"Sun, and thou light of day, and heavenly danceO' the fleet cloud—figure!" (so her passion paused,While the awe-stricken husband made his moan,Muttered now this now that ineptitude:"Sun that sees thee and me, a suffering pair,Who did the Gods no wrong whence thou shouldst die!")Then, as if caught up, carried in their course,Fleeting and free as cloud and sunbeam are,She missed no happiness that lay beneath:"O thou wide earth, from these my palace roofs,To distant nuptial chambers once my ownIn that Iolkos of my ancestry!"—There the flight failed her. "Raise thee, wretched one!Give us not up! Pray pity from the Gods!"Vainly Admetos: for "I see it—seeThe two-oared boat! The ferryer of the dead,Charon, hand hard upon the boatman's-pole,Calls me—even now calls—'Why delayest thou?Quick! Thou obstructest all made ready hereFor prompt departure: quick, then!'""Woe is me!A bitter voyage this to undergo,Even i' the telling! Adverse Powers above,How do ye plague us!"Then a shiver ran:"He has me—seest not?—hales me,—who is it?—To the hall o' the Dead—ah, who but Hades' self,He, with the wings there, glares at me, one gazeAll that blue brilliance, under the eyebrow!What wilt thou do? Unhand me! Such a wayI have to traverse, all unhappy one!""Way—piteous to thy friends, but, most of all,Me and thy children: ours assuredlyA common partnership in grief like this!"Whereat they closed about her; but "Let be!Leave, let me lie now! Strength forsakes my feet.Hades is here, and shadowy on my eyesComes the night creeping. Children—children, nowIndeed, a mother is no more for you!Farewell, O children, long enjoy the light!""Ah me, the melancholy word I hear,Oppressive beyond every kind of death!No, by the Deities, take heart nor dareTo give me up—no, by our children tooMade orphans of! But rise, be resolute,Since, thou departed, I no more remain!For in thee are we bound up, to existOr cease to be—so we adore thy love!"—Which brought out truth to judgment. At this wordAnd protestation, all the truth in herClaimed to assert itself: she waved awayThe blue-eyed black-wing'd phantom, held in checkThe advancing pageantry of Hades there,And, with no change in her own countenance,She fixed her eyes on the protesting man,And let her lips unlock their sentence,—so!"Admetos,—how things go with me thou seest,—I wish to tell thee, ere I die, what thingsI will should follow. I—to honor thee,Secure for thee, by my own soul's exchange,Continued looking on the daylight here—Die for thee—yet, if so I pleased, might live,Nay, wed what man of Thessaly I would,And dwell i' the dome with pomp and queenliness.I would not,—would not live bereft of thee,With children orphaned, neither shrank at all,Though having gifts of youth wherein I joyed.Yet, who begot thee and who gave thee birth,Both of these gave thee up; no less, a termOf life was reached when death became them well,Ay, well—to save their child and glorious die:Since thou wast all they had, nor hope remainedOf having other children in thy place.So, I and thou had lived out our full time,Nor thou, left lonely of thy wife, wouldst groanWith children reared in orphanage: but thusSome God disposed things, willed they so should be.Be they so! Now do thou remember this,Do me in turn a favor—favor, sinceCertainly I shall never claim my due,For nothing is more precious than a life:But a fit favor, as thyself wilt say,Loving our children here no less than I,If head and heart be sound in thee at least.Uphold them, make them masters of my house,Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair,Who, being a worse wife than I, through spiteWill raise her hand against both thine and mine.Never do this at least, I pray to thee!For hostile the new-comer, the step-dame,To the old brood—a very viper sheFor gentleness! Here stand they, boy and girl;The boy has got a father, a defenceTower-like, he speaks to and has answer from:But thou, my girl, how will thy virginhoodConclude itself in marriage fittingly?Upon what sort of sire-found yoke-fellowArt thou to chance? with all to apprehend—Lest, casting oh thee some unkind report,She blast thy nuptials in the bloom of youth.For neither shall thy mother watch thee wed,Nor hearten thee in childbirth, standing byJust when a mother's presence helps the most!No, for I have to die: and this my illComes to me, nor to-morrow, no, nor yetThe third day of the month, but now, even now,I shall be reckoned among those no more.Farewell, be happy! And to thee, indeed,Husband, the boast remains permissibleThou hadst a wife was worthy! and to you,Children; as good a mother gave you birth.""Have courage!" interposed the friends. "For himI have no scruple to declare—all thisWill he perform, except he fail of sense.""All this shall be—shall be!" Admetos sobbed:"Fear not! And, since I had thee living, deadAlone wilt thou be called my wife: no fearThat some Thessalian ever styles herselfBride, hails this man for husband in thy place!No woman, be she of such lofty lineOr such surpassing beauty otherwise!Enough of children: gain from these I have,Such only may the Gods grant! since in theeAbsolute is our loss, where all was gain.And I shall bear for thee no year-long grief,But grief that lasts while my own days last, love!Love! For my hate is she who bore me, now:And him I hate, my father: loving-onesTruly, in word not deed! But thou didst payAll dearest to thee down, and buy my life,Saving me so! Is there not cause enoughThat I who part with such companionshipIn thee, should make my moan? I moan, and more:For I will end the feastings—social flowO' the wine friends flock for, garlands and the MuseThat graced my dwelling. Never now for meTo touch the lyre, to lift my soul in songAt summons of the Lydian flute; since thouFrom out my life hast emptied all the joy!And this thy body, in thy likeness wroughtBy some wise hand of the artificers,Shall lie disposed within my marriage-bed:This I will fall on, this enfold about,Call by thy name,—my dear wife in my armsEven though I have not, I shall seem to have—A cold delight, indeed, but all the sameSo should I lighten of its weight my soul!And, wandering my way in dreams perchance,Thyself wilt bless me: for, come when they will,Even by night our loves are sweet to see.But were the tongue and tune of Orpheus mine,So that to Koré crying, or her lord,In hymns, from Hades I might rescue thee—Down would I go, and neither Plouton's dogNor Charon, he whose oar sends souls across,Should stay me till again I made thee standLiving, within the light! But, failing this,There, where thou art, await me when I die,Make ready our abode, my housemate still!For in the selfsame cedar, me with theeWill I provide that these our friends shall place,My side lay close by thy side! Never, corpseAlthough I be, would I division bearFrom thee, my faithful one of all the world!"So he stood sobbing: nowise insincere,But somehow child-like, like his children, likeChildishness the world over. What was newIn this announcement that his wife must die?What particle of pain beyond the pactHe made, with eyes wide open, long ago—Made and was, if not glad, content to make?Now that the sorrow, he had called for, came,He sorrowed to the height: none heard him say,However, what would seem so pertinent,"To keep this pact, I find surpass my power:Rescind it, Moirai! Give me back her life,And take the life I kept by base exchange!Or, failing that, here stands your laughing-stockFooled by you, worthy just the fate o' the foolWho makes a pother to escape the bestAnd gain the worst you wiser Powers allot!"No, not one word of this: nor did his wifeDespite the sobbing, and the silence soonTo follow, judge so much was in his thought—Fancy that, should the Moirai acquiesce,He would relinquish life nor let her die.The man was like some merchant who, in storm,Throws the freight over to redeem the ship:No question, saving both were better still.As it was,—why, he sorrowed, which sufficed.So, all she seemed to notice in his speechWas what concerned her children. Children, too,Bear the grief and accept the sacrifice.Rightly rules nature: does the blossomed boughO' the grape-vine, or the dry grape's self, bleed wine?So, bending to her children all her love,She fastened on their father's only wordTo purpose now, and followed it with this:"O children, now yourselves have heard these things—Your father saying he will never wedAnother woman to be over you,Nor yet dishonor me!""And now at leastI say it, and I will accomplish too!""Then, for such promise of accomplishment,Take from my hand these children!""Thus I take—Dear gift from the dear hand!""Do thou becomeMother, now, to these children in my place!""Great the necessity, I should be so,At least, to these bereaved of thee!""Child—child!Just when I needed most to live, belowAm I departing from you both!""Ah me!And what shall I do, then, left lonely thus?""Time will appease thee: who is dead is naught.""Take me with thee—take, by the Gods below!""We are sufficient, we who die for thee.""O Powers, ye widow me of what a wife!""And truly the dimmed eye draws earthward now!""Wife, if thou leav'st me, I am lost indeed!""She once was—now is nothing, thou mayst say.""Raise thy face, nor forsake thy children thus!""Ah, willingly indeed I leave them not!But—fare ye well, my children!""Look on them—Look!""I am nothingness.""What dost thou? Leav'st ...""Farewell!"And in the breath she passed away."Undone—me miserable!" moaned the king,While friends released the long-suspended sigh."Gone is she: no wife for Admetos more!"Such was the signal: how the woe broke forth,Why tell?—or how the children's tears ran fastBidding their father note the eyelids' stare,Hands' droop, each dreadful circumstance of death."Ay, she hears not, she sees not: I and you,'T is plain, are stricken hard and have to bear!"Was all Admetos answered; for, I judge,He only now began to taste the truth:The thing done lay revealed, which undone thing,Rehearsed for fact by fancy, at the best,Never can equal. He had used himselfThis long while (as he muttered presently)To practise with the terms, the blow involvedBy the bargain, sharp to bear, but bearableBecause of plain advantage at the end.Now that, in fact not fancy, the blow fell—Needs must he busy him with the surprise."Alkestis—not to see her nor be seen,Hear nor be heard of by her, any moreTo-day, to-morrow, to the end of time—Did I mean this should buy my life?" thought he.So, friends came round him, took him by the hand,Bade him remember our mortality,Its due, its doom: how neither was he first,Nor would be last, to thus deplore the loved."I understand," slow the words came at last."Nor of a sudden did the evil hereFly on me: I have known it long ago,Ay, and essayed myself in misery;Nothing is new. You have to stay, you friends,Because the next need is to carry forthThe corpse here: you must stay and do your part,Chant proper pæan to the God below;Drink-sacrifice he likes not. I decreeThat all Thessalians over whom I ruleHold grief in common with me; let them shearTheir locks, and be the peplos black they show!And you who to the chariot yoke your steeds,Or manage steeds one-frontleted,—I charge,Clip from each neck with steel the mane away!And through my city, nor of flute nor lyreBe there a sound till twelve full moons succeed.For I shall never bury any corpseDearer than this to me, nor better friend:One worthy of all honor from me, sinceMe she has died for, she and she alone."With that, he sought the inmost of the house,He and his dead, to get grave's garniture,While the friends sang the pæan that should peal."Daughter of Pelias, with farewell from me,I' the house of Hades have thy unsunned home!Let Hades know, the dark-haired deity,—And he who sits to row and steer alike,Old corpse-conductor, let him know he bearsOver the Acherontian lake, this time,I' the two-oared boat, the best—oh, best by farOf womankind! For thee, Alkestis Queen!Many a time those haunters of the MuseShall sing thee to the seven-stringed mountain-shell,And glorify in hymns that need no harp,At Sparta when the cycle comes about,And that Karneian month wherein the moonRises and never sets the whole night through:So too at splendid and magnificentAthenai. Such the spread of thy renown,And such the lay that, dying, thou hast leftSinger and sayer. Oh that I availedOf my own might to send thee once againFrom Hades' hall, Kokutos' stream, by helpO' the oar that dips the river, back to-day!"So, the song sank to prattle in her praise:"Light, from above thee, lady, fall the earth,Thou only one of womankind to die,Wife for her husband! If Admetos takeAnything to him like a second spouse—Hate from his offspring and from us shall beHis portion, let the king assure himself!No mind his mother had to hide in earthHer body for her son's sake, nor his sireHad heart to save whom he begot,—not they,The white-haired wretches! only thou it was,I' the bloom of youth, didst save him and so die!Might it be mine to chance on such a mateAnd partner! For there 's penury in lifeOf such allowance: were she mine at least,So wonderful a wife, assuredlyShe would companion me throughout my daysAnd never once bring sorrow!"A great voice—"My hosts here!"Oh, the thrill that ran through us!Never was aught so good and opportuneAs that great interrupting voice! For see!Here maundered this dispirited old ageBefore the palace; whence a something creptWhich told us well enough without a wordWhat was a-doing inside,—every touchO' the garland on those temples, tenderestDisposure of each arm along its side,Came putting out what warmth i' the world was left.Then, as it happens at a