Chapter 104

So his oration ended. Like hates like:Accordingly Admetos,—full i' the faceOf Pheres, his true father, outward shapeAnd inward fashion, body matching soul,—Saw just himself when years should do their workAnd reinforce the selfishness insideUntil it pushed the last disguise away:As when the liquid metal cools i' the mould,Stands forth a statue: bloodless, hard, cold bronze.So, in old Pheres, young Admetos showed,Pushed to completion: and a shudder ran,And his repugnance soon had vent in speech:Glad to escape outside, nor, pent within,Find itself there fit food for exercise."Neither to this interment called by meComest thou, nor thy presence I accountAmong the covetable proofs of love.As for thy tribute of adornment,—no!Ne'er shall she don it, ne'er in debt to theeBe buried! What is thine, that keep thou still!Then it behooved thee to commiserateWhen I was perishing: but thou—who stood'stFoot-free o' the snare, wast acquiescent thenThat I, the young, should die, not thou, the old—Wilt thou lament this corpse thyself hast slain?Thou wast not, then, true father to this flesh;Nor she, who makes profession of my birthAnd styles herself my mother, neither sheBore me: but, come of slave's blood, I was castStealthily 'neath the bosom of thy wife!Thou showedst, put to touch, the thing thou art,Nor I esteem myself born child of thee!Otherwise, thine is the preëminenceO'er all the world in cowardice of soul:Who, being the old man thou art, arrivedWhere life should end, didst neither will nor dareDie for thy son, but left the task to her,The alien woman, whom I well might thinkOwn, only mother both and father too!And yet a fair strife had been thine to strive,—Dying for thy own child; and brief for theeIn any case, the rest of time to live;While I had lived, and she, our rest of time,Nor I been left to groan in solitude.Yet certainly all things which happy manOught to experience, thy experience grasped.Thou wast a ruler through the bloom of youth,And I was son to thee, recipient dueOf sceptre and demesne,—no need to fearThat dying thou shouldst leave an orphan houseFor strangers to despoil. Nor yet wilt thouAllege that as dishonoring, forsooth,Thy length of days, I gave thee up to die,—I, who have held thee in such reverence!And in exchange for it, such gratitudeThou, father,—thou award'st me, mother mine!Go, lose no time, then, in begetting sonsShall cherish thee in age, and, when thou diest,Deck up and lay thee out as corpses claim!For never I, at least, with this my handWill bury thee: it is myself am deadSo far as lies in thee. But if I lightUpon another savior, and still seeThe sunbeam,—his, the child I call myself,His, the old age that claims my cherishing.How vainly do these aged pray for death,Abuse the slow drag of senility!But should death step up, nobody inclinesTo die, nor age is now the weight it was!"You see what all this poor pretentious talkTried at,—how weakness strove to hide itselfIn bluster against weakness,—the loud wordTo hide the little whisper, not so lowAlready in that heart beneath those lips!Ha, could it be, who hated cowardiceStood confessed craven, and who lauded soSelf-immolating love, himself had pushedThe loved one to the altar in his place?Friends interposed, would fain stop further playO' the sharp-edged tongue: they felt love's champion hereHad left an undefended point or two,The antagonist might profit by; bade "Pause!Enough the present sorrow! Nor, O son,Whet thus against thyself thy father's soul!"Ay, but old Pheres was the stouter stuff!Admetos, at the flintiest of the heart,Had so much soft in him as held a fire:The other was all iron, clashed from flintIts fire, but shed no spark and showed no bruise.Did Pheres crave instruction as to facts?He came, content, the ignoble word, for him,Should lurk still in the blackness of each breast,As sleeps the water-serpent half surmised:Not brought up to the surface at a bound,By one touch of the idly-probing spear,Reed-like against unconquerable scale.He came pacific, rather, as strength should,Bringing the decent praise, the due regret,And each banality prescribed of old.Did he commence "Why let her die for you?"And rouse the coiled and quiet ugliness,"What is so good to man as man's own life?"No: but the other did: and, for his pains,Out, full in face of him, the venom leapt."And whom dost thou make bold, son—Ludian slave,Or Phrugian whether, money made thy ware,To drive at with revilings? Know'st thou notI, a Thessalian, from Thessalian sireSpring and am born legitimately free?Too arrogant art thou; and, youngster wordsCasting against me, having had thy fling,Thou goest not off as all were ended so!I gave thee birth indeed and mastershipI' the mansion, brought thee up to boot: there endsMy owing, nor extends to die for thee!Never did I receive it as a lawHereditary, no, nor Greek at all,That sires in place of sons were hound to die.For, to thy sole and single self wast thouBorn, with whatever fortune, good or bad;Such things as bear bestowment, those thou hast;Already ruling widely, broad lands, too,Doubt not but I shall leave thee in due time:For why? My father left me them before.Well then, where wrong I thee?—of what defraud?Neither do thou die for this man, myself,Nor let him die for thee!—is all I beg.Thou joyest seeing daylight: dost supposeThy father Joys not too? Undoubtedly,Long I account the time to pass below,And brief my span of days; yet sweet the same:Is it otherwise to thee who, impudent,Didst fight off this same death, and livest nowThrough having sneaked past fate apportioned thee,And slain thy wife so? Cryest cowardiceOn me, I wonder, thou—whom, poor poltroon,A very woman worsted, daring deathJust for the sake of thee, her handsome spark?Shrewdly hast thou contrived how not to dieForevermore now: 't is but still persuadeThe wife, for the time being, to take thy place!What, and thy friends who would not do the like,These dost thou carp at, craven thus thyself?Crouch and be silent, craven! ComprehendThat, if thou lovest so that life of thine,Why, everybody loves his own life too:So, good words, henceforth! If thou speak us ill,Many and true an ill thing shalt thou hear!"There you saw leap the hydra at full length!Only, the old kept glorying the more,The more the portent thus uncoiled itself,Whereas the young man shuddered head to foot,And shrank from kinship with the creature. WhySuch horror, unless what he hated most,Vaunting itself outside, might fairly claimAcquaintance with the counterpart at home?I would the Chorus here had plucked up heart,Spoken out boldly and explained the man,If not to men, to Gods. That way, I think,Sophokles would have led their dance and song.Here, they said simply, "Too much evil spokeOn both sides!" As the young before, so nowThey bade the old man leave abusing thus."Let him speak,—I have spoken!" said the youth:And so died out the wrangle by degrees,In wretched bickering. "If thou wince at fact,Behooved thee not prove faulty to myself!""Had I died for thee I had faulted more!""All 's one, then, for youth's bloom and age to die?""Our duty is to live one life, not two!""Go then, and outlive Zeus, for aught I care!""What, curse thy parents with no sort of cause?""Curse, truly! All thou lovest is long life!""And dost not thou, too, all for love of life,Carry out now, in place of thine, this corpse?""Monument, rather, of thy cowardice,Thou worst one!""Not for me she died, I hope!That, thou wilt hardly say!""No; simply this:Would, some day, thou mayst come to need myself!""Meanwhile, woo many wives—the more will die!""And so shame thee who never dared the like!""Dear is this light o' the sun-god—dear, I say!""Proper conclusion for a beast to draw!""One thing is certain: there 's no laughing now,As out thou bearest the poor dead old man!""Die when thou wilt, thou wilt die infamous!""And once dead, whether famed or infamous,I shall not care!""Alas and yet again!How full is age of impudency!""True!Thou couldst not call thy young wife impudent:She was found foolish merely.""Get thee gone!And let me bury this my dead!""I go.Thou buriest her whom thou didst murder first;Whereof there 's some account to render yetThose kinsfolk by the marriage-side! I think,Brother Akastos may be classed with me,Among the beasts, not men, if he omitAvenging upon thee his sister's blood!""Go to perdition, with thy housemate too!Grow old all childlessly, with child alive,Just as ye merit! for to me, at least,Beneath the same roof ne'er do ye return.And did I need by heralds' help renounceThe ancestral hearth, I had renounced the same!But we—since this woe, lying at our feetI' the path, is to be borne—let us proceedAnd lay the body on the pyre."I think,What, through this wretched wrangle, kept the manFrom seeing clear—beside the cause I gave—Was, that the woe, himself described as fullI' the path before him, there did really lie—Not roll into the abyss of dead and gone.How, with Alkestis present, calmly crowned,Was she so irrecoverable yet—The bird, escaped, that 's just on bough above,The flower, let flutter half-way down the brink?Not so detached seemed lifelessness from lifeBut—one dear stretch beyond all straining yet—And he might have her at his heart once more,When, in the critical minute, up there comesThe father and the fact, to trifle time!"To the pyre!" an instinct prompted: pallid face,And passive arm and pointed foot, when theseNo longer shall absorb the sight, O friends,Admetos will begin to see indeedWho the true foe was, where the blows should fall!So, the