forked bolts: more mightily than your own father, hurl the lightning.
Numquam Stygias fertur ad umbras inclita virtus: vivunt fortes nec Lethaeos saeva per amnes vos fata trahent, sed cum summas exiget horas consumpta dies, iter ad superos gloria pandet. sed tu, domitor magne ferarum orbisque simul pacator, ades; nunc quoque nostras respice terras, et si qua novo belua voltu quatiet populos terrore gravi, tu fulminibus frange trisulcis: fortius ipso genitore tuo fulmina mitte.