sacrificeWhen, drop by drop, some lustral bath is brimmed:Into the thin and clear and cold, at onceThey slaughter a whole wine-skin; Bacchos' bloodSets the white water all aflame: even so,Sudden into the midst of sorrow, leaptAlong with the gay cheer of that great voice,Hope, joy, salvation: Herakles was here!Himself, o' the threshold, sent his voice on firstTo herald all that human and divineI' the weary happy face of him,—half God,Half man, which made the god-part God the more."Hosts mine," he broke upon the sorrow with,"Inhabitants of this Pheraian soil,Chance I upon Admetos inside here?"The irresistible sound wholesome heartO' the hero,—more than all the mightinessAt labor in the limbs that, for man's sake,Labored and meant to labor their life-long,—This drove back, dried up sorrow at its source.How could it brave the happy weary laughOf who had bantered sorrow, "Sorrow here?What have you done to keep your friend from harm?Could no one give the life I see he keeps?Or, say there 's sorrow here past friendly help,Why waste a word or let a tear escapeWhile other sorrows wait you in the world,And want the life of you, though helpless here?"Clearly there was no telling such an oneHow, when their monarch tried who loved him moreThan he loved them, and found they loved, as he,Each man, himself, and held, no otherwise,That, of all evils in the world, the worstWas—being forced to die, whate'er death gain:How all this selfishness in him and themCaused certain sorrow which they sang about,—I think that Herakles, who held his lifeOut on his hand, for any man to take—I think his laugh had marred their threnody."He is in the house," they answered. After all,They might have told the story, talked their bestAbout the inevitable sorrow here,Nor changed nor cheeked the kindly nature,—no!So long as men were merely weak, not bad,He loved men: were they Gods he used to help?"Yea, Pheres' son is in-doors, Herakles.But say, what sends thee to Thessalian soil,Brought by what business to this Pherai town?""A certain labor that I have to doEurustheus the Tirunthian," laughed the God."And whither wendest—on what wanderingBound now?" (They had an instinct, guessed what meantWanderings, labors, in the God's light mouth.)"After the Thrakian Diomedes' carWith the four horses.""Ah, but canst thou that?Art inexperienced in thy host to be?""All-inexperienced: I have never goneAs yet to the land o' the Bistones.""Then, lookBy no means to be master of the steedsWithout a battle!""Battle there may be:I must refuse no labor, all the same.""Certainly, either having slain a foeWilt thou return to us, or, slain thyself,Stay there!""And, even if the game be so,The risk in it were not the first I run.""But, say thou overpower the lord o' the place,What more advantage dost expect thereby?""I shall drive off his horses to the king.""No easy handling them to bit the jaw!""Easy enough; except, at least, they breatheFire from their nostrils!""But they mince up menWith those quick jaws!""You talk of provenderFor mountain-beasts, and not mere horses' food!""Thou mayst behold their mangers caked with gore!""And of what sire does he who bred them boastHimself the son?""Of Ares, king o' the targe—Thrakian, of gold throughout."Another laugh."Why, just the labor, just the lot for meDost thou describe in what I recognize!Since hard and harder, high and higher yet,Truly this lot of mine is like to goIf I must needs join battle with the broodOf Ares: ay, I fought Lukaon first,And again, Kuknos: now engage in strifeThis third time, with such horses and such lord.But there is nobody shall ever seeAlkmené's son shrink foemen's hand before!"—"Or ever hear him say" (the Chorus thought)"That death is terrible; and help us soTo chime in—'terrible beyond a doubt,And, if to thee, why, to ourselves much more:Know what has happened, then, and sympathize'!"Therefore they gladly stopped the dialogue,Shifted the burden to new shoulder straight,As, "Look where comes the lord o' the land, himself,Admetos, from the palace!" they outbrokeIn some surprise, as well as much relief.What had induced the king to waive his rightAnd luxury of woe in loneliness?Out he came quietly; the hair was clipt,And the garb sable; else no outward signOf sorrow as he came and faced his friend.Was truth fast terrifying tears away?"Hail, child of Zeus, and sprung from Perseus too!"The salutation ran without a fault."And thou, Admetos, King of Thessaly!""Would, as thou wishest me, the grace might fall!But my good-wisher, that thou art, I know.""What 's here? these shorn locks, this sad show of thee?""I must inter a certain corpse to-day.""Now, from thy children God avert mischance!""They live, my children; all are in the house!""Thy father—if 't is he departs indeed,His age was ripe at least.""My father lives,And she who bore me lives too, Herakles.""It cannot be thy wife Alkestis gone?""Twofold the tale is, I can tell of her.""Dead dost thou speak of her, or living yet?""She is—and is not: hence the pain to me!""I learn no whit the more, so dark thy speech!""Know'st thou not on what fate she needs must fall?""I know she is resigned to die for thee.""How lives she still, then, if submitting so?""Eh, weep her not beforehand! wait till then!""Who is to die is dead; doing is done.""To be and not to be are thought diverse.""Thou judgest this—I, that way, Herakles!""Well, but declare what causes thy complaint!Who is the man has died from out thy friends?""No man: I had a woman in my mind.""Alien, or some one born akin to thee?""Alien: but still related to my house.""How did it happen then that here she died?""Her father dying left his orphan here.""Alas, Admetos—would we found thee gay,Not grieving!""What as if about to doSubjoinest thou that comment?""I shall seekAnother hearth, proceed to other hosts.""Never, O king, shall that be! No such illBetide me!""Nay, to mourners should there comeA guest, he proves importunate!""The dead—Dead are they: but go thou within my house!""'T is base carousing beside friends who mourn.""The guest-rooms, whither we shall lead thee, lieApart from ours.""Nay, let me go my way!Ten-thousandfold the favor I shall thank!""It may not be thou goest to the hearthOf any man but me!" so made an endAdmetos, softly and decisively,Of the altercation. Herakles forbore:And the king bade a servant lead the way,Open the guest-rooms ranged remote from viewO' the main hall, tell the functionaries, next,They had to furnish forth a plenteous feast:And then shut close the doors o' the hall, midway,"Because it is not proper friends who feastShould hear a groaning or be grieved," quoth he.Whereat the hero, who was truth itself,Let out the smile again, repressed awhileLike fountain-brilliance one forbids to play.He did too many grandnesses, to noteMuch in the meaner things about his path:And stepping there, with face towards the sun,Stopped seldom, to pluck weeds or ask their names.Therefore he took Admetos at the word:This trouble must not hinder any moreA true heart from good will and pleasant ways.And so, the great arm, which had slain the snake,Strained his friend's head a moment in embraceOn that broad breast beneath the lion's hide,Till the king's cheek winced at the thick rough gold;And then strode off, with who had care of him,To the remote guest-chamber: glad to givePoor flesh and blood their respite and reliefIn the interval 'twixt fight and fight again—All for the world's sake. Our eyes followed him,Be sure, till those mid-doors shut us outside.The king, too, watched great Herakles go offAll faith, love, and obedience to a friend.And when they questioned him, the simple ones,"What dost thou? Such calamity to face,Lies full before thee—and thou art so boldAs play the host, Admetos? Hast thy wits?"He replied calmly to each chiding tongue:"But if from house and home I forced awayA coming guest, wouldst thou have praised me more?No, truly! since calamity were mine,Nowise diminished: while I showed myselfUnhappy and inhospitable too:So adding to my ills this other ill,That mine were styled a stranger-hating house.Myself have ever found this man the bestOf entertainers when I went his wayTo parched and thirsty Argos.""If so be—Why didst thou hide what destiny was here,When one came that was kindly, as thou say'st?""He never would have willed to cross my doorHad he known aught of my calamities.And probably to some of you I seemUnwise enough in doing what I do;Such will scarce praise me: but these halls of mineKnow not to drive off and dishonor guests."And so, the duty done, he turned once moreTo go and busy him about his dead.As for the sympathizers left to muse,There was a change, a new light thrown on things,Contagion from the magnanimityO' the man whose life lay on his hand so light,As up he stepped, pursuing duty still"Higher and harder," as he laughed and said.Somehow they found no folly now in the actThey blamed erewhile: Admetos' private griefShrank to a somewhat pettier obstacleI' the way o' the world: they saw good days had been,And good days, peradventure, still might be,Now that they overlooked the present cloudHeavy upon the palace opposite.And soon the thought took words and music thus:—"Harbor of many a stranger, free to friend,Ever and always, O thou house o' the manWe mourn for! Thee, Apollon's very self,The lyric Puthian, deigned inhabit once,Become a shepherd here in thy domains,And pipe, adown the winding hillside paths,Pastoral marriage-poems to thy flocksAt feed: while with them fed in fellowship,Through joy i' the music, spot-skin lynxes; ay,And lions too, the bloody company,Came, leaving Othrus' dell; and round thy lyre,Phoibos, there danced the speckle-coated fawn,Pacing on lightsome fetlock past the pinesTress-topped, the creature's natural boundaryInto the open everywhere; such heartHad she within her, beating joyous beats,At the sweet reassurance of thy song!Therefore the lot o' the master is, to liveIn a home multitudinous with herds,Along by the fair-flowing Boibian lake,Limited, that ploughed land and pasture-plain,Only where stand the sun's steeds, stabled westI' the cloud, by that mid-air which makes the climeOf those Molossoi: and he rules as wellO'er the Aigaian, up to Pelion's shore,—Sea-stretch without a port! Such lord have we:And here he opens house now, as of old,Takes to the heart of it a guest again:Though moist the eyelid of the master, stillMourning his dear wife's body, dead but now!"And they admired: nobility of soulWas self-impelled to reverence, they saw:The best men ever prove the wisest too:Something instinctive guides them still aright.And on each soul this boldness settled now,That one who reverenced the Gods so muchWould prosper yet: (or—I could wish it ran—Who venerates the Gods i' the main will stillPractise things honest though obscure to judge).They ended, for Admetos entered now;Having disposed all duteously indoors,He came into the outside world again,Quiet as ever: but a quietudeBent on pursuing its descent to truth,As who must grope until he gain the groundO' the dungeon doomed to be his dwelling now.Already high o'er head was piled the dusk,When something pushed to stay his downward step,Pluck back despair just reaching its repose.He would have bidden the kind presence thereObserve that,—since the corpse was coming out,Cared for in all things that befit the case,Carried aloft, in decency and state,To the last burial-place and burning pile,—'T were proper friends addressed, as custom prompts,Alkestis bound on her last journeying."Ay, for we see thy father," they subjoined,"Advancing as the aged foot best may;His servants, too: each bringing in his handAdornments for thy wife, all pomp that 's dueTo the downward-dwelling people." And in truth,By slow procession till they filled the stage,Came Pheres, and his following, and their gifts.You see, the worst of the interruption was,It plucked back, with an over-hasty hand,Admetos from descending to the truth,(I told you)—put him on the brink again,Full i' the noise and glare where late he stood:With no fate fallen and irrevocable,But all things subject still to chance and change:And that chance—life, and that change—happiness.And with the low strife came the little mind:He was once more the man might gain so much,Life too and wife too, would his friends but help!All he felt now was that there faced him oneSupposed the likeliest, in emergency,To help: and help, by mere self-sacrificeSo natural, it seemed as if the sireMust needs lie open still to argument,Withdraw the rash decision, not to dieBut rather live, though death would save his son:—Argument like the ignominious graspO' the drowner whom his fellow grasps as fierce,Each marvelling that the other needs must holdHead out of water, though friend choke thereby.And first the father's salutation fell.Burdened he came, in common with his child,Who lost, none would gainsay, a good chaste spouse:Yet such things must be borne, though hard to bear."So, take this tribute of adornment, deepIn the earth let it descend along with her!Behooves we treat the body with respect—Of one who died, at least, to save thy life,Kept me from being childless, nor allowedThat I, bereft of thee, should peak and pineIn melancholy age! she, for the sex,All of her sisters, put in evidence,By daring such a feat, that female lifeMight prove more excellent than men suppose.O thou Alkestis!" out he burst in fine,"Who, while thou savedst this my son, didst raiseAlso myself from sinking,—hail to thee!Well be it with thee even in the houseOf Hades! I maintain, if mortals mustMarry, this sort of marriage is the solePermitted those among them who are wise!"