old selfish Pheres went his way,Case-hardened as he came; and left the youth,(Only half selfish now, since sensitive)To go on learning by a light the more,As friends moved off, renewing dirge the while:"Unhappy in thy daring! Noble dame,Best of the good, farewell! With favoring faceMay Hermes the infernal, Hades too,Receive thee! And if there,—ay, there,—some touchOf further dignity await the good,Sharing with them, mayst thou sit throned by herThe Bride of Hades, in companionship!"Wherewith, the sad procession wound away,Made slowly for the suburb sepulchre.And lo,—while still one's heart, in time and tune,Paced after that symmetric step of DeathMute-marching, to the mind's eye, at the headO' the mourners—one hand pointing out their pathWith the long pale terrific sword we saw.The other leading, with grim tender grace,Alkestis quieted and consecrate,—Lo, life again knocked laughing at the door!The world goes on, goes ever, in and through,And out again o' the cloud. We faced about.Fronted the palace where the mid-hall gateOpened—not half, nor half of half, perhaps—Yet wide enough to let out light and life,And warmth, and bounty, and hope, and joy, at once.Festivity burst wide, fruit rare and ripeCrushed in the mouth of Bacchos, pulpy-prime,All juice and flavor, save one single seedDuly ejected from the God's nice lip,Which lay o' the red edge, blackly visible—To wit, a certain ancient servitor:On whom the festal jaws o' the palace shut,So, there he stood, a much-bewildered man.Stupid? Nay, but sagacious in a sort:Learned, life-long, i' the first outside of things,Though bat for blindness to what lies beneathAnd needs a nail-scratch ere 't is laid you bare.This functionary was the trusted oneWe saw deputed by Admetos lateTo lead in Herakles and help him, soulAnd body, to such snatched repose, snapped-upSustainment, as might do away the dustO' the last encounter, knit each nerve anewFor that next onset sure to come at cryO' the creature next assailed,—nay, should it proveOnly the creature that came forward nowTo play the critic upon Herakles!"Many the guests,"—so he soliloquizedIn musings burdensome to breast before,When it seemed not too prudent tongue should wag,—"Many, and from all quarters of this world,The guests I now have known frequent our house,For whom I spread the banquet; but than this,Never a worse one did I yet receiveAt the hearth here! One who seeing, first of all,The master's sorrow, entered gate the same,And had the hardihood to house himself.Did things stop there! But, modest by no means,He took what entertainment lay to hand,Knowing of our misfortune,—did we failIn aught of the fit service, urged us serveJust as a guest expects! And in his handsTaking the ivied goblet, drinks and drinksThe unmixed product of black mother-earth,Until the blaze o' the wine went round aboutAnd warmed him: then he crowns with myrtle sprigsHis head, and howls discordance—twofold layWas thereupon for us to listen to—This fellow singing, namely, nor restrainedA jot by sympathy with sorrows here—While we o' the household mourned our mistress—mourned,That is to say, in silence—never showedThe eyes, which we kept wetting, to the guest—For there Admetos was imperative.And so, here am I helping make at homeA guest, some fellow ripe for wickedness,Robber or pirate, while she goes her wayOut of our house: and neither was it mineTo follow in procession, nor stretch forthHand, wave my lady dear a last farewell,Lamenting who to me and all of usDomestics was a mother: myriad harmsShe used to ward away from every one,And mollify her husband's ireful mood.I ask then, do I justly hate or noThis guest, this interloper on our grief?""Hate him and justly!" Here 's the proper judgeOf what is due to the house from Herakles!This man of much experience saw the firstO' the feeble duckings-down at destiny,When King Admetos went his rounds, poor soul,A-begging somebody to be so braveAs die for one afraid to die himself—"Thou, friend? Thou, love? Father or mother, then!None of you? What, Alkestis must Death catch?O best of wives, one woman in the world!But nowise droop: our prayers may still assist:Let us try sacrifice; if those availNothing and Gods avert their countenance,Why, deep and durable our grief will be!"Whereat the house, this worthy at its head,Re-echoed "deep and durable our grief!"This sage, who justly hated Herakles,Did he suggest once "Rather I than she!"Admonish the Turannos—"Be a man!Bear thine own burden, never think to thrustThy fate upon another and thy wife!It were a dubious gain could death be doomedThat other, and no passionatest pleaOf thine, to die instead, have force with fate;Seeing thou lov'st Alkestis: what were lifeUnlighted by the loved one? But to live—Not merely live unsolaced by some thought,Some word so poor—yet solace all the same—As 'Thou i' the sepulchre, Alkestis, say!Would I, or would not I, to save thy life,Die, and die on, and die forevermore?'No! but to read red-written up and downThe world 'This is the sunshine, this the shade,This is some pleasure of earth, sky or sea,Due to that other, dead that thou mayst live!'Such were a covetable gain to thee?Go die, fool, and be happy while 't is time!"One word of counsel in this kind, methinks,Had fallen to better purpose than Ai, ai,Pheu, pheu, e, papai, and a pother of praiseO' the best, best, best one! Nothing was to hateIn King Admetos, Pheres, and the restO' the household down to his heroic self!This was the one thing hateful: HeraklesHad flung into the presence, frank and free,Out from the labor into the repose,Ere out again and over head and earsI' the heart of labor, all for love of men:Making the most o' the minute, that the soulAnd body, strained to height a minute since,Might lie relaxed in joy, this breathing-space,For man's sake more than ever; till the bow,Restrung o' the sudden, at first cry for help,Should send some unimaginable shaftTrue to the aim and shatteringly throughThe plate-mail of a monster, save man so.He slew the pest o' the marish yesterday:To-morrow he would bit the flame-breathed studThat fed on man's-flesh: and this day between—Because he held it natural to die,And fruitless to lament a thing past cure,So, took his fill of food, wine, song and flowers,Till the new labor claimed him soon enough,—"Hate him and justly!"True, Charopé mine!The man surmised not Herakles lay hidI' the guest; or, knowing it, was ignorantThat still his lady lived—for Herakles;Or else judged lightness needs must indicateThis or the other caitiff quality:And therefore—had been right if not so wrong!For who expects the sort of him will scratchA nail's depth, scrape the surface just to seeWhat peradventure underlies the same?So, he stood petting up his puny hate,Parent-wise, proud of the ill-favored babe.Not long! A great hand, careful lest it crush,Startled him on the shoulder: up he stared,And over him, who stood but Herakles!There smiled the mighty presence, all one smileAnd no touch more of the world-weary God,Through the brief respite. Just a garland's graceAbout the brow, a song to satisfyHead, heart and breast, and trumpet-lips at once,A solemn draught of true religious wine,And—how should I know?—half a mountain-goatTom up and swallowed down,—the feast was fierceBut brief: all cares and pains took wing and flew,Leaving the hero ready to beginAnd help mankind, whatever woe came next,Even though what came next should be naught moreThan the mean querulous mouth o' the man, remarkedPursing its grievance up till patience failedAnd the sage needs must rush out, as we saw,To sulk outside and pet his hate in peace.By no means would the Helper have it so:He who was just about to handle brutesIn Thrace, and bit the jaws which breathed the flame,—Well, if a good laugh and a jovial wordCould bridle age which blew bad humors forth,That were a kind of help, too!"Thou, there!" hailedThis grand benevolence the ungracious one—"Why look'st so solemn and so thought-absorbed?To guests a servant should not sour-faced be,But do the honors with a mind urbane.While thou, contrariwise, beholding hereArrive thy master's comrade, hast for himA churlish visage, all one beetle-brow—Having regard to grief that's out-of-door!Come hither, and so get to grow more wise!Things mortal—know'st the nature that they have?No, I imagine! whence could knowledge spring?Give ear to me, then! For all flesh to die,Is Nature's due; nor is there any oneOf mortals with assurance he shall lastThe coming morrow: for, what 's born of chanceInvisibly proceeds the way it will,Not to be learned, no fortune-teller's prize.This, therefore, having heard and known through me,Gladden thyself! Drink! Count the day-by-dayExistence thine, and all the other—chance!Ay, and pay homage also to by farThe sweetest of divinities for man,Kupris! Benignant Goddess will she prove!But as for aught else, leave and let things be!And trust my counsel, if I seem to speakTo purpose—as I do, apparently.Wilt not thou, then,—discarding overmuchMournfulness, do away with this shut door,Come drink along with me, be-garlandedThis fashion? Do so, and—I well know what—From this stern mood, this shrunk-up state of mind,The pit-pat fall o' the flagon-juice down throat,Soon will dislodge thee from bad harborage!Men being mortal should think mortal-like:Since to your solemn, brow-contracting sort,All of them,—so I lay down law at least,—Life is not truly life but misery."Whereto the man with softened surliness:"We know as much: but deal with matters, now,Hardly befitting mirth and revelry.""No