That thou must carry to my absent lord.
Instruct him straitly, when thou givest it,
That he, and none before him, put it on;
And let no sunlight, nor the altar flame
Behold it, nor the fire upon his hearth,
Till he stand forth in sight of all arrayed
For gods to see it, at some solemn feast.
For I had vowed, if ever I should see
Or hear for certain of his safe return,
To invest him in this newly-woven robe,
And so present him duly to the gods,
A votary for the sacrifice new-dight.
And as a token point him out this seal,
The impress of my signet-ring, that he
Will surely recognise. Now go thy way,
And heed the rule of messengers, nor let
Thy zeal outrun thy orders, but so act
That thou may’st win a double meed of thanks
For service rendered both to him and me.
Call me no master of the mystery
Of Hermes, if in ought I trip or fail—
Deliver not this casket as it is,
And add in attestation of the gift
Thy very words.
Thou may’st be going now.
How things are in the house thou know’st full well.
I know, and will report all safe and sound.
And thou canst tell him of the captive maid—
How kindly I received and welcomed her.
Yea, I was filled with wonder and delight.
What further message have I? None, I fear;
To tell him of my longing were too soon,
Before I know that he too longs for me. Exeunt Lichas and Deianira.
Strophe 1
Ye who on Oeta dwell,
Or where the hot springs well
And down the cliffs their steaming waters pour;
Or by the inmost shore
Of Malis, where the golden-arrowed Maid
Haunts the green glade,
Where at thy Gates, far-famed from times of old,
Greeks counsel hold;
Antistrophe 1
Soon shall the clear-voiced flute
Sweet as Apollo’s lute,
Echo amid your hills and vales again,
No sad funereal strain,
But hymeneals meet for gods to hear.
For now he draweth near,
The Zeus-born conqueror, Alemena’s son,
His victory won.
Strophe 2
Him twelve weary months we wait.
Wondering what may be his fate;
And his true wife wastes away,
Pining at her lord’s delay.
But the War-god, with his foes
Wroth, has given at last repose.
Antistrophe 2
Spread the sail and ply the oar,
Waft him, breezes, from the shore,
Where to Zeus, his vows all paid,
Sacrifices he hath made.
May the magic mantle fire
All his heart with fond desire,
Speed him to his true love’s arms
Captive to her subtle charms.
Maidens, I fear I have been over bold
And ill advised in all I did of late.
What mean’st thou, Deianira, Oeneus’ child.
I know not, but I tremble lest deceived
By fond hopes I have wrought a grievous harm.
Thou speak’st not of thy gift to Heracles?
’Tis so; and I would henceforth counsel none
To act in haste, unless the issue’s clear.
Tell, if thou may’st, the cause of thy alarm.
My friends, a thing has come to pass, so strange
That, if I tell it, you will deem you hear
A miracle. The flock of wool wherewith
E’en now I smeared the festal robe (’twas plucked
From a white fleece) has disappeared, untouched
By aught within the house, but self-consumed
It wasted, melting on the flags, away.
But all that chanced I will relate in full.
The precepts given me by the Centaur-beast,
What time the barb was rankling in his side,
Fixed in my memory, like some ordinance
Graven on brass indelible, I kept.
All that he then commanded me I did:
He bade me hide in some dark nook the salve,
Remote from firelight and the sun’s hot ray,
Till I had need to use it, freshly smeared.
And so I did, and, when the occasion rose,
I took a tuft of wool that I had plucked
From one of our home flock; therewith I spread
The unguent in my chamber privily;
Then folded and within its coffer laid,
Safe from the sunlight, as ye saw, my gift.
But as I passed indoors behold a sight
Portentous, well nigh inconceivable.
It chanced that I had thrown the hank of wool
Used for the smearing into the full blaze
Of sunlight; with the gradual warmth dissolved
It shrank and shrivelled up till naught was left
Save a fine powder, likest to the dust
That strews the ground when sawyers are at work—
Mere dust and ashes. But from out the spot
Where lay the strewments clotted froth upwelled,
As when the spilth of Bacchus, from the grapes
New pressed and purple, on the ground is poured.
Thus I for trouble know not where to turn,
And only see a fearful thing I have done.
Why should the dying Centaur then have shown
Regard for me, the author of his death?
Impossible! no, he was cozening me,
And sought, through me, his slayer to undo.
Too late, too late, when knowledge naught avails,
My eyes are opened. I alone am doomed,
(Unless my fears prove false) to slay my lord.
I know the shaft that slew the Centaur scathed
E’en Cheiron, though a god, and any beast
It touches dies. So the black venomed gore
That from the wound of Nessus oozed must slay
Likewise my lord. Thus I, alas, must think.
Howbeit I am resolved, if fall he must,
The selfsame stroke of fate shall end my days.
What woman noble born would dare live on
Dishonoured when her fair repute is gone?
’Tis true dread perils threaten; yet ’twere well
To cherish hope till the event be known.
They who have counselled ill cannot admit
One ray of hope to fortify their soul.
Men will not look severely on an act
Unwittingly committed, as was thine.
With a good conscience one might urge this plea
Which ill becomes a partner in the crime.
’Twere better to refrain from further speech,
Unless thou wouldst address thy son; for he
Who went to seek his father is at hand.
Mother, I would that of three wishes one
Were granted me—that thou wert lying dead,
Or, if alive, no mother wert of mine,
Or that thy nature might be wholly changed.
What dost thou so abhor in me, my son?