"Sun, and thou light of day, and heavenly danceO' the fleet cloud—figure!" (so her passion paused,While the awe-stricken husband made his moan,Muttered now this now that ineptitude:"Sun that sees thee and me, a suffering pair,Who did the Gods no wrong whence thou shouldst die!")Then, as if caught up, carried in their course,Fleeting and free as cloud and sunbeam are,She missed no happiness that lay beneath:"O thou wide earth, from these my palace roofs,To distant nuptial chambers once my ownIn that Iolkos of my ancestry!"—There the flight failed her. "Raise thee, wretched one!Give us not up! Pray pity from the Gods!"Vainly Admetos: for "I see it—seeThe two-oared boat! The ferryer of the dead,Charon, hand hard upon the boatman's-pole,Calls me—even now calls—'Why delayest thou?Quick! Thou obstructest all made ready hereFor prompt departure: quick, then!'""Woe is me!A bitter voyage this to undergo,Even i' the telling! Adverse Powers above,How do ye plague us!"Then a shiver ran:"He has me—seest not?—hales me,—who is it?—To the hall o' the Dead—ah, who but Hades' self,He, with the wings there, glares at me, one gazeAll that blue brilliance, under the eyebrow!What wilt thou do? Unhand me! Such a wayI have to traverse, all unhappy one!""Way—piteous to thy friends, but, most of all,Me and thy children: ours assuredlyA common partnership in grief like this!"Whereat they closed about her; but "Let be!Leave, let me lie now! Strength forsakes my feet.Hades is here, and shadowy on my eyesComes the night creeping. Children—children, nowIndeed, a mother is no more for you!Farewell, O children, long enjoy the light!""Ah me, the melancholy word I hear,Oppressive beyond every kind of death!No, by the Deities, take heart nor dareTo give me up—no, by our children tooMade orphans of! But rise, be resolute,Since, thou departed, I no more remain!For in thee are we bound up, to existOr cease to be—so we adore thy love!"—Which brought out truth to judgment. At this wordAnd protestation, all the truth in herClaimed to assert itself: she waved awayThe blue-eyed black-wing'd phantom, held in checkThe advancing pageantry of Hades there,And, with no change in her own countenance,She fixed her eyes on the protesting man,And let her lips unlock their sentence,—so!"Admetos,—how things go with me thou seest,—I wish to tell thee, ere I die, what thingsI will should follow. I—to honor thee,Secure for thee, by my own soul's exchange,Continued looking on the daylight here—Die for thee—yet, if so I pleased, might live,Nay, wed what man of Thessaly I would,And dwell i' the dome with pomp and queenliness.I would not,—would not live bereft of thee,With children orphaned, neither shrank at all,Though having gifts of youth wherein I joyed.Yet, who begot thee and who gave thee birth,Both of these gave thee up; no less, a termOf life was reached when death became them well,Ay, well—to save their child and glorious die:Since thou wast all they had, nor hope remainedOf having other children in thy place.So, I and thou had lived out our full time,Nor thou, left lonely of thy wife, wouldst groanWith children reared in orphanage: but thusSome God disposed things, willed they so should be.Be they so! Now do thou remember this,Do me in turn a favor—favor, sinceCertainly I shall never claim my due,For nothing is more precious than a life:But a fit favor, as thyself wilt say,Loving our children here no less than I,If head and heart be sound in thee at least.Uphold them, make them masters of my house,Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair,Who, being a worse wife than I, through spiteWill raise her hand against both thine and mine.Never do this at least, I pray to thee!For hostile the new-comer, the step-dame,To the old brood—a very viper sheFor gentleness! Here stand they, boy and girl;The boy has got a father, a defenceTower-like, he speaks to and has answer from:But thou, my girl, how will thy virginhoodConclude itself in marriage fittingly?Upon what sort of sire-found yoke-fellowArt thou to chance? with all to apprehend—Lest, casting oh thee some unkind report,She blast thy nuptials in the bloom of youth.For neither shall thy mother watch thee wed,Nor hearten thee in childbirth, standing byJust when a mother's presence helps the most!No, for I have to die: and this my illComes to me, nor to-morrow, no, nor yetThe third day of the month, but now, even now,I shall be reckoned among those no more.Farewell, be happy! And to thee, indeed,Husband, the boast remains permissibleThou hadst a wife was worthy! and to you,Children; as good a mother gave you birth.""Have courage!" interposed the friends. "For himI have no scruple to declare—all thisWill he perform, except he fail of sense.""All this shall be—shall be!" Admetos sobbed:"Fear not! And, since I had thee living, deadAlone wilt thou be called my wife: no fearThat some Thessalian ever styles herselfBride, hails this man for husband in thy place!No woman, be she of such lofty lineOr such surpassing beauty otherwise!Enough of children: gain from these I have,Such only may the Gods grant! since in theeAbsolute is our loss, where all was gain.And I shall bear for thee no year-long grief,But grief that lasts while my own days last, love!Love! For my hate is she who bore me, now:And him I hate, my father: loving-onesTruly, in word not deed! But thou didst payAll dearest to thee down, and buy my life,Saving me so! Is there not cause enoughThat I who part with such companionshipIn thee, should make my moan? I moan, and more:For I will end the feastings—social flowO' the wine friends flock for, garlands and the MuseThat graced my dwelling. Never now for meTo touch the lyre, to lift my soul in songAt summons of the Lydian flute; since thouFrom out my life hast emptied all the joy!And this thy body, in thy likeness wroughtBy some wise hand of the artificers,Shall lie disposed within my marriage-bed:This I will fall on, this enfold about,Call by thy name,—my dear wife in my armsEven though I have not, I shall seem to have—A cold delight, indeed, but all the sameSo should I lighten of its weight my soul!And, wandering my way in dreams perchance,Thyself wilt bless me: for, come when they will,Even by night our loves are sweet to see.But were the tongue and tune of Orpheus mine,So that to Koré crying, or her lord,In hymns, from Hades I might rescue thee—Down would I go, and neither Plouton's dogNor Charon, he whose oar sends souls across,Should stay me till again I made thee standLiving, within the light! But, failing this,There, where thou art, await me when I die,Make ready our abode, my housemate still!For in the selfsame cedar, me with theeWill I provide that these our friends shall place,My side lay close by thy side! Never, corpseAlthough I be, would I division bearFrom thee, my faithful one of all the world!"So he stood sobbing: nowise insincere,But somehow child-like, like his children, likeChildishness the world over. What was newIn this announcement that his wife must die?What particle of pain beyond the pactHe made, with eyes wide open, long ago—Made and was, if not glad, content to make?Now that the sorrow, he had called for, came,He sorrowed to the height: none heard him say,However, what would seem so pertinent,"To keep this pact, I find surpass my power:Rescind it, Moirai! Give me back her life,And take the life I kept by base exchange!Or, failing that, here stands your laughing-stockFooled by you, worthy just the fate o' the foolWho makes a pother to escape the bestAnd gain the worst you wiser Powers allot!"No, not one word of this: nor did his wifeDespite the sobbing, and the silence soonTo follow, judge so much was in his thought—Fancy that, should the Moirai acquiesce,He would relinquish life nor let her die.The man was like some merchant who, in storm,Throws the freight over to redeem the ship:No question, saving both were better still.As it was,—why, he sorrowed, which sufficed.So, all she seemed to notice in his speechWas what concerned her children. Children, too,Bear the grief and accept the sacrifice.Rightly rules nature: does the blossomed boughO' the grape-vine, or the dry grape's self, bleed wine?So, bending to her children all her love,She fastened on their father's only wordTo purpose now, and followed it with this:"O children, now yourselves have heard these things—Your father saying he will never wedAnother woman to be over you,Nor yet dishonor me!""And now at leastI say it, and I will accomplish too!""Then, for such promise of accomplishment,Take from my hand these children!""Thus I take—Dear gift from the dear hand!""Do thou becomeMother, now, to these children in my place!""Great the necessity, I should be so,At least, to these bereaved of thee!""Child—child!Just when I needed most to live, belowAm I departing from you both!""Ah me!And what shall I do, then, left lonely thus?""Time will appease thee: who is dead is naught.""Take me with thee—take, by the Gods below!""We are sufficient, we who die for thee.""O Powers, ye widow me of what a wife!""And truly the dimmed eye draws earthward now!""Wife, if thou leav'st me, I am lost indeed!""She once was—now is nothing, thou mayst say.""Raise thy face, nor forsake thy children thus!""Ah, willingly indeed I leave them not!But—fare ye well, my children!""Look on them—Look!""I am nothingness.""What dost thou? Leav'st ...""Farewell!"And in the breath she passed away."Undone—me miserable!" moaned the king,While friends released the long-suspended sigh."Gone is she: no wife for Admetos more!"Such was the signal: how the woe broke forth,Why tell?—or how the children's tears ran fastBidding their father note the eyelids' stare,Hands' droop, each dreadful circumstance of death."Ay, she hears not, she sees not: I and you,'T is plain, are stricken hard and have to bear!"Was all Admetos answered; for, I judge,He only now began to taste the truth:The thing done lay revealed, which undone thing,Rehearsed for fact by fancy, at the best,Never can equal. He had used himselfThis long while (as he muttered presently)To practise with the terms, the blow involvedBy the bargain, sharp to bear, but bearableBecause of plain advantage at the end.Now that, in fact not fancy, the blow fell—Needs must he busy him with the surprise."Alkestis—not to see her nor be seen,Hear nor be heard of by her, any moreTo-day, to-morrow, to the end of time—Did I mean this should buy my life?" thought he.So, friends came round him, took him by the hand,Bade him remember our mortality,Its due, its doom: how neither was he first,Nor would be last, to thus deplore the loved."I understand," slow the words came at last."Nor of a sudden did the evil hereFly on me: I have known it long ago,Ay, and essayed myself in misery;Nothing is new. You have to stay, you friends,Because the next need is to carry forthThe corpse here: you must stay and do your part,Chant proper pæan to the God below;Drink-sacrifice he likes not. I decreeThat all Thessalians over whom I ruleHold grief in common with me; let them shearTheir locks, and be the peplos black they show!And you who to the chariot yoke your steeds,Or manage steeds one-frontleted,—I charge,Clip from each neck with steel the mane away!And through my city, nor of flute nor lyreBe there a sound till twelve full moons succeed.For I shall never bury any corpseDearer than this to me, nor better friend:One worthy of all honor from me, sinceMe she has died for, she and she alone."With that, he sought the inmost of the house,He and his dead, to get grave's garniture,While the friends sang the pæan that should peal."Daughter of Pelias, with farewell from me,I' the house of Hades have thy unsunned home!Let Hades know, the dark-haired deity,—And he who sits to row and steer alike,Old corpse-conductor, let him know he bearsOver the Acherontian lake, this time,I' the two-oared boat, the best—oh, best by farOf womankind! For thee, Alkestis Queen!Many a time those haunters of the MuseShall sing thee to the seven-stringed mountain-shell,And glorify in hymns that need no harp,At Sparta when the cycle comes about,And that Karneian month wherein the moonRises and never sets the whole night through:So too at splendid and magnificentAthenai. Such the spread of thy renown,And such the lay that, dying, thou hast leftSinger and sayer. Oh that I availedOf my own might to send thee once againFrom Hades' hall, Kokutos' stream, by helpO' the oar that dips the river, back to-day!"So, the song sank to prattle in her praise:"Light, from above thee, lady, fall the earth,Thou only one of womankind to die,Wife for her husband! If Admetos takeAnything to him like a second spouse—Hate from his offspring and from us shall beHis portion, let the king assure himself!No mind his mother had to hide in earthHer body for her son's sake, nor his sireHad heart to save whom he begot,—not they,The white-haired wretches! only thou it was,I' the bloom of youth, didst save him and so die!Might it be mine to chance on such a mateAnd partner! For there 's penury in lifeOf such allowance: were she mine at least,So wonderful a wife, assuredlyShe would companion me throughout my daysAnd never once bring sorrow!"A great voice—"My hosts here!"Oh, the thrill that ran through us!Never was aught so good and opportuneAs that great interrupting voice! For see!Here maundered this dispirited old ageBefore the palace; whence a something creptWhich told us well enough without a wordWhat was a-doing inside,—every touchO' the garland on those temples, tenderestDisposure of each arm along its side,Came putting out what warmth i' the world was left.Then, as it happens at a sacrificeWhen, drop by drop, some lustral bath is brimmed:Into the thin and clear and cold, at onceThey slaughter a whole wine-skin; Bacchos' bloodSets the white water all aflame: even so,Sudden into the midst of sorrow, leaptAlong with the gay cheer of that great voice,Hope, joy, salvation: Herakles was here!Himself, o' the threshold, sent his voice on firstTo herald all that human and divineI' the weary happy face of him,—half God,Half man, which made the