intimate, this woman that is dead:Mourn not too much! For, those o' the house itself,Thy masters live, remember!""Live indeed?Ah, thou know'st naught o' the woe within these walls!""I do—unless thy master spoke me falseSomehow!""Ay, ay, too much he loves a guest,Too much, that master mine!" so muttered he."Was it improper he should treat me well,Because an alien corpse was in the way?""No alien, but most intimate indeed!""Can it be, some woe was, he told me not?""Farewell and go thy way! Thy cares for thee—To us, our master's sorrow is a care.""This word begins no tale of alien woe!""Had it been other woe than intimate,I could have seen thee feast, nor felt amiss.""What! have I suffered strangely from my host?""Thou cam'st not at a fit reception-time:With sorrow here beforehand: and thou seestShorn hair, black robes.""But who is it that 's dead?Some child gone? or the aged sire perhaps?""Admetos' wife, then! she has perished, guest!""How sayest? And did ye house me, all the same?""Ay: for he had thee in that reverenceHe dared not turn thee from his door away!""O hapless, and bereft of what a mate!""All of us now are dead, not she alone!""But I divined it! seeing, as I did,His eye that ran with tears, his close-clipt hair,His countenance! Though he persuaded me,Saying it was a stranger's funeralHe went with to the grave: against my wish,He forced on me that I should enter doors,Drink in the hall o' the hospitable manCircumstanced so! And do I revel yetWith wreath on head? But—thou to hold thy peace,Nor me what a woe oppressed my friend!Where is he gone to bury her? Where am ITo go and find her?""By the road that leadsStraight to Larissa, thou wilt see the tomb,Out of the suburb, a carved sepulchre."So said he, and therewith dismissed himselfInside to his lamenting: somewhat soothed,However, that he had adroitly spoiltThe mirth of the great creature: oh, he markedThe movement of the mouth, how lip pressed lip,And either eye forgot to shine, as, fast,He plucked the chaplet from his forehead, dashedThe myrtle-sprays down, trod them underfoot!And all the joy and wonder of the wineWithered away, like fire from off a brandThe wind blows over—beacon though it be,Whose merry ardor only meant to makeSomebody all the better for its blaze,And save lost people in the dark: quenched now!Not long quenched! As the flame, just hurried offThe brand's edge, suddenly renews its bite,Tasting some richness caked i' the core o' the tree,—Pine, with a blood that 's oil,—and triumphs upPillar-wise to the sky and saves the world:So, in a spasm and splendor of resolve,All at once did the God surmount the man."O much-enduring heart and hand of mine!Now show what sort of son she bore to Zeus,That daughter of Elektruon, Tiruns' child,Alkmené! for that son must needs save nowThe just-dead lady: ay, establish hereI' the house again Alkestis, bring aboutComfort and succor to Admetos so!I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stoledKing of the corpses! I shall find him, sure,Drinking, beside the tomb, o' the sacrifice:And if I lie in ambuscade, and leapOut of my lair, and seize—encircle himTill one hand join the other round about—There lives not who shall pull him out from me,Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go!But even say I miss the booty,—say,Death comes not to the boltered blood,—why then,Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-placeOf Koré and the king there,—make demand,Confident I shall bring Alkestis back,So as to put her in the hands of himMy host, that housed me, never drove me off:Though stricken with sore sorrow, hid the stroke,Being a noble heart and honoring me!Who of Thessalians, more than this man, lovesThe stranger? Who, that now inhabits Greece?Wherefore he shall not say the man was vileWhom he befriended,—native noble heart!"So, one look upward, as if Zeus might laughApproval of his human progeny,—One summons of the whole magnific frame,Each sinew to its service,—up he caught,And over shoulder cast, the lion-shag,Let the club go,—for had he not those hands?And so went striding off, on that straight wayLeads to Larissa and the suburb tomb.Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world!I think this is the authentic sign and sealOf Godship, that it ever waxes glad,And more glad, until gladness blossoms, burstsInto a rage to suffer for mankind,And recommence at sorrow: drops like seedAfter the blossom, ultimate of all.Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun?Surely it has no other end and aimThan to drop, once more die into the ground,Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there:And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy,More joy and most joy,—do man good again.So, to the struggle off strode Herakles.When silence closed behind the lion-garb,Back came our dull fact settling in its place,Though heartiness and passion half-dispersedThe inevitable fate. And presentlyIn came the mourners from the funeral,One after one, until we hoped the lastWould be Alkestis and so end our dream.Could they have really left Alkestis loneI' the wayside sepulchre! Home, all save she!And when Admetos felt that it was so,By the stand-still: when he lifted head and faceFrom the two hiding hands and peplos' fold,And looked forth, knew the palace, knew the hills,Knew the plains, knew the friendly frequence there,And no Alkestis any more again,Why, the whole woe billow-like broke on him."O hateful entry, hateful countenanceO' the widowed halls!"—he moaned. "What was to be?Go there? Stay here? Speak, not speak? All was nowMad and impossible alike; one wayAnd only one was sane and safe—to die:Now he was made aware how dear is death,How lovable the dead are, how the heartYearns in us to go hide where they repose,When we find sunbeams do no good to see,Nor earth rests rightly where our footsteps fall.His wife had been to him the very pledge,Sun should be sun, earth—earth; the pledge was robbed,Pact broken, and the world was left no world."He stared at the impossible, mad life:Stood, while they urged "Advance—advance! Go deepInto the utter dark, thy palace-core!"They tried what they called comfort, "touched the quickOf the ulceration in his soul," he said,With memories,—"once thy joy was thus and thus!"True comfort were to let him fling himselfInto the hollow grave o' the tomb, and soLet him lie dead along with all he loved.One bade him note that his own familyBoasted a certain father whose sole son,Worthy bewailment, died: and yet the sireBore stoutly up against the blow and lived;For all that he was childless now, and proneAlready to gray hairs, far on in life.Could such a good example miss effect?Why fix foot, stand so, staring at the house,Why not go in, as that wise kinsman would?"Oh that arrangement of the house I know!How can I enter, how inhabit theeNow that one cast of fortune changes all?Oh me, for much divides the then from now!Then—with those pine-tree torches, Pelian pompAnd marriage-hymns, I entered, holding highThe hand of my dear wife; while many-voicedThe revelry that followed me and herThat 's dead now,—friends felicitating both,As who were lofty-lineaged, each of usBorn of the best, two wedded and made one;Now—wail is wedding-chant's antagonist,And, for white peplos, stoles in sable stateHerald my way to the deserted couch!"The one word more they ventured was, "This griefBefell thee witless of what sorrow means,Close after prosperous fortune: but, reflect!Thou hast saved soul and body. Dead, thy wife—Living, the love she left. What 's novel here?Many the man, from whom Death long agoLoosed the life-partner!"Then Admetos spoke:Turned on the comfort, with no tears, this time.He was beginning to be like his wife.I told you of that pressure to the point,Word slow pursuing word in monotone,Alkestis spoke with; so Admetos, now,Solemnly bore the burden of the truth.And as the voice of him grew, gathered strength,And groaned on, and persisted to the end,We felt how deep had been descent in grief,And with what change he came up now to light,And left behind such littleness as tears."Friends, I account the fortune of my wifeHappier than mine, though it seem otherwise:For, her indeed no grief will ever touch,And she from many a labor pauses now,Renowned one! Whereas I, who ought not live,But do live, by evading destiny,Sad life am I to lead, I learn at last!For how shall I bear going in-doors here?Accosting whom? By whom saluted back,Shall I have joyous entry? Whither turn?Inside, the solitude will drive me forth,When I behold the empty bed—my wife's—The seat she used to sit upon, the floorUnsprinkled as when dwellers loved the cool,The children that will clasp my knees about,Cry for their mother back: these servants tooMoaning for what a guardian they have lost!Inside my house such circumstance awaits,Outside,—Thessalian people's marriage-feastsAnd gatherings for talk will harass me,With overflow of women everywhere;It is impossible I look on them—Familiars of my wife and just her age!And then, whoever is a foe of mine,And lights on me—why, this will be his word—'See there! alive ignobly, there he skulksThat played the dastard when it came to die,And, giving her he wedded, in exchange,Kept himself out of Hades safe and sound,The coward! Do you call that creature—man?He hates his parents for declining death,Just as if he himself would gladly die!'This sort of reputation shall I have,Beside the other ills enough in store.Ill-famed, ill-faring,—what advantage, friends,Do you perceive I gain by life for death?"