god-part God the more."Hosts mine," he broke upon the sorrow with,"Inhabitants of this Pheraian soil,Chance I upon Admetos inside here?"The irresistible sound wholesome heartO' the hero,—more than all the mightinessAt labor in the limbs that, for man's sake,Labored and meant to labor their life-long,—This drove back, dried up sorrow at its source.How could it brave the happy weary laughOf who had bantered sorrow, "Sorrow here?What have you done to keep your friend from harm?Could no one give the life I see he keeps?Or, say there 's sorrow here past friendly help,Why waste a word or let a tear escapeWhile other sorrows wait you in the world,And want the life of you, though helpless here?"Clearly there was no telling such an oneHow, when their monarch tried who loved him moreThan he loved them, and found they loved, as he,Each man, himself, and held, no otherwise,That, of all evils in the world, the worstWas—being forced to die, whate'er death gain:How all this selfishness in him and themCaused certain sorrow which they sang about,—I think that Herakles, who held his lifeOut on his hand, for any man to take—I think his laugh had marred their threnody."He is in the house," they answered. After all,They might have told the story, talked their bestAbout the inevitable sorrow here,Nor changed nor cheeked the kindly nature,—no!So long as men were merely weak, not bad,He loved men: were they Gods he used to help?"Yea, Pheres' son is in-doors, Herakles.But say, what sends thee to Thessalian soil,Brought by what business to this Pherai town?""A certain labor that I have to doEurustheus the Tirunthian," laughed the God."And whither wendest—on what wanderingBound now?" (They had an instinct, guessed what meantWanderings, labors, in the God's light mouth.)"After the Thrakian Diomedes' carWith the four horses.""Ah, but canst thou that?Art inexperienced in thy host to be?""All-inexperienced: I have never goneAs yet to the land o' the Bistones.""Then, lookBy no means to be master of the steedsWithout a battle!""Battle there may be:I must refuse no labor, all the same.""Certainly, either having slain a foeWilt thou return to us, or, slain thyself,Stay there!""And, even if the game be so,The risk in it were not the first I run.""But, say thou overpower the lord o' the place,What more advantage dost expect thereby?""I shall drive off his horses to the king.""No easy handling them to bit the jaw!""Easy enough; except, at least, they breatheFire from their nostrils!""But they mince up menWith those quick jaws!""You talk of provenderFor mountain-beasts, and not mere horses' food!""Thou mayst behold their mangers caked with gore!""And of what sire does he who bred them boastHimself the son?""Of Ares, king o' the targe—Thrakian, of gold throughout."Another laugh."Why, just the labor, just the lot for meDost thou describe in what I recognize!Since hard and harder, high and higher yet,Truly this lot of mine is like to goIf I must needs join battle with the broodOf Ares: ay, I fought Lukaon first,And again, Kuknos: now engage in strifeThis third time, with such horses and such lord.But there is nobody shall ever seeAlkmené's son shrink foemen's hand before!"—"Or ever hear him say" (the Chorus thought)"That death is terrible; and help us soTo chime in—'terrible beyond a doubt,And, if to thee, why, to ourselves much more:Know what has happened, then, and sympathize'!"Therefore they gladly stopped the dialogue,Shifted the burden to new shoulder straight,As, "Look where comes the lord o' the land, himself,Admetos, from the palace!" they outbrokeIn some surprise, as well as much relief.What had induced the king to waive his rightAnd luxury of woe in loneliness?Out he came quietly; the hair was clipt,And the garb sable; else no outward signOf sorrow as he came and faced his friend.Was truth fast terrifying tears away?"Hail, child of Zeus, and sprung from Perseus too!"The salutation ran without a fault."And thou, Admetos, King of Thessaly!""Would, as thou wishest me, the grace might fall!But my good-wisher, that thou art, I know.""What 's here? these shorn locks, this sad show of thee?""I must inter a certain corpse to-day.""Now, from thy children God avert mischance!""They live, my children; all are in the house!""Thy father—if 't is he departs indeed,His age was ripe at least.""My father lives,And she who bore me lives too, Herakles.""It cannot be thy wife Alkestis gone?""Twofold the tale is, I can tell of her.""Dead dost thou speak of her, or living yet?""She is—and is not: hence the pain to me!""I learn no whit the more, so dark thy speech!""Know'st thou not on what fate she needs must fall?""I know she is resigned to die for thee.""How lives she still, then, if submitting so?""Eh, weep her not beforehand! wait till then!""Who is to die is dead; doing is done.""To be and not to be are thought diverse.""Thou judgest this—I, that way, Herakles!""Well, but declare what causes thy complaint!Who is the man has died from out thy friends?""No man: I had a woman in my mind.""Alien, or some one born akin to thee?""Alien: but still related to my house.""How did it happen then that here she died?""Her father dying left his orphan here.""Alas, Admetos—would we found thee gay,Not grieving!""What as if about to doSubjoinest thou that comment?""I shall seekAnother hearth, proceed to other hosts.""Never, O king, shall that be! No such illBetide me!""Nay, to mourners should there comeA guest, he proves importunate!""The dead—Dead are they: but go thou within my house!""'T is base carousing beside friends who mourn.""The guest-rooms, whither we shall lead thee, lieApart from ours.""Nay, let me go my way!Ten-thousandfold the favor I shall thank!""It may not be thou goest to the hearthOf any man but me!" so made an endAdmetos, softly and decisively,Of the altercation. Herakles forbore:And the king bade a servant lead the way,Open the guest-rooms ranged remote from viewO' the main hall, tell the functionaries, next,They had to furnish forth a plenteous feast:And then shut close the doors o' the hall, midway,"Because it is not proper friends who feastShould hear a groaning or be grieved," quoth he.Whereat the hero, who was truth itself,Let out the smile again, repressed awhileLike fountain-brilliance one forbids to play.He did too many grandnesses, to noteMuch in the meaner things about his path:And stepping there, with face towards the sun,Stopped seldom, to pluck weeds or ask their names.Therefore he took Admetos at the word:This trouble must not hinder any moreA true heart from good will and pleasant ways.And so, the great arm, which had slain the snake,Strained his friend's head a moment in embraceOn that broad breast beneath the lion's hide,Till the king's cheek winced at the thick rough gold;And then strode off, with who had care of him,To the remote guest-chamber: glad to givePoor flesh and blood their respite and reliefIn the interval 'twixt fight and fight again—All for the world's sake. Our eyes followed him,Be sure, till those mid-doors shut us outside.The king, too, watched great Herakles go offAll faith, love, and obedience to a friend.And when they questioned him, the simple ones,"What dost thou? Such calamity to face,Lies full before thee—and thou art so boldAs play the host, Admetos? Hast thy wits?"He replied calmly to each chiding tongue:"But if from house and home I forced awayA coming guest, wouldst thou have praised me more?No, truly! since calamity were mine,Nowise diminished: while I showed myselfUnhappy and inhospitable too:So adding to my ills this other ill,That mine were styled a stranger-hating house.Myself have ever found this man the bestOf entertainers when I went his wayTo parched and thirsty Argos.""If so be—Why didst thou hide what destiny was here,When one came that was kindly, as thou say'st?""He never would have willed to cross my doorHad he known aught of my calamities.And probably to some of you I seemUnwise enough in doing what I do;Such will scarce praise me: but these halls of mineKnow not to drive off and dishonor guests."And so, the duty done, he turned once moreTo go and busy him about his dead.As for the sympathizers left to muse,There was a change, a new light thrown on things,Contagion from the magnanimityO' the man whose life lay on his hand so light,As up he stepped, pursuing duty still"Higher and harder," as he laughed and said.Somehow they found no folly now in the actThey blamed erewhile: Admetos' private griefShrank to a somewhat pettier obstacleI' the way o' the world: they saw good days had been,And good days, peradventure, still might be,Now that they overlooked the present cloudHeavy upon the palace opposite.And soon the thought took words and music thus:—"Harbor of many a stranger, free to friend,Ever and always, O thou house o' the manWe mourn for! Thee, Apollon's very self,The lyric Puthian, deigned inhabit once,Become a shepherd here in thy domains,And pipe, adown the winding hillside paths,Pastoral marriage-poems to thy flocksAt feed: while with them fed in fellowship,Through joy i' the music, spot-skin lynxes; ay,And lions too, the bloody company,Came, leaving Othrus' dell; and round thy lyre,Phoibos, there danced the speckle-coated fawn,Pacing on lightsome fetlock past the pinesTress-topped, the creature's natural boundaryInto the open everywhere; such heartHad she within her, beating joyous beats,At the sweet reassurance of thy song!Therefore the lot o' the master is, to liveIn a home multitudinous with herds,Along by the fair-flowing Boibian lake,Limited, that ploughed land and pasture-plain,Only where stand the sun's steeds, stabled westI' the cloud, by that mid-air which makes the climeOf those Molossoi: and he rules as wellO'er the Aigaian, up to Pelion's shore,—Sea-stretch without a port! Such lord have we:And here he opens house now, as of old,Takes to the heart of it a guest again:Though moist the eyelid of the master, stillMourning his dear wife's body, dead but now!"And they admired: nobility of soulWas self-impelled to reverence, they saw:The best men ever prove the wisest too:Something instinctive guides them still aright.And on each soul this boldness settled now,That one who reverenced the Gods so muchWould prosper yet: (or—I could wish it ran—Who venerates the Gods i' the main will stillPractise things honest though obscure to judge).They ended, for Admetos entered now;Having disposed all duteously indoors,He came into the outside world again,Quiet as ever: but a quietudeBent on pursuing its descent to truth,As who must grope until he gain the groundO' the dungeon doomed to be his dwelling now.Already high o'er head was piled the dusk,When something pushed to stay his downward step,Pluck back despair just reaching its repose.He would have bidden the kind presence thereObserve that,—since the corpse was coming out,Cared for in all things that befit the case,Carried aloft, in decency and state,To the last burial-place and burning pile,—'T were proper friends addressed, as custom prompts,Alkestis bound on her last journeying."Ay, for we see thy father," they subjoined,"Advancing as the aged foot best may;His servants, too: each bringing in his handAdornments for thy wife, all pomp that 's dueTo the downward-dwelling people." And in truth,By slow procession till they filled the stage,Came Pheres, and his following, and their gifts.You see, the worst of the interruption was,It plucked back, with an over-hasty hand,Admetos from descending to the truth,(I told you)—put him on the brink again,Full i' the noise and glare where late he stood:With no fate fallen and irrevocable,But all things subject still to chance and change:And that chance—life, and that change—happiness.And with the low strife came the little mind:He was once more the man might gain so much,Life too and wife too, would his friends but help!All he felt now was that there faced him oneSupposed the likeliest, in emergency,To help: and help, by mere self-sacrificeSo natural, it seemed as if the sireMust needs lie open still to argument,Withdraw the rash decision, not to dieBut rather live, though death would save his son:—Argument like the ignominious graspO' the drowner whom his fellow grasps as fierce,Each marvelling that the other needs must holdHead out of water, though friend choke thereby.And first the father's salutation fell.Burdened he came, in common with his child,Who lost, none would gainsay, a good chaste spouse:Yet such things must be borne, though hard to bear."So, take this tribute of adornment, deepIn the earth let it descend along with her!Behooves we treat the body with respect—Of one who died, at least, to save thy life,Kept me from being childless, nor allowedThat I, bereft of thee, should peak and pineIn melancholy age! she, for the sex,All of her sisters, put in evidence,By daring such a feat, that female lifeMight prove more excellent than men suppose.O thou Alkestis!" out he burst in fine,"Who, while thou savedst this my son, didst raiseAlso myself from sinking,—hail to thee!Well be it with thee even in the houseOf Hades! I maintain, if mortals mustMarry, this sort of marriage is the solePermitted those among them who are wise!"
"Sun, and thou light of day, and heavenly danceO' the fleet cloud—figure!" (so her passion paused,While the awe-stricken husband made his moan,Muttered now this now that ineptitude:"Sun that sees thee and me, a suffering pair,Who did the Gods no wrong whence thou shouldst die!")Then, as if caught up, carried in their course,Fleeting and free as cloud and sunbeam are,She missed no happiness that lay beneath:"O thou wide earth, from these my palace roofs,To distant nuptial chambers once my ownIn that Iolkos of my ancestry!"—There the flight failed her. "Raise thee, wretched one!Give us not up! Pray pity from the Gods!"
"Sun, and thou light of day, and heavenly dance
O' the fleet cloud—figure!" (so her passion paused,
While the awe-stricken husband made his moan,
Muttered now this now that ineptitude:
"Sun that sees thee and me, a suffering pair,
Who did the Gods no wrong whence thou shouldst die!")
Then, as if caught up, carried in their course,
Fleeting and free as cloud and sunbeam are,
She missed no happiness that lay beneath:
"O thou wide earth, from these my palace roofs,
To distant nuptial chambers once my own
In that Iolkos of my ancestry!"—
There the flight failed her. "Raise thee, wretched one!
Give us not up! Pray pity from the Gods!"
Vainly Admetos: for "I see it—seeThe two-oared boat! The ferryer of the dead,Charon, hand hard upon the boatman's-pole,Calls me—even now calls—'Why delayest thou?Quick! Thou obstructest all made ready hereFor prompt departure: quick, then!'""Woe is me!A bitter voyage this to undergo,Even i' the telling! Adverse Powers above,How do ye plague us!"Then a shiver ran:"He has me—seest not?—hales me,—who is it?—To the hall o' the Dead—ah, who but Hades' self,He, with the wings there, glares at me, one gazeAll that blue brilliance, under the eyebrow!What wilt thou do? Unhand me! Such a wayI have to traverse, all unhappy one!"
Vainly Admetos: for "I see it—see
The two-oared boat! The ferryer of the dead,
Charon, hand hard upon the boatman's-pole,
Calls me—even now calls—'Why delayest thou?
Quick! Thou obstructest all made ready here
For prompt departure: quick, then!'"
"Woe is me!
A bitter voyage this to undergo,
Even i' the telling! Adverse Powers above,
How do ye plague us!"
Then a shiver ran:
"He has me—seest not?—hales me,—who is it?—
To the hall o' the Dead—ah, who but Hades' self,
He, with the wings there, glares at me, one gaze
All that blue brilliance, under the eyebrow!
What wilt thou do? Unhand me! Such a way
I have to traverse, all unhappy one!"
"Way—piteous to thy friends, but, most of all,Me and thy children: ours assuredlyA common partnership in grief like this!"
"Way—piteous to thy friends, but, most of all,
Me and thy children: ours assuredly
A common partnership in grief like this!"
Whereat they closed about her; but "Let be!Leave, let me lie now! Strength forsakes my feet.Hades is here, and shadowy on my eyesComes the night creeping. Children—children, nowIndeed, a mother is no more for you!Farewell, O children, long enjoy the light!"
Whereat they closed about her; but "Let be!
Leave, let me lie now! Strength forsakes my feet.
Hades is here, and shadowy on my eyes
Comes the night creeping. Children—children, now
Indeed, a mother is no more for you!
Farewell, O children, long enjoy the light!"
"Ah me, the melancholy word I hear,Oppressive beyond every kind of death!No, by the Deities, take heart nor dareTo give me up—no, by our children tooMade orphans of! But rise, be resolute,Since, thou departed, I no more remain!For in thee are we bound up, to existOr cease to be—so we adore thy love!"
"Ah me, the melancholy word I hear,
Oppressive beyond every kind of death!
No, by the Deities, take heart nor dare
To give me up—no, by our children too
Made orphans of! But rise, be resolute,
Since, thou departed, I no more remain!
For in thee are we bound up, to exist
Or cease to be—so we adore thy love!"
—Which brought out truth to judgment. At this wordAnd protestation, all the truth in herClaimed to assert itself: she waved awayThe blue-eyed black-wing'd phantom, held in checkThe advancing pageantry of Hades there,And, with no change in her own countenance,She fixed her eyes on the protesting man,And let her lips unlock their sentence,—so!
—Which brought out truth to judgment. At this word
And protestation, all the truth in her
Claimed to assert itself: she waved away
The blue-eyed black-wing'd phantom, held in check
The advancing pageantry of Hades there,
And, with no change in her own countenance,
She fixed her eyes on the protesting man,
And let her lips unlock their sentence,—so!
"Admetos,—how things go with me thou seest,—I wish to tell thee, ere I die, what thingsI will should follow. I—to honor thee,Secure for thee, by my own soul's exchange,Continued looking on the daylight here—Die for thee—yet, if so I pleased, might live,Nay, wed what man of Thessaly I would,And dwell i' the dome with pomp and queenliness.I would not,—would not live bereft of thee,With children orphaned, neither shrank at all,Though having gifts of youth wherein I joyed.Yet, who begot thee and who gave thee birth,Both of these gave thee up; no less, a termOf life was reached when death became them well,Ay, well—to save their child and glorious die:Since thou wast all they had, nor hope remainedOf having other children in thy place.So, I and thou had lived out our full time,Nor thou, left lonely of thy wife, wouldst groanWith children reared in orphanage: but thusSome God disposed things, willed they so should be.Be they so! Now do thou remember this,Do me in turn a favor—favor, sinceCertainly I shall never claim my due,For nothing is more precious than a life:But a fit favor, as thyself wilt say,Loving our children here no less than I,If head and heart be sound in thee at least.Uphold them, make them masters of my house,Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair,Who, being a worse wife than I, through spiteWill raise her hand against both thine and mine.Never do this at least, I pray to thee!For hostile the new-comer, the step-dame,To the old brood—a very viper sheFor gentleness! Here stand they, boy and girl;The boy has got a father, a defenceTower-like, he speaks to and has answer from:But thou, my girl, how will thy virginhoodConclude itself in marriage fittingly?Upon what sort of sire-found yoke-fellowArt thou to chance? with all to apprehend—Lest, casting oh thee some unkind report,She blast thy nuptials in the bloom of youth.For neither shall thy mother watch thee wed,Nor hearten thee in childbirth, standing byJust when a mother's presence helps the most!No, for I have to die: and this my illComes to me, nor to-morrow, no, nor yetThe third day of the month, but now, even now,I shall be reckoned among those no more.Farewell, be happy! And to thee, indeed,Husband, the boast remains permissibleThou hadst a wife was worthy! and to you,Children; as good a mother gave you birth."
"Admetos,—how things go with me thou seest,—
I wish to tell thee, ere I die, what things
I will should follow. I—to honor thee,
Secure for thee, by my own soul's exchange,
Continued looking on the daylight here—
Die for thee—yet, if so I pleased, might live,
Nay, wed what man of Thessaly I would,
And dwell i' the dome with pomp and queenliness.
I would not,—would not live bereft of thee,
With children orphaned, neither shrank at all,
Though having gifts of youth wherein I joyed.
Yet, who begot thee and who gave thee birth,
Both of these gave thee up; no less, a term
Of life was reached when death became them well,
Ay, well—to save their child and glorious die:
Since thou wast all they had, nor hope remained
Of having other children in thy place.
So, I and thou had lived out our full time,
Nor thou, left lonely of thy wife, wouldst groan
With children reared in orphanage: but thus
Some God disposed things, willed they so should be.
Be they so! Now do thou remember this,
Do me in turn a favor—favor, since
Certainly I shall never claim my due,
For nothing is more precious than a life:
But a fit favor, as thyself wilt say,
Loving our children here no less than I,
If head and heart be sound in thee at least.
Uphold them, make them masters of my house,
Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair,
Who, being a worse wife than I, through spite
Will raise her hand against both thine and mine.
Never do this at least, I pray to thee!
For hostile the new-comer, the step-dame,
To the old brood—a very viper she
For gentleness! Here stand they, boy and girl;
The boy has got a father, a defence
Tower-like, he speaks to and has answer from:
But thou, my girl, how will thy virginhood
Conclude itself in marriage fittingly?
Upon what sort of sire-found yoke-fellow
Art thou to chance? with all to apprehend—
Lest, casting oh thee some unkind report,
She blast thy nuptials in the bloom of youth.
For neither shall thy mother watch thee wed,
Nor hearten thee in childbirth, standing by
Just when a mother's presence helps the most!
No, for I have to die: and this my ill
Comes to me, nor to-morrow, no, nor yet
The third day of the month, but now, even now,
I shall be reckoned among those no more.
Farewell, be happy! And to thee, indeed,
Husband, the boast remains permissible
Thou hadst a wife was worthy! and to you,
Children; as good a mother gave you birth."
"Have courage!" interposed the friends. "For himI have no scruple to declare—all thisWill he perform, except he fail of sense."
"Have courage!" interposed the friends. "For him
I have no scruple to declare—all this
Will he perform, except he fail of sense."
"All this shall be—shall be!" Admetos sobbed:"Fear not! And, since I had thee living, deadAlone wilt thou be called my wife: no fearThat some Thessalian ever styles herselfBride, hails this man for husband in thy place!No woman, be she of such lofty lineOr such surpassing beauty otherwise!Enough of children: gain from these I have,Such only may the Gods grant! since in theeAbsolute is our loss, where all was gain.And I shall bear for thee no year-long grief,But grief that lasts while my own days last, love!Love! For my hate is she who bore me, now:And him I hate, my father: loving-onesTruly, in word not deed! But thou didst payAll dearest to thee down, and buy my life,Saving me so! Is there not cause enoughThat I who part with such companionshipIn thee, should make my moan? I moan, and more:For I will end the feastings—social flowO' the wine friends flock for, garlands and the MuseThat graced my dwelling. Never now for meTo touch the lyre, to lift my soul in songAt summons of the Lydian flute; since thouFrom out my life hast emptied all the joy!And this thy body, in thy likeness wroughtBy some wise hand of the artificers,Shall lie disposed within my marriage-bed:This I will fall on, this enfold about,Call by thy name,—my dear wife in my armsEven though I have not, I shall seem to have—A cold delight, indeed, but all the sameSo should I lighten of its weight my soul!And, wandering my way in dreams perchance,Thyself wilt bless me: for, come when they will,Even by night our loves are sweet to see.But were the tongue and tune of Orpheus mine,So that to Koré crying, or her lord,In hymns, from Hades I might rescue thee—Down would I go, and neither Plouton's dogNor Charon, he whose oar sends souls across,Should stay me till again I made thee standLiving, within the light! But, failing this,There, where thou art, await me when I die,Make ready our abode, my housemate still!For in the selfsame cedar, me with theeWill I provide that these our friends shall place,My side lay close by thy side! Never, corpseAlthough I be, would I division bearFrom thee, my faithful one of all the world!"
"All this shall be—shall be!" Admetos sobbed:
"Fear not! And, since I had thee living, dead
Alone wilt thou be called my wife: no fear
That some Thessalian ever styles herself
Bride, hails this man for husband in thy place!
No woman, be she of such lofty line
Or such surpassing beauty otherwise!
Enough of children: gain from these I have,
Such only may the Gods grant! since in thee
Absolute is our loss, where all was gain.
And I shall bear for thee no year-long grief,
But grief that lasts while my own days last, love!
Love! For my hate is she who bore me, now:
And him I hate, my father: loving-ones
Truly, in word not deed! But thou didst pay
All dearest to thee down, and buy my life,
Saving me so! Is there not cause enough
That I who part with such companionship
In thee, should make my moan? I moan, and more:
For I will end the feastings—social flow
O' the wine friends flock for, garlands and the Muse
That graced my dwelling. Never now for me
To touch the lyre, to lift my soul in song
At summons of the Lydian flute; since thou
From out my life hast emptied all the joy!
And this thy body, in thy likeness wrought
By some wise hand of the artificers,
Shall lie disposed within my marriage-bed:
This I will fall on, this enfold about,
Call by thy name,—my dear wife in my arms
Even though I have not, I shall seem to have—
A cold delight, indeed, but all the same
So should I lighten of its weight my soul!
And, wandering my way in dreams perchance,
Thyself wilt bless me: for, come when they will,
Even by night our loves are sweet to see.
But were the tongue and tune of Orpheus mine,
So that to Koré crying, or her lord,
In hymns, from Hades I might rescue thee—
Down would I go, and neither Plouton's dog
Nor Charon, he whose oar sends souls across,
Should stay me till again I made thee stand
Living, within the light! But, failing this,
There, where thou art, await me when I die,
Make ready our abode, my housemate still!
For in the selfsame cedar, me with thee
Will I provide that these our friends shall place,
My side lay close by thy side! Never, corpse
Although I be, would I division bear
From thee, my faithful one of all the world!"