So his oration ended. Like hates like:

Accordingly Admetos,—full i' the face

Of Pheres, his true father, outward shape

And inward fashion, body matching soul,—

Saw just himself when years should do their work

And reinforce the selfishness inside

Until it pushed the last disguise away:

As when the liquid metal cools i' the mould,

Stands forth a statue: bloodless, hard, cold bronze.

So, in old Pheres, young Admetos showed,

Pushed to completion: and a shudder ran,

And his repugnance soon had vent in speech:

Glad to escape outside, nor, pent within,

Find itself there fit food for exercise.

"Neither to this interment called by meComest thou, nor thy presence I accountAmong the covetable proofs of love.As for thy tribute of adornment,—no!Ne'er shall she don it, ne'er in debt to theeBe buried! What is thine, that keep thou still!Then it behooved thee to commiserateWhen I was perishing: but thou—who stood'stFoot-free o' the snare, wast acquiescent thenThat I, the young, should die, not thou, the old—Wilt thou lament this corpse thyself hast slain?Thou wast not, then, true father to this flesh;Nor she, who makes profession of my birthAnd styles herself my mother, neither sheBore me: but, come of slave's blood, I was castStealthily 'neath the bosom of thy wife!Thou showedst, put to touch, the thing thou art,Nor I esteem myself born child of thee!Otherwise, thine is the preëminenceO'er all the world in cowardice of soul:Who, being the old man thou art, arrivedWhere life should end, didst neither will nor dareDie for thy son, but left the task to her,The alien woman, whom I well might thinkOwn, only mother both and father too!And yet a fair strife had been thine to strive,—Dying for thy own child; and brief for theeIn any case, the rest of time to live;While I had lived, and she, our rest of time,Nor I been left to groan in solitude.Yet certainly all things which happy manOught to experience, thy experience grasped.Thou wast a ruler through the bloom of youth,And I was son to thee, recipient dueOf sceptre and demesne,—no need to fearThat dying thou shouldst leave an orphan houseFor strangers to despoil. Nor yet wilt thouAllege that as dishonoring, forsooth,Thy length of days, I gave thee up to die,—I, who have held thee in such reverence!And in exchange for it, such gratitudeThou, father,—thou award'st me, mother mine!Go, lose no time, then, in begetting sonsShall cherish thee in age, and, when thou diest,Deck up and lay thee out as corpses claim!For never I, at least, with this my handWill bury thee: it is myself am deadSo far as lies in thee. But if I lightUpon another savior, and still seeThe sunbeam,—his, the child I call myself,His, the old age that claims my cherishing.How vainly do these aged pray for death,Abuse the slow drag of senility!But should death step up, nobody inclinesTo die, nor age is now the weight it was!"

"Neither to this interment called by me

Comest thou, nor thy presence I account

Among the covetable proofs of love.

As for thy tribute of adornment,—no!

Ne'er shall she don it, ne'er in debt to thee

Be buried! What is thine, that keep thou still!

Then it behooved thee to commiserate

When I was perishing: but thou—who stood'st

Foot-free o' the snare, wast acquiescent then

That I, the young, should die, not thou, the old—

Wilt thou lament this corpse thyself hast slain?

Thou wast not, then, true father to this flesh;

Nor she, who makes profession of my birth

And styles herself my mother, neither she

Bore me: but, come of slave's blood, I was cast

Stealthily 'neath the bosom of thy wife!

Thou showedst, put to touch, the thing thou art,

Nor I esteem myself born child of thee!

Otherwise, thine is the preëminence

O'er all the world in cowardice of soul:

Who, being the old man thou art, arrived

Where life should end, didst neither will nor dare

Die for thy son, but left the task to her,

The alien woman, whom I well might think

Own, only mother both and father too!

And yet a fair strife had been thine to strive,

—Dying for thy own child; and brief for thee

In any case, the rest of time to live;

While I had lived, and she, our rest of time,

Nor I been left to groan in solitude.

Yet certainly all things which happy man

Ought to experience, thy experience grasped.

Thou wast a ruler through the bloom of youth,

And I was son to thee, recipient due

Of sceptre and demesne,—no need to fear

That dying thou shouldst leave an orphan house

For strangers to despoil. Nor yet wilt thou

Allege that as dishonoring, forsooth,

Thy length of days, I gave thee up to die,—

I, who have held thee in such reverence!

And in exchange for it, such gratitude

Thou, father,—thou award'st me, mother mine!

Go, lose no time, then, in begetting sons

Shall cherish thee in age, and, when thou diest,

Deck up and lay thee out as corpses claim!

For never I, at least, with this my hand

Will bury thee: it is myself am dead

So far as lies in thee. But if I light

Upon another savior, and still see

The sunbeam,—his, the child I call myself,

His, the old age that claims my cherishing.

How vainly do these aged pray for death,

Abuse the slow drag of senility!

But should death step up, nobody inclines

To die, nor age is now the weight it was!"

You see what all this poor pretentious talkTried at,—how weakness strove to hide itselfIn bluster against weakness,—the loud wordTo hide the little whisper, not so lowAlready in that heart beneath those lips!Ha, could it be, who hated cowardiceStood confessed craven, and who lauded soSelf-immolating love, himself had pushedThe loved one to the altar in his place?Friends interposed, would fain stop further playO' the sharp-edged tongue: they felt love's champion hereHad left an undefended point or two,The antagonist might profit by; bade "Pause!Enough the present sorrow! Nor, O son,Whet thus against thyself thy father's soul!"

You see what all this poor pretentious talk

Tried at,—how weakness strove to hide itself

In bluster against weakness,—the loud word

To hide the little whisper, not so low

Already in that heart beneath those lips!

Ha, could it be, who hated cowardice

Stood confessed craven, and who lauded so

Self-immolating love, himself had pushed

The loved one to the altar in his place?

Friends interposed, would fain stop further play

O' the sharp-edged tongue: they felt love's champion here

Had left an undefended point or two,

The antagonist might profit by; bade "Pause!

Enough the present sorrow! Nor, O son,

Whet thus against thyself thy father's soul!"

Ay, but old Pheres was the stouter stuff!Admetos, at the flintiest of the heart,Had so much soft in him as held a fire:The other was all iron, clashed from flintIts fire, but shed no spark and showed no bruise.Did Pheres crave instruction as to facts?He came, content, the ignoble word, for him,Should lurk still in the blackness of each breast,As sleeps the water-serpent half surmised:Not brought up to the surface at a bound,By one touch of the idly-probing spear,Reed-like against unconquerable scale.He came pacific, rather, as strength should,Bringing the decent praise, the due regret,And each banality prescribed of old.Did he commence "Why let her die for you?"And rouse the coiled and quiet ugliness,"What is so good to man as man's own life?"No: but the other did: and, for his pains,Out, full in face of him, the venom leapt.

Ay, but old Pheres was the stouter stuff!

Admetos, at the flintiest of the heart,

Had so much soft in him as held a fire:

The other was all iron, clashed from flint

Its fire, but shed no spark and showed no bruise.

Did Pheres crave instruction as to facts?

He came, content, the ignoble word, for him,

Should lurk still in the blackness of each breast,

As sleeps the water-serpent half surmised:

Not brought up to the surface at a bound,

By one touch of the idly-probing spear,

Reed-like against unconquerable scale.

He came pacific, rather, as strength should,

Bringing the decent praise, the due regret,

And each banality prescribed of old.

Did he commence "Why let her die for you?"

And rouse the coiled and quiet ugliness,

"What is so good to man as man's own life?"

No: but the other did: and, for his pains,

Out, full in face of him, the venom leapt.