So he stood sobbing: nowise insincere,But somehow child-like, like his children, likeChildishness the world over. What was newIn this announcement that his wife must die?What particle of pain beyond the pactHe made, with eyes wide open, long ago—Made and was, if not glad, content to make?Now that the sorrow, he had called for, came,He sorrowed to the height: none heard him say,However, what would seem so pertinent,"To keep this pact, I find surpass my power:Rescind it, Moirai! Give me back her life,And take the life I kept by base exchange!Or, failing that, here stands your laughing-stockFooled by you, worthy just the fate o' the foolWho makes a pother to escape the bestAnd gain the worst you wiser Powers allot!"No, not one word of this: nor did his wifeDespite the sobbing, and the silence soonTo follow, judge so much was in his thought—Fancy that, should the Moirai acquiesce,He would relinquish life nor let her die.The man was like some merchant who, in storm,Throws the freight over to redeem the ship:No question, saving both were better still.As it was,—why, he sorrowed, which sufficed.So, all she seemed to notice in his speechWas what concerned her children. Children, too,Bear the grief and accept the sacrifice.Rightly rules nature: does the blossomed boughO' the grape-vine, or the dry grape's self, bleed wine?
So he stood sobbing: nowise insincere,
But somehow child-like, like his children, like
Childishness the world over. What was new
In this announcement that his wife must die?
What particle of pain beyond the pact
He made, with eyes wide open, long ago—
Made and was, if not glad, content to make?
Now that the sorrow, he had called for, came,
He sorrowed to the height: none heard him say,
However, what would seem so pertinent,
"To keep this pact, I find surpass my power:
Rescind it, Moirai! Give me back her life,
And take the life I kept by base exchange!
Or, failing that, here stands your laughing-stock
Fooled by you, worthy just the fate o' the fool
Who makes a pother to escape the best
And gain the worst you wiser Powers allot!"
No, not one word of this: nor did his wife
Despite the sobbing, and the silence soon
To follow, judge so much was in his thought—
Fancy that, should the Moirai acquiesce,
He would relinquish life nor let her die.
The man was like some merchant who, in storm,
Throws the freight over to redeem the ship:
No question, saving both were better still.
As it was,—why, he sorrowed, which sufficed.
So, all she seemed to notice in his speech
Was what concerned her children. Children, too,
Bear the grief and accept the sacrifice.
Rightly rules nature: does the blossomed bough
O' the grape-vine, or the dry grape's self, bleed wine?
So, bending to her children all her love,She fastened on their father's only wordTo purpose now, and followed it with this:"O children, now yourselves have heard these things—Your father saying he will never wedAnother woman to be over you,Nor yet dishonor me!"
So, bending to her children all her love,
She fastened on their father's only word
To purpose now, and followed it with this:
"O children, now yourselves have heard these things—
Your father saying he will never wed
Another woman to be over you,
Nor yet dishonor me!"
"And now at leastI say it, and I will accomplish too!"
"And now at least
I say it, and I will accomplish too!"
"Then, for such promise of accomplishment,Take from my hand these children!"
"Then, for such promise of accomplishment,
Take from my hand these children!"
"Thus I take—Dear gift from the dear hand!"
"Thus I take—
Dear gift from the dear hand!"
"Do thou becomeMother, now, to these children in my place!"
"Do thou become
Mother, now, to these children in my place!"
"Great the necessity, I should be so,At least, to these bereaved of thee!"
"Great the necessity, I should be so,
At least, to these bereaved of thee!"
"Child—child!Just when I needed most to live, belowAm I departing from you both!"
"Child—child!
Just when I needed most to live, below
Am I departing from you both!"
"Ah me!And what shall I do, then, left lonely thus?"
"Ah me!
And what shall I do, then, left lonely thus?"
"Time will appease thee: who is dead is naught."
"Time will appease thee: who is dead is naught."
"Take me with thee—take, by the Gods below!"
"Take me with thee—take, by the Gods below!"
"We are sufficient, we who die for thee."
"We are sufficient, we who die for thee."
"O Powers, ye widow me of what a wife!"
"O Powers, ye widow me of what a wife!"
"And truly the dimmed eye draws earthward now!"
"And truly the dimmed eye draws earthward now!"
"Wife, if thou leav'st me, I am lost indeed!"
"Wife, if thou leav'st me, I am lost indeed!"
"She once was—now is nothing, thou mayst say."
"She once was—now is nothing, thou mayst say."
"Raise thy face, nor forsake thy children thus!"
"Raise thy face, nor forsake thy children thus!"
"Ah, willingly indeed I leave them not!But—fare ye well, my children!"
"Ah, willingly indeed I leave them not!
But—fare ye well, my children!"
"Look on them—Look!"
"Look on them—
Look!"
"I am nothingness."
"I am nothingness."
"What dost thou? Leav'st ..."
"What dost thou? Leav'st ..."
"Farewell!"
"Farewell!"
And in the breath she passed away."Undone—me miserable!" moaned the king,While friends released the long-suspended sigh."Gone is she: no wife for Admetos more!"
And in the breath she passed away.
"Undone—me miserable!" moaned the king,
While friends released the long-suspended sigh.
"Gone is she: no wife for Admetos more!"
Such was the signal: how the woe broke forth,Why tell?—or how the children's tears ran fastBidding their father note the eyelids' stare,Hands' droop, each dreadful circumstance of death.
Such was the signal: how the woe broke forth,
Why tell?—or how the children's tears ran fast
Bidding their father note the eyelids' stare,
Hands' droop, each dreadful circumstance of death.
"Ay, she hears not, she sees not: I and you,'T is plain, are stricken hard and have to bear!"Was all Admetos answered; for, I judge,He only now began to taste the truth:The thing done lay revealed, which undone thing,Rehearsed for fact by fancy, at the best,Never can equal. He had used himselfThis long while (as he muttered presently)To practise with the terms, the blow involvedBy the bargain, sharp to bear, but bearableBecause of plain advantage at the end.Now that, in fact not fancy, the blow fell—Needs must he busy him with the surprise."Alkestis—not to see her nor be seen,Hear nor be heard of by her, any moreTo-day, to-morrow, to the end of time—Did I mean this should buy my life?" thought he.
"Ay, she hears not, she sees not: I and you,
'T is plain, are stricken hard and have to bear!"
Was all Admetos answered; for, I judge,
He only now began to taste the truth:
The thing done lay revealed, which undone thing,
Rehearsed for fact by fancy, at the best,
Never can equal. He had used himself
This long while (as he muttered presently)
To practise with the terms, the blow involved
By the bargain, sharp to bear, but bearable
Because of plain advantage at the end.
Now that, in fact not fancy, the blow fell—
Needs must he busy him with the surprise.
"Alkestis—not to see her nor be seen,
Hear nor be heard of by her, any more
To-day, to-morrow, to the end of time—
Did I mean this should buy my life?" thought he.
So, friends came round him, took him by the hand,Bade him remember our mortality,Its due, its doom: how neither was he first,Nor would be last, to thus deplore the loved.
So, friends came round him, took him by the hand,
Bade him remember our mortality,
Its due, its doom: how neither was he first,
Nor would be last, to thus deplore the loved.
"I understand," slow the words came at last."Nor of a sudden did the evil hereFly on me: I have known it long ago,Ay, and essayed myself in misery;Nothing is new. You have to stay, you friends,Because the next need is to carry forthThe corpse here: you must stay and do your part,Chant proper pæan to the God below;Drink-sacrifice he likes not. I decreeThat all Thessalians over whom I ruleHold grief in common with me; let them shearTheir locks, and be the peplos black they show!And you who to the chariot yoke your steeds,Or manage steeds one-frontleted,—I charge,Clip from each neck with steel the mane away!And through my city, nor of flute nor lyreBe there a sound till twelve full moons succeed.For I shall never bury any corpseDearer than this to me, nor better friend:One worthy of all honor from me, sinceMe she has died for, she and she alone."
"I understand," slow the words came at last.
"Nor of a sudden did the evil here
Fly on me: I have known it long ago,
Ay, and essayed myself in misery;
Nothing is new. You have to stay, you friends,
Because the next need is to carry forth
The corpse here: you must stay and do your part,
Chant proper pæan to the God below;
Drink-sacrifice he likes not. I decree
That all Thessalians over whom I rule
Hold grief in common with me; let them shear
Their locks, and be the peplos black they show!
And you who to the chariot yoke your steeds,
Or manage steeds one-frontleted,—I charge,
Clip from each neck with steel the mane away!
And through my city, nor of flute nor lyre
Be there a sound till twelve full moons succeed.
For I shall never bury any corpse
Dearer than this to me, nor better friend:
One worthy of all honor from me, since
Me she has died for, she and she alone."
With that, he sought the inmost of the house,He and his dead, to get grave's garniture,While the friends sang the pæan that should peal."Daughter of Pelias, with farewell from me,I' the house of Hades have thy unsunned home!Let Hades know, the dark-haired deity,—And he who sits to row and steer alike,Old corpse-conductor, let him know he bearsOver the Acherontian lake, this time,I' the two-oared boat, the best—oh, best by farOf womankind! For thee, Alkestis Queen!Many a time those haunters of the MuseShall sing thee to the seven-stringed mountain-shell,And glorify in hymns that need no harp,At Sparta when the cycle comes about,And that Karneian month wherein the moonRises and never sets the whole night through:So too at splendid and magnificentAthenai. Such the spread of thy renown,And such the lay that, dying, thou hast leftSinger and sayer. Oh that I availedOf my own might to send thee once againFrom Hades' hall, Kokutos' stream, by helpO' the oar that dips the river, back to-day!"So, the song sank to prattle in her praise:"Light, from above thee, lady, fall the earth,Thou only one of womankind to die,Wife for her husband! If Admetos takeAnything to him like a second spouse—Hate from his offspring and from us shall beHis portion, let the king assure himself!No mind his mother had to hide in earthHer body for her son's sake, nor his sireHad heart to save whom he begot,—not they,The white-haired wretches! only thou it was,I' the bloom of youth, didst save him and so die!Might it be mine to chance on such a mateAnd partner! For there 's penury in lifeOf such allowance: were she mine at least,So wonderful a wife, assuredlyShe would companion me throughout my daysAnd never once bring sorrow!"A great voice—"My hosts here!"Oh, the thrill that ran through us!Never was aught so good and opportuneAs that great interrupting voice! For see!Here maundered this dispirited old ageBefore the palace; whence a something creptWhich told us well enough without a wordWhat was a-doing inside,—every touchO' the garland on those temples, tenderestDisposure of each arm along its side,Came putting out what warmth i' the world was left.Then, as it happens at a sacrificeWhen, drop by drop, some lustral bath is brimmed:Into the thin and clear and cold, at onceThey slaughter a whole wine-skin; Bacchos' bloodSets the white water all aflame: even so,Sudden into the midst of sorrow, leaptAlong with the gay cheer of that great voice,Hope, joy, salvation: Herakles was here!Himself, o' the threshold, sent his voice on firstTo herald all that human and divineI' the weary happy face of him,—half God,Half man, which made the god-part God the more.
With that, he sought the inmost of the house,
He and his dead, to get grave's garniture,
While the friends sang the pæan that should peal.
"Daughter of Pelias, with farewell from me,
I' the house of Hades have thy unsunned home!
Let Hades know, the dark-haired deity,—
And he who sits to row and steer alike,
Old corpse-conductor, let him know he bears
Over the Acherontian lake, this time,
I' the two-oared boat, the best—oh, best by far
Of womankind! For thee, Alkestis Queen!
Many a time those haunters of the Muse
Shall sing thee to the seven-stringed mountain-shell,
And glorify in hymns that need no harp,
At Sparta when the cycle comes about,
And that Karneian month wherein the moon
Rises and never sets the whole night through:
So too at splendid and magnificent
Athenai. Such the spread of thy renown,
And such the lay that, dying, thou hast left
Singer and sayer. Oh that I availed
Of my own might to send thee once again
From Hades' hall, Kokutos' stream, by help
O' the oar that dips the river, back to-day!"
So, the song sank to prattle in her praise:
"Light, from above thee, lady, fall the earth,
Thou only one of womankind to die,
Wife for her husband! If Admetos take
Anything to him like a second spouse—
Hate from his offspring and from us shall be
His portion, let the king assure himself!
No mind his mother had to hide in earth
Her body for her son's sake, nor his sire
Had heart to save whom he begot,—not they,
The white-haired wretches! only thou it was,
I' the bloom of youth, didst save him and so die!
Might it be mine to chance on such a mate
And partner! For there 's penury in life
Of such allowance: were she mine at least,
So wonderful a wife, assuredly
She would companion me throughout my days
And never once bring sorrow!"
A great voice—
"My hosts here!"
Oh, the thrill that ran through us!
Never was aught so good and opportune
As that great interrupting voice! For see!
Here maundered this dispirited old age
Before the palace; whence a something crept
Which told us well enough without a word
What was a-doing inside,—every touch
O' the garland on those temples, tenderest
Disposure of each arm along its side,
Came putting out what warmth i' the world was left.