"And whom dost thou make bold, son—Ludian slave,Or Phrugian whether, money made thy ware,To drive at with revilings? Know'st thou notI, a Thessalian, from Thessalian sireSpring and am born legitimately free?Too arrogant art thou; and, youngster wordsCasting against me, having had thy fling,Thou goest not off as all were ended so!I gave thee birth indeed and mastershipI' the mansion, brought thee up to boot: there endsMy owing, nor extends to die for thee!Never did I receive it as a lawHereditary, no, nor Greek at all,That sires in place of sons were hound to die.For, to thy sole and single self wast thouBorn, with whatever fortune, good or bad;Such things as bear bestowment, those thou hast;Already ruling widely, broad lands, too,Doubt not but I shall leave thee in due time:For why? My father left me them before.Well then, where wrong I thee?—of what defraud?Neither do thou die for this man, myself,Nor let him die for thee!—is all I beg.Thou joyest seeing daylight: dost supposeThy father Joys not too? Undoubtedly,Long I account the time to pass below,And brief my span of days; yet sweet the same:Is it otherwise to thee who, impudent,Didst fight off this same death, and livest nowThrough having sneaked past fate apportioned thee,And slain thy wife so? Cryest cowardiceOn me, I wonder, thou—whom, poor poltroon,A very woman worsted, daring deathJust for the sake of thee, her handsome spark?Shrewdly hast thou contrived how not to dieForevermore now: 't is but still persuadeThe wife, for the time being, to take thy place!What, and thy friends who would not do the like,These dost thou carp at, craven thus thyself?Crouch and be silent, craven! ComprehendThat, if thou lovest so that life of thine,Why, everybody loves his own life too:So, good words, henceforth! If thou speak us ill,Many and true an ill thing shalt thou hear!"

"And whom dost thou make bold, son—Ludian slave,

Or Phrugian whether, money made thy ware,

To drive at with revilings? Know'st thou not

I, a Thessalian, from Thessalian sire

Spring and am born legitimately free?

Too arrogant art thou; and, youngster words

Casting against me, having had thy fling,

Thou goest not off as all were ended so!

I gave thee birth indeed and mastership

I' the mansion, brought thee up to boot: there ends

My owing, nor extends to die for thee!

Never did I receive it as a law

Hereditary, no, nor Greek at all,

That sires in place of sons were hound to die.

For, to thy sole and single self wast thou

Born, with whatever fortune, good or bad;

Such things as bear bestowment, those thou hast;

Already ruling widely, broad lands, too,

Doubt not but I shall leave thee in due time:

For why? My father left me them before.

Well then, where wrong I thee?—of what defraud?

Neither do thou die for this man, myself,

Nor let him die for thee!—is all I beg.

Thou joyest seeing daylight: dost suppose

Thy father Joys not too? Undoubtedly,

Long I account the time to pass below,

And brief my span of days; yet sweet the same:

Is it otherwise to thee who, impudent,

Didst fight off this same death, and livest now

Through having sneaked past fate apportioned thee,

And slain thy wife so? Cryest cowardice

On me, I wonder, thou—whom, poor poltroon,

A very woman worsted, daring death

Just for the sake of thee, her handsome spark?

Shrewdly hast thou contrived how not to die

Forevermore now: 't is but still persuade

The wife, for the time being, to take thy place!

What, and thy friends who would not do the like,

These dost thou carp at, craven thus thyself?

Crouch and be silent, craven! Comprehend

That, if thou lovest so that life of thine,

Why, everybody loves his own life too:

So, good words, henceforth! If thou speak us ill,

Many and true an ill thing shalt thou hear!"

There you saw leap the hydra at full length!Only, the old kept glorying the more,The more the portent thus uncoiled itself,Whereas the young man shuddered head to foot,And shrank from kinship with the creature. WhySuch horror, unless what he hated most,Vaunting itself outside, might fairly claimAcquaintance with the counterpart at home?I would the Chorus here had plucked up heart,Spoken out boldly and explained the man,If not to men, to Gods. That way, I think,Sophokles would have led their dance and song.Here, they said simply, "Too much evil spokeOn both sides!" As the young before, so nowThey bade the old man leave abusing thus.

There you saw leap the hydra at full length!

Only, the old kept glorying the more,

The more the portent thus uncoiled itself,

Whereas the young man shuddered head to foot,

And shrank from kinship with the creature. Why

Such horror, unless what he hated most,

Vaunting itself outside, might fairly claim

Acquaintance with the counterpart at home?

I would the Chorus here had plucked up heart,

Spoken out boldly and explained the man,

If not to men, to Gods. That way, I think,

Sophokles would have led their dance and song.

Here, they said simply, "Too much evil spoke

On both sides!" As the young before, so now

They bade the old man leave abusing thus.

"Let him speak,—I have spoken!" said the youth:And so died out the wrangle by degrees,In wretched bickering. "If thou wince at fact,Behooved thee not prove faulty to myself!"

"Let him speak,—I have spoken!" said the youth:

And so died out the wrangle by degrees,

In wretched bickering. "If thou wince at fact,

Behooved thee not prove faulty to myself!"

"Had I died for thee I had faulted more!"

"All 's one, then, for youth's bloom and age to die?"

"Our duty is to live one life, not two!"

"Go then, and outlive Zeus, for aught I care!"

"What, curse thy parents with no sort of cause?"

"Curse, truly! All thou lovest is long life!"

"And dost not thou, too, all for love of life,Carry out now, in place of thine, this corpse?"

"And dost not thou, too, all for love of life,

Carry out now, in place of thine, this corpse?"

"Monument, rather, of thy cowardice,Thou worst one!"

"Monument, rather, of thy cowardice,

Thou worst one!"

"Not for me she died, I hope!That, thou wilt hardly say!"

"Not for me she died, I hope!

That, thou wilt hardly say!"

"No; simply this:Would, some day, thou mayst come to need myself!"

"No; simply this:

Would, some day, thou mayst come to need myself!"

"Meanwhile, woo many wives—the more will die!"

"And so shame thee who never dared the like!"

"Dear is this light o' the sun-god—dear, I say!"

"Proper conclusion for a beast to draw!"

"One thing is certain: there 's no laughing now,As out thou bearest the poor dead old man!"

"One thing is certain: there 's no laughing now,

As out thou bearest the poor dead old man!"

"Die when thou wilt, thou wilt die infamous!"

"And once dead, whether famed or infamous,I shall not care!"

"And once dead, whether famed or infamous,

I shall not care!"

"Alas and yet again!How full is age of impudency!""True!Thou couldst not call thy young wife impudent:She was found foolish merely."

"Alas and yet again!

How full is age of impudency!"

"True!

Thou couldst not call thy young wife impudent:

She was found foolish merely."

"Get thee gone!And let me bury this my dead!""I go.Thou buriest her whom thou didst murder first;Whereof there 's some account to render yetThose kinsfolk by the marriage-side! I think,Brother Akastos may be classed with me,Among the beasts, not men, if he omitAvenging upon thee his sister's blood!"

"Get thee gone!

And let me bury this my dead!"

"I go.

Thou buriest her whom thou didst murder first;

Whereof there 's some account to render yet

Those kinsfolk by the marriage-side! I think,

Brother Akastos may be classed with me,

Among the beasts, not men, if he omit

Avenging upon thee his sister's blood!"

"Go to perdition, with thy housemate too!Grow old all childlessly, with child alive,Just as ye merit! for to me, at least,Beneath the same roof ne'er do ye return.And did I need by heralds' help renounceThe ancestral hearth, I had renounced the same!But we—since this woe, lying at our feetI' the path, is to be borne—let us proceedAnd lay the body on the pyre."I think,What, through this wretched wrangle, kept the manFrom seeing clear—beside the cause I gave—Was, that the woe, himself described as fullI' the path before him, there did really lie—Not roll into the abyss of dead and gone.How, with Alkestis present, calmly crowned,Was she so irrecoverable yet—The bird, escaped, that 's just on bough above,The flower, let flutter half-way down the brink?Not so detached seemed lifelessness from lifeBut—one dear stretch beyond all straining yet—And he might have her at his heart once more,When, in the critical minute, up there comesThe father and the fact, to trifle time!

"Go to perdition, with thy housemate too!

Grow old all childlessly, with child alive,

Just as ye merit! for to me, at least,

Beneath the same roof ne'er do ye return.