Then, as it happens at a sacrifice
When, drop by drop, some lustral bath is brimmed:
Into the thin and clear and cold, at once
They slaughter a whole wine-skin; Bacchos' blood
Sets the white water all aflame: even so,
Sudden into the midst of sorrow, leapt
Along with the gay cheer of that great voice,
Hope, joy, salvation: Herakles was here!
Himself, o' the threshold, sent his voice on first
To herald all that human and divine
I' the weary happy face of him,—half God,
Half man, which made the god-part God the more.
"Hosts mine," he broke upon the sorrow with,"Inhabitants of this Pheraian soil,Chance I upon Admetos inside here?"
"Hosts mine," he broke upon the sorrow with,
"Inhabitants of this Pheraian soil,
Chance I upon Admetos inside here?"
The irresistible sound wholesome heartO' the hero,—more than all the mightinessAt labor in the limbs that, for man's sake,Labored and meant to labor their life-long,—This drove back, dried up sorrow at its source.How could it brave the happy weary laughOf who had bantered sorrow, "Sorrow here?What have you done to keep your friend from harm?Could no one give the life I see he keeps?Or, say there 's sorrow here past friendly help,Why waste a word or let a tear escapeWhile other sorrows wait you in the world,And want the life of you, though helpless here?"Clearly there was no telling such an oneHow, when their monarch tried who loved him moreThan he loved them, and found they loved, as he,Each man, himself, and held, no otherwise,That, of all evils in the world, the worstWas—being forced to die, whate'er death gain:How all this selfishness in him and themCaused certain sorrow which they sang about,—I think that Herakles, who held his lifeOut on his hand, for any man to take—I think his laugh had marred their threnody.
The irresistible sound wholesome heart
O' the hero,—more than all the mightiness
At labor in the limbs that, for man's sake,
Labored and meant to labor their life-long,—
This drove back, dried up sorrow at its source.
How could it brave the happy weary laugh
Of who had bantered sorrow, "Sorrow here?
What have you done to keep your friend from harm?
Could no one give the life I see he keeps?
Or, say there 's sorrow here past friendly help,
Why waste a word or let a tear escape
While other sorrows wait you in the world,
And want the life of you, though helpless here?"
Clearly there was no telling such an one
How, when their monarch tried who loved him more
Than he loved them, and found they loved, as he,
Each man, himself, and held, no otherwise,
That, of all evils in the world, the worst
Was—being forced to die, whate'er death gain:
How all this selfishness in him and them
Caused certain sorrow which they sang about,—
I think that Herakles, who held his life
Out on his hand, for any man to take—
I think his laugh had marred their threnody.
"He is in the house," they answered. After all,They might have told the story, talked their bestAbout the inevitable sorrow here,Nor changed nor cheeked the kindly nature,—no!So long as men were merely weak, not bad,He loved men: were they Gods he used to help?"Yea, Pheres' son is in-doors, Herakles.But say, what sends thee to Thessalian soil,Brought by what business to this Pherai town?"
"He is in the house," they answered. After all,
They might have told the story, talked their best
About the inevitable sorrow here,
Nor changed nor cheeked the kindly nature,—no!
So long as men were merely weak, not bad,
He loved men: were they Gods he used to help?
"Yea, Pheres' son is in-doors, Herakles.
But say, what sends thee to Thessalian soil,
Brought by what business to this Pherai town?"
"A certain labor that I have to doEurustheus the Tirunthian," laughed the God.
"A certain labor that I have to do
Eurustheus the Tirunthian," laughed the God.
"And whither wendest—on what wanderingBound now?" (They had an instinct, guessed what meantWanderings, labors, in the God's light mouth.)
"And whither wendest—on what wandering
Bound now?" (They had an instinct, guessed what meant
Wanderings, labors, in the God's light mouth.)
"After the Thrakian Diomedes' carWith the four horses."
"After the Thrakian Diomedes' car
With the four horses."
"Ah, but canst thou that?Art inexperienced in thy host to be?"
"Ah, but canst thou that?
Art inexperienced in thy host to be?"
"All-inexperienced: I have never goneAs yet to the land o' the Bistones."
"All-inexperienced: I have never gone
As yet to the land o' the Bistones."
"Then, lookBy no means to be master of the steedsWithout a battle!""Battle there may be:I must refuse no labor, all the same."
"Then, look
By no means to be master of the steeds
Without a battle!"
"Battle there may be:
I must refuse no labor, all the same."
"Certainly, either having slain a foeWilt thou return to us, or, slain thyself,Stay there!"
"Certainly, either having slain a foe
Wilt thou return to us, or, slain thyself,
Stay there!"
"And, even if the game be so,The risk in it were not the first I run."
"And, even if the game be so,
The risk in it were not the first I run."
"But, say thou overpower the lord o' the place,What more advantage dost expect thereby?"
"But, say thou overpower the lord o' the place,
What more advantage dost expect thereby?"
"I shall drive off his horses to the king."
"I shall drive off his horses to the king."
"No easy handling them to bit the jaw!"
"No easy handling them to bit the jaw!"
"Easy enough; except, at least, they breatheFire from their nostrils!""But they mince up menWith those quick jaws!"
"Easy enough; except, at least, they breathe
Fire from their nostrils!"
"But they mince up men
With those quick jaws!"
"You talk of provenderFor mountain-beasts, and not mere horses' food!"
"You talk of provender
For mountain-beasts, and not mere horses' food!"
"Thou mayst behold their mangers caked with gore!"
"Thou mayst behold their mangers caked with gore!"
"And of what sire does he who bred them boastHimself the son?""Of Ares, king o' the targe—Thrakian, of gold throughout."Another laugh."Why, just the labor, just the lot for meDost thou describe in what I recognize!Since hard and harder, high and higher yet,Truly this lot of mine is like to goIf I must needs join battle with the broodOf Ares: ay, I fought Lukaon first,And again, Kuknos: now engage in strifeThis third time, with such horses and such lord.But there is nobody shall ever seeAlkmené's son shrink foemen's hand before!"
"And of what sire does he who bred them boast
Himself the son?"
"Of Ares, king o' the targe—
Thrakian, of gold throughout."
Another laugh.
"Why, just the labor, just the lot for me
Dost thou describe in what I recognize!
Since hard and harder, high and higher yet,
Truly this lot of mine is like to go
If I must needs join battle with the brood
Of Ares: ay, I fought Lukaon first,
And again, Kuknos: now engage in strife
This third time, with such horses and such lord.
But there is nobody shall ever see
Alkmené's son shrink foemen's hand before!"
—"Or ever hear him say" (the Chorus thought)"That death is terrible; and help us soTo chime in—'terrible beyond a doubt,And, if to thee, why, to ourselves much more:Know what has happened, then, and sympathize'!"Therefore they gladly stopped the dialogue,Shifted the burden to new shoulder straight,As, "Look where comes the lord o' the land, himself,Admetos, from the palace!" they outbrokeIn some surprise, as well as much relief.What had induced the king to waive his rightAnd luxury of woe in loneliness?
—"Or ever hear him say" (the Chorus thought)
"That death is terrible; and help us so
To chime in—'terrible beyond a doubt,
And, if to thee, why, to ourselves much more:
Know what has happened, then, and sympathize'!"
Therefore they gladly stopped the dialogue,
Shifted the burden to new shoulder straight,
As, "Look where comes the lord o' the land, himself,
Admetos, from the palace!" they outbroke
In some surprise, as well as much relief.
What had induced the king to waive his right
And luxury of woe in loneliness?
Out he came quietly; the hair was clipt,And the garb sable; else no outward signOf sorrow as he came and faced his friend.Was truth fast terrifying tears away?"Hail, child of Zeus, and sprung from Perseus too!"The salutation ran without a fault.
Out he came quietly; the hair was clipt,
And the garb sable; else no outward sign
Of sorrow as he came and faced his friend.
Was truth fast terrifying tears away?
"Hail, child of Zeus, and sprung from Perseus too!"
The salutation ran without a fault.
"And thou, Admetos, King of Thessaly!"
"And thou, Admetos, King of Thessaly!"
"Would, as thou wishest me, the grace might fall!But my good-wisher, that thou art, I know."
"Would, as thou wishest me, the grace might fall!
But my good-wisher, that thou art, I know."
"What 's here? these shorn locks, this sad show of thee?"
"What 's here? these shorn locks, this sad show of thee?"
"I must inter a certain corpse to-day."
"I must inter a certain corpse to-day."
"Now, from thy children God avert mischance!"
"Now, from thy children God avert mischance!"
"They live, my children; all are in the house!"
"They live, my children; all are in the house!"
"Thy father—if 't is he departs indeed,His age was ripe at least."
"Thy father—if 't is he departs indeed,
His age was ripe at least."
"My father lives,And she who bore me lives too, Herakles."
"My father lives,
And she who bore me lives too, Herakles."
"It cannot be thy wife Alkestis gone?"
"It cannot be thy wife Alkestis gone?"
"Twofold the tale is, I can tell of her."
"Twofold the tale is, I can tell of her."
"Dead dost thou speak of her, or living yet?"
"Dead dost thou speak of her, or living yet?"
"She is—and is not: hence the pain to me!"
"She is—and is not: hence the pain to me!"
"I learn no whit the more, so dark thy speech!"
"I learn no whit the more, so dark thy speech!"
"Know'st thou not on what fate she needs must fall?"
"Know'st thou not on what fate she needs must fall?"
"I know she is resigned to die for thee."
"I know she is resigned to die for thee."
"How lives she still, then, if submitting so?"
"How lives she still, then, if submitting so?"
"Eh, weep her not beforehand! wait till then!"
"Eh, weep her not beforehand! wait till then!"
"Who is to die is dead; doing is done."
"Who is to die is dead; doing is done."
"To be and not to be are thought diverse."
"To be and not to be are thought diverse."
"Thou judgest this—I, that way, Herakles!"
"Thou judgest this—I, that way, Herakles!"
"Well, but declare what causes thy complaint!Who is the man has died from out thy friends?"
"Well, but declare what causes thy complaint!
Who is the man has died from out thy friends?"
"No man: I had a woman in my mind."
"No man: I had a woman in my mind."
"Alien, or some one born akin to thee?"
"Alien, or some one born akin to thee?"
"Alien: but still related to my house."
"Alien: but still related to my house."
"How did it happen then that here she died?"
"How did it happen then that here she died?"
"Her father dying left his orphan here."
"Her father dying left his orphan here."
"Alas, Admetos—would we found thee gay,Not grieving!"
"Alas, Admetos—would we found thee gay,
Not grieving!"
"What as if about to doSubjoinest thou that comment?"
"What as if about to do
Subjoinest thou that comment?"
"I shall seekAnother hearth, proceed to other hosts."
"I shall seek
Another hearth, proceed to other hosts."
"Never, O king, shall that be! No such illBetide me!""Nay, to mourners should there comeA guest, he proves importunate!""The dead—Dead are they: but go thou within my house!"
"Never, O king, shall that be! No such ill
Betide me!"
"Nay, to mourners should there come
A guest, he proves importunate!"
"The dead—
Dead are they: but go thou within my house!"
"'T is base carousing beside friends who mourn."
"'T is base carousing beside friends who mourn."
"The guest-rooms, whither we shall lead thee, lieApart from ours.""Nay, let me go my way!Ten-thousandfold the favor I shall thank!"
"The guest-rooms, whither we shall lead thee, lie
Apart from ours."
"Nay, let me go my way!
Ten-thousandfold the favor I shall thank!"
"It may not be thou goest to the hearthOf any man but me!" so made an endAdmetos, softly and decisively,Of the altercation. Herakles forbore:And the king bade a servant lead the way,Open the guest-rooms ranged remote from viewO' the main hall, tell the functionaries, next,They had to furnish forth a plenteous feast:And then shut close the doors o' the hall, midway,"Because it is not proper friends who feastShould hear a groaning or be grieved," quoth he.
"It may not be thou goest to the hearth
Of any man but me!" so made an end
Admetos, softly and decisively,
Of the altercation. Herakles forbore:
And the king bade a servant lead the way,
Open the guest-rooms ranged remote from view
O' the main hall, tell the functionaries, next,
They had to furnish forth a plenteous feast:
And then shut close the doors o' the hall, midway,
"Because it is not proper friends who feast
Should hear a groaning or be grieved," quoth he.