And did I need by heralds' help renounce

The ancestral hearth, I had renounced the same!

But we—since this woe, lying at our feet

I' the path, is to be borne—let us proceed

And lay the body on the pyre."

I think,

What, through this wretched wrangle, kept the man

From seeing clear—beside the cause I gave—

Was, that the woe, himself described as full

I' the path before him, there did really lie—

Not roll into the abyss of dead and gone.

How, with Alkestis present, calmly crowned,

Was she so irrecoverable yet—

The bird, escaped, that 's just on bough above,

The flower, let flutter half-way down the brink?

Not so detached seemed lifelessness from life

But—one dear stretch beyond all straining yet—

And he might have her at his heart once more,

When, in the critical minute, up there comes

The father and the fact, to trifle time!

"To the pyre!" an instinct prompted: pallid face,And passive arm and pointed foot, when theseNo longer shall absorb the sight, O friends,Admetos will begin to see indeedWho the true foe was, where the blows should fall!

"To the pyre!" an instinct prompted: pallid face,

And passive arm and pointed foot, when these

No longer shall absorb the sight, O friends,

Admetos will begin to see indeed

Who the true foe was, where the blows should fall!

So, the old selfish Pheres went his way,Case-hardened as he came; and left the youth,(Only half selfish now, since sensitive)To go on learning by a light the more,As friends moved off, renewing dirge the while:

So, the old selfish Pheres went his way,

Case-hardened as he came; and left the youth,

(Only half selfish now, since sensitive)

To go on learning by a light the more,

As friends moved off, renewing dirge the while:

"Unhappy in thy daring! Noble dame,Best of the good, farewell! With favoring faceMay Hermes the infernal, Hades too,Receive thee! And if there,—ay, there,—some touchOf further dignity await the good,Sharing with them, mayst thou sit throned by herThe Bride of Hades, in companionship!"

"Unhappy in thy daring! Noble dame,

Best of the good, farewell! With favoring face

May Hermes the infernal, Hades too,

Receive thee! And if there,—ay, there,—some touch

Of further dignity await the good,

Sharing with them, mayst thou sit throned by her

The Bride of Hades, in companionship!"

Wherewith, the sad procession wound away,Made slowly for the suburb sepulchre.And lo,—while still one's heart, in time and tune,Paced after that symmetric step of DeathMute-marching, to the mind's eye, at the headO' the mourners—one hand pointing out their pathWith the long pale terrific sword we saw.The other leading, with grim tender grace,Alkestis quieted and consecrate,—Lo, life again knocked laughing at the door!The world goes on, goes ever, in and through,And out again o' the cloud. We faced about.Fronted the palace where the mid-hall gateOpened—not half, nor half of half, perhaps—Yet wide enough to let out light and life,And warmth, and bounty, and hope, and joy, at once.Festivity burst wide, fruit rare and ripeCrushed in the mouth of Bacchos, pulpy-prime,All juice and flavor, save one single seedDuly ejected from the God's nice lip,Which lay o' the red edge, blackly visible—To wit, a certain ancient servitor:On whom the festal jaws o' the palace shut,So, there he stood, a much-bewildered man.Stupid? Nay, but sagacious in a sort:Learned, life-long, i' the first outside of things,Though bat for blindness to what lies beneathAnd needs a nail-scratch ere 't is laid you bare.This functionary was the trusted oneWe saw deputed by Admetos lateTo lead in Herakles and help him, soulAnd body, to such snatched repose, snapped-upSustainment, as might do away the dustO' the last encounter, knit each nerve anewFor that next onset sure to come at cryO' the creature next assailed,—nay, should it proveOnly the creature that came forward nowTo play the critic upon Herakles!

Wherewith, the sad procession wound away,

Made slowly for the suburb sepulchre.

And lo,—while still one's heart, in time and tune,

Paced after that symmetric step of Death

Mute-marching, to the mind's eye, at the head

O' the mourners—one hand pointing out their path

With the long pale terrific sword we saw.

The other leading, with grim tender grace,

Alkestis quieted and consecrate,—

Lo, life again knocked laughing at the door!

The world goes on, goes ever, in and through,

And out again o' the cloud. We faced about.

Fronted the palace where the mid-hall gate

Opened—not half, nor half of half, perhaps—

Yet wide enough to let out light and life,

And warmth, and bounty, and hope, and joy, at once.

Festivity burst wide, fruit rare and ripe

Crushed in the mouth of Bacchos, pulpy-prime,

All juice and flavor, save one single seed

Duly ejected from the God's nice lip,

Which lay o' the red edge, blackly visible—

To wit, a certain ancient servitor:

On whom the festal jaws o' the palace shut,

So, there he stood, a much-bewildered man.

Stupid? Nay, but sagacious in a sort:

Learned, life-long, i' the first outside of things,

Though bat for blindness to what lies beneath

And needs a nail-scratch ere 't is laid you bare.

This functionary was the trusted one

We saw deputed by Admetos late

To lead in Herakles and help him, soul

And body, to such snatched repose, snapped-up

Sustainment, as might do away the dust

O' the last encounter, knit each nerve anew

For that next onset sure to come at cry

O' the creature next assailed,—nay, should it prove

Only the creature that came forward now

To play the critic upon Herakles!

"Many the guests,"—so he soliloquizedIn musings burdensome to breast before,When it seemed not too prudent tongue should wag,—"Many, and from all quarters of this world,The guests I now have known frequent our house,For whom I spread the banquet; but than this,Never a worse one did I yet receiveAt the hearth here! One who seeing, first of all,The master's sorrow, entered gate the same,And had the hardihood to house himself.Did things stop there! But, modest by no means,He took what entertainment lay to hand,Knowing of our misfortune,—did we failIn aught of the fit service, urged us serveJust as a guest expects! And in his handsTaking the ivied goblet, drinks and drinksThe unmixed product of black mother-earth,Until the blaze o' the wine went round aboutAnd warmed him: then he crowns with myrtle sprigsHis head, and howls discordance—twofold layWas thereupon for us to listen to—This fellow singing, namely, nor restrainedA jot by sympathy with sorrows here—While we o' the household mourned our mistress—mourned,That is to say, in silence—never showedThe eyes, which we kept wetting, to the guest—For there Admetos was imperative.And so, here am I helping make at homeA guest, some fellow ripe for wickedness,Robber or pirate, while she goes her wayOut of our house: and neither was it mineTo follow in procession, nor stretch forthHand, wave my lady dear a last farewell,Lamenting who to me and all of usDomestics was a mother: myriad harmsShe used to ward away from every one,And mollify her husband's ireful mood.I ask then, do I justly hate or noThis guest, this interloper on our grief?"

"Many the guests,"—so he soliloquized

In musings burdensome to breast before,

When it seemed not too prudent tongue should wag,—

"Many, and from all quarters of this world,

The guests I now have known frequent our house,

For whom I spread the banquet; but than this,

Never a worse one did I yet receive

At the hearth here! One who seeing, first of all,

The master's sorrow, entered gate the same,

And had the hardihood to house himself.

Did things stop there! But, modest by no means,

He took what entertainment lay to hand,

Knowing of our misfortune,—did we fail

In aught of the fit service, urged us serve

Just as a guest expects! And in his hands

Taking the ivied goblet, drinks and drinks

The unmixed product of black mother-earth,

Until the blaze o' the wine went round about

And warmed him: then he crowns with myrtle sprigs

His head, and howls discordance—twofold lay

Was thereupon for us to listen to—

This fellow singing, namely, nor restrained

A jot by sympathy with sorrows here—

While we o' the household mourned our mistress—mourned,

That is to say, in silence—never showed

The eyes, which we kept wetting, to the guest—

For there Admetos was imperative.

And so, here am I helping make at home

A guest, some fellow ripe for wickedness,

Robber or pirate, while she goes her way

Out of our house: and neither was it mine

To follow in procession, nor stretch forth

Hand, wave my lady dear a last farewell,

Lamenting who to me and all of us

Domestics was a mother: myriad harms

She used to ward away from every one,

And mollify her husband's ireful mood.

I ask then, do I justly hate or no

This guest, this interloper on our grief?"

"Hate him and justly!" Here 's the proper judgeOf what is due to the house from Herakles!This man of much experience saw the firstO' the feeble duckings-down at destiny,When King Admetos went his rounds, poor soul,A-begging somebody to be so braveAs die for one afraid to die himself—"Thou, friend? Thou, love? Father or mother, then!None of you? What, Alkestis must Death catch?O best of wives, one woman in the world!But nowise droop: our prayers may still assist:Let us try sacrifice; if those availNothing and Gods avert their countenance,Why, deep and durable our grief will be!"Whereat the house, this worthy at its head,Re-echoed "deep and durable our grief!"This sage, who justly hated Herakles,Did he suggest once "Rather I than she!"Admonish the Turannos—"Be a man!Bear thine own burden, never think to thrustThy fate upon another and thy wife!It were a dubious gain could death be doomedThat other, and no passionatest pleaOf thine, to die instead, have force with fate;Seeing thou lov'st Alkestis: what were lifeUnlighted by the loved one? But to live—Not merely live unsolaced by some thought,Some word so poor—yet solace all the same—As 'Thou i' the sepulchre, Alkestis, say!Would I, or would not I, to save thy life,Die, and die on, and die forevermore?'No! but to read red-written up and downThe world 'This is the sunshine, this the shade,This is some pleasure of earth, sky or sea,Due to that other, dead that thou mayst live!'Such were a covetable gain to thee?Go die, fool, and be happy while 't is time!"One word of counsel in this kind, methinks,Had fallen to better purpose than Ai, ai,Pheu, pheu, e, papai, and a pother of praiseO' the best, best, best one! Nothing was to hateIn King Admetos, Pheres, and the restO' the household down to his heroic self!This was the one thing hateful: HeraklesHad flung into the presence, frank and free,Out from the labor into the repose,Ere out again and over head and earsI' the heart of labor, all for love of men:Making the most o' the minute, that the soulAnd body, strained to height a minute since,Might lie relaxed in joy, this breathing-space,For man's sake more than ever; till the bow,Restrung o' the sudden, at first cry for help,Should send some unimaginable shaftTrue to the aim and shatteringly throughThe plate-mail of a monster, save man so.He slew the pest o' the marish yesterday:To-morrow he would bit the flame-breathed studThat fed on man's-flesh: and this day between—Because he held it natural to die,And fruitless to lament a thing past cure,So, took his fill of food, wine, song and flowers,Till the new labor claimed him soon enough,—"Hate him and justly!"True, Charopé mine!The man surmised not Herakles lay hidI' the guest; or, knowing it, was ignorantThat still his lady lived—for Herakles;Or else judged lightness needs must indicateThis or the other caitiff quality:And therefore—had been right if not so wrong!For who expects the sort of him will scratchA nail's depth, scrape the surface just to seeWhat peradventure underlies the same?

"Hate him and justly!" Here 's the proper judge

Of what is due to the house from Herakles!

This man of much experience saw the first

O' the feeble duckings-down at destiny,

When King Admetos went his rounds, poor soul,

A-begging somebody to be so brave

As die for one afraid to die himself—

"Thou, friend? Thou, love? Father or mother, then!

None of you? What, Alkestis must Death catch?

O best of wives, one woman in the world!

But nowise droop: our prayers may still assist:

Let us try sacrifice; if those avail

Nothing and Gods avert their countenance,

Why, deep and durable our grief will be!"

Whereat the house, this worthy at its head,

Re-echoed "deep and durable our grief!"

This sage, who justly hated Herakles,

Did he suggest once "Rather I than she!"

Admonish the Turannos—"Be a man!

Bear thine own burden, never think to thrust

Thy fate upon another and thy wife!

It were a dubious gain could death be doomed

That other, and no passionatest plea

Of thine, to die instead, have force with fate;

Seeing thou lov'st Alkestis: what were life

Unlighted by the loved one? But to live—

Not merely live unsolaced by some thought,

Some word so poor—yet solace all the same—

As 'Thou i' the sepulchre, Alkestis, say!

Would I, or would not I, to save thy life,

Die, and die on, and die forevermore?'

No! but to read red-written up and down

The world 'This is the sunshine, this the shade,

This is some pleasure of earth, sky or sea,

Due to that other, dead that thou mayst live!'

Such were a covetable gain to thee?

Go die, fool, and be happy while 't is time!"

One word of counsel in this kind, methinks,

Had fallen to better purpose than Ai, ai,

Pheu, pheu, e, papai, and a pother of praise

O' the best, best, best one! Nothing was to hate

In King Admetos, Pheres, and the rest

O' the household down to his heroic self!

This was the one thing hateful: Herakles

Had flung into the presence, frank and free,

Out from the labor into the repose,

Ere out again and over head and ears

I' the heart of labor, all for love of men:

Making the most o' the minute, that the soul

And body, strained to height a minute since,

Might lie relaxed in joy, this breathing-space,

For man's sake more than ever; till the bow,

Restrung o' the sudden, at first cry for help,

Should send some unimaginable shaft

True to the aim and shatteringly through

The plate-mail of a monster, save man so.

He slew the pest o' the marish yesterday:

To-morrow he would bit the flame-breathed stud

That fed on man's-flesh: and this day between—

Because he held it natural to die,

And fruitless to lament a thing past cure,

So, took his fill of food, wine, song and flowers,

Till the new labor claimed him soon enough,—

"Hate him and justly!"

True, Charopé mine!

The man surmised not Herakles lay hid

I' the guest; or, knowing it, was ignorant

That still his lady lived—for Herakles;

Or else judged lightness needs must indicate

This or the other caitiff quality:

And therefore—had been right if not so wrong!

For who expects the sort of him will scratch

A nail's depth, scrape the surface just to see

What peradventure underlies the same?

So, he stood petting up his puny hate,Parent-wise, proud of the ill-favored babe.Not long! A great hand, careful lest it crush,Startled him on the shoulder: up he stared,And over him, who stood but Herakles!There smiled the mighty presence, all one smileAnd no touch more of the world-weary God,Through the brief respite. Just a garland's graceAbout the brow, a song to satisfyHead, heart and breast, and trumpet-lips at once,A solemn draught of true religious wine,And—how should I know?—half a mountain-goatTom up and swallowed down,—the feast was fierceBut brief: all cares and pains took wing and flew,Leaving the hero ready to beginAnd help mankind, whatever woe came next,Even though what came next should be naught moreThan the mean querulous mouth o' the man, remarkedPursing its grievance up till patience failedAnd the sage needs must rush out, as we saw,To sulk outside and pet his hate in peace.By no means would the Helper have it so:He who was just about to handle brutesIn Thrace, and bit the jaws which breathed the flame,—Well, if a good laugh and a jovial wordCould bridle age which blew bad humors forth,That were a kind of help, too!"Thou, there!" hailedThis grand benevolence the ungracious one—"Why look'st so solemn and so thought-absorbed?To guests a servant should not sour-faced be,But do the honors with a mind urbane.While thou, contrariwise, beholding hereArrive thy master's comrade, hast for himA churlish visage, all one beetle-brow—Having regard to grief that's out-of-door!Come hither, and so get to grow more wise!Things mortal—know'st the nature that they have?No, I imagine! whence could knowledge spring?Give ear to me, then! For all flesh to die,Is Nature's due; nor is there any oneOf mortals with assurance he shall lastThe coming morrow: for, what 's born of chanceInvisibly proceeds the way it will,Not to be learned, no fortune-teller's prize.This, therefore, having heard and known through me,Gladden thyself! Drink! Count the day-by-dayExistence thine, and all the other—chance!Ay, and pay homage also to by farThe sweetest of divinities for man,Kupris! Benignant Goddess will she prove!But as for aught else, leave and let things be!And trust my counsel, if I seem to speakTo purpose—as I do, apparently.Wilt not thou, then,—discarding overmuchMournfulness, do away with this shut door,Come drink along with me, be-garlandedThis fashion? Do so, and—I well know what—From this stern mood, this shrunk-up state of mind,The pit-pat fall o' the flagon-juice down throat,Soon will dislodge thee from bad harborage!Men being mortal should think mortal-like:Since to your solemn, brow-contracting sort,All of them,—so I lay down law at least,—Life is not truly life but misery."

So, he stood petting up his puny hate,

Parent-wise, proud of the ill-favored babe.

Not long! A great hand, careful lest it crush,

Startled him on the shoulder: up he stared,

And over him, who stood but Herakles!