Whereat the hero, who was truth itself,Let out the smile again, repressed awhileLike fountain-brilliance one forbids to play.He did too many grandnesses, to noteMuch in the meaner things about his path:And stepping there, with face towards the sun,Stopped seldom, to pluck weeds or ask their names.Therefore he took Admetos at the word:This trouble must not hinder any moreA true heart from good will and pleasant ways.And so, the great arm, which had slain the snake,Strained his friend's head a moment in embraceOn that broad breast beneath the lion's hide,Till the king's cheek winced at the thick rough gold;And then strode off, with who had care of him,To the remote guest-chamber: glad to givePoor flesh and blood their respite and reliefIn the interval 'twixt fight and fight again—All for the world's sake. Our eyes followed him,Be sure, till those mid-doors shut us outside.The king, too, watched great Herakles go offAll faith, love, and obedience to a friend.
Whereat the hero, who was truth itself,
Let out the smile again, repressed awhile
Like fountain-brilliance one forbids to play.
He did too many grandnesses, to note
Much in the meaner things about his path:
And stepping there, with face towards the sun,
Stopped seldom, to pluck weeds or ask their names.
Therefore he took Admetos at the word:
This trouble must not hinder any more
A true heart from good will and pleasant ways.
And so, the great arm, which had slain the snake,
Strained his friend's head a moment in embrace
On that broad breast beneath the lion's hide,
Till the king's cheek winced at the thick rough gold;
And then strode off, with who had care of him,
To the remote guest-chamber: glad to give
Poor flesh and blood their respite and relief
In the interval 'twixt fight and fight again—
All for the world's sake. Our eyes followed him,
Be sure, till those mid-doors shut us outside.
The king, too, watched great Herakles go off
All faith, love, and obedience to a friend.
And when they questioned him, the simple ones,"What dost thou? Such calamity to face,Lies full before thee—and thou art so boldAs play the host, Admetos? Hast thy wits?"He replied calmly to each chiding tongue:"But if from house and home I forced awayA coming guest, wouldst thou have praised me more?No, truly! since calamity were mine,Nowise diminished: while I showed myselfUnhappy and inhospitable too:So adding to my ills this other ill,That mine were styled a stranger-hating house.Myself have ever found this man the bestOf entertainers when I went his wayTo parched and thirsty Argos.""If so be—Why didst thou hide what destiny was here,When one came that was kindly, as thou say'st?"
And when they questioned him, the simple ones,
"What dost thou? Such calamity to face,
Lies full before thee—and thou art so bold
As play the host, Admetos? Hast thy wits?"
He replied calmly to each chiding tongue:
"But if from house and home I forced away
A coming guest, wouldst thou have praised me more?
No, truly! since calamity were mine,
Nowise diminished: while I showed myself
Unhappy and inhospitable too:
So adding to my ills this other ill,
That mine were styled a stranger-hating house.
Myself have ever found this man the best
Of entertainers when I went his way
To parched and thirsty Argos."
"If so be—
Why didst thou hide what destiny was here,
When one came that was kindly, as thou say'st?"
"He never would have willed to cross my doorHad he known aught of my calamities.And probably to some of you I seemUnwise enough in doing what I do;Such will scarce praise me: but these halls of mineKnow not to drive off and dishonor guests."
"He never would have willed to cross my door
Had he known aught of my calamities.
And probably to some of you I seem
Unwise enough in doing what I do;
Such will scarce praise me: but these halls of mine
Know not to drive off and dishonor guests."
And so, the duty done, he turned once moreTo go and busy him about his dead.As for the sympathizers left to muse,There was a change, a new light thrown on things,Contagion from the magnanimityO' the man whose life lay on his hand so light,As up he stepped, pursuing duty still"Higher and harder," as he laughed and said.Somehow they found no folly now in the actThey blamed erewhile: Admetos' private griefShrank to a somewhat pettier obstacleI' the way o' the world: they saw good days had been,And good days, peradventure, still might be,Now that they overlooked the present cloudHeavy upon the palace opposite.And soon the thought took words and music thus:—
And so, the duty done, he turned once more
To go and busy him about his dead.
As for the sympathizers left to muse,
There was a change, a new light thrown on things,
Contagion from the magnanimity
O' the man whose life lay on his hand so light,
As up he stepped, pursuing duty still
"Higher and harder," as he laughed and said.
Somehow they found no folly now in the act
They blamed erewhile: Admetos' private grief
Shrank to a somewhat pettier obstacle
I' the way o' the world: they saw good days had been,
And good days, peradventure, still might be,
Now that they overlooked the present cloud
Heavy upon the palace opposite.
And soon the thought took words and music thus:—
"Harbor of many a stranger, free to friend,Ever and always, O thou house o' the manWe mourn for! Thee, Apollon's very self,The lyric Puthian, deigned inhabit once,Become a shepherd here in thy domains,And pipe, adown the winding hillside paths,Pastoral marriage-poems to thy flocksAt feed: while with them fed in fellowship,Through joy i' the music, spot-skin lynxes; ay,And lions too, the bloody company,Came, leaving Othrus' dell; and round thy lyre,Phoibos, there danced the speckle-coated fawn,Pacing on lightsome fetlock past the pinesTress-topped, the creature's natural boundaryInto the open everywhere; such heartHad she within her, beating joyous beats,At the sweet reassurance of thy song!Therefore the lot o' the master is, to liveIn a home multitudinous with herds,Along by the fair-flowing Boibian lake,Limited, that ploughed land and pasture-plain,Only where stand the sun's steeds, stabled westI' the cloud, by that mid-air which makes the climeOf those Molossoi: and he rules as wellO'er the Aigaian, up to Pelion's shore,—Sea-stretch without a port! Such lord have we:And here he opens house now, as of old,Takes to the heart of it a guest again:Though moist the eyelid of the master, stillMourning his dear wife's body, dead but now!"
"Harbor of many a stranger, free to friend,
Ever and always, O thou house o' the man
We mourn for! Thee, Apollon's very self,
The lyric Puthian, deigned inhabit once,
Become a shepherd here in thy domains,
And pipe, adown the winding hillside paths,
Pastoral marriage-poems to thy flocks
At feed: while with them fed in fellowship,
Through joy i' the music, spot-skin lynxes; ay,
And lions too, the bloody company,
Came, leaving Othrus' dell; and round thy lyre,
Phoibos, there danced the speckle-coated fawn,
Pacing on lightsome fetlock past the pines
Tress-topped, the creature's natural boundary
Into the open everywhere; such heart
Had she within her, beating joyous beats,
At the sweet reassurance of thy song!
Therefore the lot o' the master is, to live
In a home multitudinous with herds,
Along by the fair-flowing Boibian lake,
Limited, that ploughed land and pasture-plain,
Only where stand the sun's steeds, stabled west
I' the cloud, by that mid-air which makes the clime
Of those Molossoi: and he rules as well
O'er the Aigaian, up to Pelion's shore,—
Sea-stretch without a port! Such lord have we:
And here he opens house now, as of old,
Takes to the heart of it a guest again:
Though moist the eyelid of the master, still
Mourning his dear wife's body, dead but now!"
And they admired: nobility of soulWas self-impelled to reverence, they saw:The best men ever prove the wisest too:Something instinctive guides them still aright.And on each soul this boldness settled now,That one who reverenced the Gods so muchWould prosper yet: (or—I could wish it ran—Who venerates the Gods i' the main will stillPractise things honest though obscure to judge).
And they admired: nobility of soul
Was self-impelled to reverence, they saw:
The best men ever prove the wisest too:
Something instinctive guides them still aright.
And on each soul this boldness settled now,
That one who reverenced the Gods so much
Would prosper yet: (or—I could wish it ran—
Who venerates the Gods i' the main will still
Practise things honest though obscure to judge).
They ended, for Admetos entered now;Having disposed all duteously indoors,He came into the outside world again,Quiet as ever: but a quietudeBent on pursuing its descent to truth,As who must grope until he gain the groundO' the dungeon doomed to be his dwelling now.Already high o'er head was piled the dusk,When something pushed to stay his downward step,Pluck back despair just reaching its repose.He would have bidden the kind presence thereObserve that,—since the corpse was coming out,Cared for in all things that befit the case,Carried aloft, in decency and state,To the last burial-place and burning pile,—'T were proper friends addressed, as custom prompts,Alkestis bound on her last journeying.
They ended, for Admetos entered now;
Having disposed all duteously indoors,
He came into the outside world again,
Quiet as ever: but a quietude
Bent on pursuing its descent to truth,
As who must grope until he gain the ground
O' the dungeon doomed to be his dwelling now.
Already high o'er head was piled the dusk,
When something pushed to stay his downward step,
Pluck back despair just reaching its repose.
He would have bidden the kind presence there
Observe that,—since the corpse was coming out,
Cared for in all things that befit the case,
Carried aloft, in decency and state,
To the last burial-place and burning pile,—
'T were proper friends addressed, as custom prompts,
Alkestis bound on her last journeying.
"Ay, for we see thy father," they subjoined,"Advancing as the aged foot best may;His servants, too: each bringing in his handAdornments for thy wife, all pomp that 's dueTo the downward-dwelling people." And in truth,By slow procession till they filled the stage,Came Pheres, and his following, and their gifts.You see, the worst of the interruption was,It plucked back, with an over-hasty hand,Admetos from descending to the truth,(I told you)—put him on the brink again,Full i' the noise and glare where late he stood:With no fate fallen and irrevocable,But all things subject still to chance and change:And that chance—life, and that change—happiness.And with the low strife came the little mind:He was once more the man might gain so much,Life too and wife too, would his friends but help!All he felt now was that there faced him oneSupposed the likeliest, in emergency,To help: and help, by mere self-sacrificeSo natural, it seemed as if the sireMust needs lie open still to argument,Withdraw the rash decision, not to dieBut rather live, though death would save his son:—Argument like the ignominious graspO' the drowner whom his fellow grasps as fierce,Each marvelling that the other needs must holdHead out of water, though friend choke thereby.
"Ay, for we see thy father," they subjoined,
"Advancing as the aged foot best may;
His servants, too: each bringing in his hand
Adornments for thy wife, all pomp that 's due
To the downward-dwelling people." And in truth,
By slow procession till they filled the stage,
Came Pheres, and his following, and their gifts.
You see, the worst of the interruption was,
It plucked back, with an over-hasty hand,
Admetos from descending to the truth,
(I told you)—put him on the brink again,
Full i' the noise and glare where late he stood:
With no fate fallen and irrevocable,
But all things subject still to chance and change:
And that chance—life, and that change—happiness.
And with the low strife came the little mind:
He was once more the man might gain so much,
Life too and wife too, would his friends but help!
All he felt now was that there faced him one
Supposed the likeliest, in emergency,
To help: and help, by mere self-sacrifice
So natural, it seemed as if the sire
Must needs lie open still to argument,
Withdraw the rash decision, not to die
But rather live, though death would save his son:—
Argument like the ignominious grasp
O' the drowner whom his fellow grasps as fierce,
Each marvelling that the other needs must hold
Head out of water, though friend choke thereby.
And first the father's salutation fell.Burdened he came, in common with his child,Who lost, none would gainsay, a good chaste spouse:Yet such things must be borne, though hard to bear."So, take this tribute of adornment, deepIn the earth let it descend along with her!Behooves we treat the body with respect—Of one who died, at least, to save thy life,Kept me from being childless, nor allowedThat I, bereft of thee, should peak and pineIn melancholy age! she, for the sex,All of her sisters, put in evidence,By daring such a feat, that female lifeMight prove more excellent than men suppose.O thou Alkestis!" out he burst in fine,"Who, while thou savedst this my son, didst raiseAlso myself from sinking,—hail to thee!Well be it with thee even in the houseOf Hades! I maintain, if mortals mustMarry, this sort of marriage is the solePermitted those among them who are wise!"
And first the father's salutation fell.
Burdened he came, in common with his child,
Who lost, none would gainsay, a good chaste spouse:
Yet such things must be borne, though hard to bear.
"So, take this tribute of adornment, deep
In the earth let it descend along with her!
Behooves we treat the body with respect
—Of one who died, at least, to save thy life,
Kept me from being childless, nor allowed
That I, bereft of thee, should peak and pine
In melancholy age! she, for the sex,
All of her sisters, put in evidence,
By daring such a feat, that female life
Might prove more excellent than men suppose.
O thou Alkestis!" out he burst in fine,
"Who, while thou savedst this my son, didst raise
Also myself from sinking,—hail to thee!
Well be it with thee even in the house
Of Hades! I maintain, if mortals must
Marry, this sort of marriage is the sole
Permitted those among them who are wise!"