There smiled the mighty presence, all one smile

And no touch more of the world-weary God,

Through the brief respite. Just a garland's grace

About the brow, a song to satisfy

Head, heart and breast, and trumpet-lips at once,

A solemn draught of true religious wine,

And—how should I know?—half a mountain-goat

Tom up and swallowed down,—the feast was fierce

But brief: all cares and pains took wing and flew,

Leaving the hero ready to begin

And help mankind, whatever woe came next,

Even though what came next should be naught more

Than the mean querulous mouth o' the man, remarked

Pursing its grievance up till patience failed

And the sage needs must rush out, as we saw,

To sulk outside and pet his hate in peace.

By no means would the Helper have it so:

He who was just about to handle brutes

In Thrace, and bit the jaws which breathed the flame,—

Well, if a good laugh and a jovial word

Could bridle age which blew bad humors forth,

That were a kind of help, too!

"Thou, there!" hailed

This grand benevolence the ungracious one—

"Why look'st so solemn and so thought-absorbed?

To guests a servant should not sour-faced be,

But do the honors with a mind urbane.

While thou, contrariwise, beholding here

Arrive thy master's comrade, hast for him

A churlish visage, all one beetle-brow—

Having regard to grief that's out-of-door!

Come hither, and so get to grow more wise!

Things mortal—know'st the nature that they have?

No, I imagine! whence could knowledge spring?

Give ear to me, then! For all flesh to die,

Is Nature's due; nor is there any one

Of mortals with assurance he shall last

The coming morrow: for, what 's born of chance

Invisibly proceeds the way it will,

Not to be learned, no fortune-teller's prize.

This, therefore, having heard and known through me,

Gladden thyself! Drink! Count the day-by-day

Existence thine, and all the other—chance!

Ay, and pay homage also to by far

The sweetest of divinities for man,

Kupris! Benignant Goddess will she prove!

But as for aught else, leave and let things be!

And trust my counsel, if I seem to speak

To purpose—as I do, apparently.

Wilt not thou, then,—discarding overmuch

Mournfulness, do away with this shut door,

Come drink along with me, be-garlanded

This fashion? Do so, and—I well know what—

From this stern mood, this shrunk-up state of mind,

The pit-pat fall o' the flagon-juice down throat,

Soon will dislodge thee from bad harborage!

Men being mortal should think mortal-like:

Since to your solemn, brow-contracting sort,

All of them,—so I lay down law at least,—

Life is not truly life but misery."

Whereto the man with softened surliness:"We know as much: but deal with matters, now,Hardly befitting mirth and revelry."

Whereto the man with softened surliness:

"We know as much: but deal with matters, now,

Hardly befitting mirth and revelry."

"No intimate, this woman that is dead:Mourn not too much! For, those o' the house itself,Thy masters live, remember!"

"No intimate, this woman that is dead:

Mourn not too much! For, those o' the house itself,

Thy masters live, remember!"

"Live indeed?Ah, thou know'st naught o' the woe within these walls!"

"Live indeed?

Ah, thou know'st naught o' the woe within these walls!"

"I do—unless thy master spoke me falseSomehow!""Ay, ay, too much he loves a guest,Too much, that master mine!" so muttered he.

"I do—unless thy master spoke me false

Somehow!"

"Ay, ay, too much he loves a guest,

Too much, that master mine!" so muttered he.

"Was it improper he should treat me well,Because an alien corpse was in the way?"

"Was it improper he should treat me well,

Because an alien corpse was in the way?"

"No alien, but most intimate indeed!"

"Can it be, some woe was, he told me not?"

"Farewell and go thy way! Thy cares for thee—To us, our master's sorrow is a care."

"Farewell and go thy way! Thy cares for thee—

To us, our master's sorrow is a care."

"This word begins no tale of alien woe!"

"Had it been other woe than intimate,I could have seen thee feast, nor felt amiss."

"Had it been other woe than intimate,

I could have seen thee feast, nor felt amiss."

"What! have I suffered strangely from my host?"

"Thou cam'st not at a fit reception-time:With sorrow here beforehand: and thou seestShorn hair, black robes.""But who is it that 's dead?Some child gone? or the aged sire perhaps?"

"Thou cam'st not at a fit reception-time:

With sorrow here beforehand: and thou seest

Shorn hair, black robes."

"But who is it that 's dead?

Some child gone? or the aged sire perhaps?"

"Admetos' wife, then! she has perished, guest!"

"How sayest? And did ye house me, all the same?"

"Ay: for he had thee in that reverenceHe dared not turn thee from his door away!"

"Ay: for he had thee in that reverence

He dared not turn thee from his door away!"

"O hapless, and bereft of what a mate!"

"All of us now are dead, not she alone!"

"But I divined it! seeing, as I did,His eye that ran with tears, his close-clipt hair,His countenance! Though he persuaded me,Saying it was a stranger's funeralHe went with to the grave: against my wish,He forced on me that I should enter doors,Drink in the hall o' the hospitable manCircumstanced so! And do I revel yetWith wreath on head? But—thou to hold thy peace,Nor me what a woe oppressed my friend!Where is he gone to bury her? Where am ITo go and find her?""By the road that leadsStraight to Larissa, thou wilt see the tomb,Out of the suburb, a carved sepulchre."

"But I divined it! seeing, as I did,

His eye that ran with tears, his close-clipt hair,

His countenance! Though he persuaded me,

Saying it was a stranger's funeral

He went with to the grave: against my wish,

He forced on me that I should enter doors,

Drink in the hall o' the hospitable man

Circumstanced so! And do I revel yet

With wreath on head? But—thou to hold thy peace,

Nor me what a woe oppressed my friend!

Where is he gone to bury her? Where am I

To go and find her?"

"By the road that leads

Straight to Larissa, thou wilt see the tomb,

Out of the suburb, a carved sepulchre."

So said he, and therewith dismissed himselfInside to his lamenting: somewhat soothed,However, that he had adroitly spoiltThe mirth of the great creature: oh, he markedThe movement of the mouth, how lip pressed lip,And either eye forgot to shine, as, fast,He plucked the chaplet from his forehead, dashedThe myrtle-sprays down, trod them underfoot!And all the joy and wonder of the wineWithered away, like fire from off a brandThe wind blows over—beacon though it be,Whose merry ardor only meant to makeSomebody all the better for its blaze,And save lost people in the dark: quenched now!

So said he, and therewith dismissed himself

Inside to his lamenting: somewhat soothed,

However, that he had adroitly spoilt

The mirth of the great creature: oh, he marked

The movement of the mouth, how lip pressed lip,

And either eye forgot to shine, as, fast,

He plucked the chaplet from his forehead, dashed

The myrtle-sprays down, trod them underfoot!

And all the joy and wonder of the wine

Withered away, like fire from off a brand

The wind blows over—beacon though it be,

Whose merry ardor only meant to make

Somebody all the better for its blaze,

And save lost people in the dark: quenched now!

Not long quenched! As the flame, just hurried offThe brand's edge, suddenly renews its bite,Tasting some richness caked i' the core o' the tree,—Pine, with a blood that 's oil,—and triumphs upPillar-wise to the sky and saves the world:So, in a spasm and splendor of resolve,All at once did the God surmount the man.

Not long quenched! As the flame, just hurried off

The brand's edge, suddenly renews its bite,

Tasting some richness caked i' the core o' the tree,—

Pine, with a blood that 's oil,—and triumphs up

Pillar-wise to the sky and saves the world:

So, in a spasm and splendor of resolve,

All at once did the God surmount the man.

"O much-enduring heart and hand of mine!Now show what sort of son she bore to Zeus,That daughter of Elektruon, Tiruns' child,Alkmené! for that son must needs save nowThe just-dead lady: ay, establish hereI' the house again Alkestis, bring aboutComfort and succor to Admetos so!I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stoledKing of the corpses! I shall find him, sure,Drinking, beside the tomb, o' the sacrifice:And if I lie in ambuscade, and leapOut of my lair, and seize—encircle himTill one hand join the other round about—There lives not who shall pull him out from me,Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go!But even say I miss the booty,—say,Death comes not to the boltered blood,—why then,Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-placeOf Koré and the king there,—make demand,Confident I shall bring Alkestis back,So as to put her in the hands of himMy host, that housed me, never drove me off:Though stricken with sore sorrow, hid the stroke,Being a noble heart and honoring me!Who of Thessalians, more than this man, lovesThe stranger? Who, that now inhabits Greece?Wherefore he shall not say the man was vileWhom he befriended,—native noble heart!"

"O much-enduring heart and hand of mine!

Now show what sort of son she bore to Zeus,

That daughter of Elektruon, Tiruns' child,

Alkmené! for that son must needs save now

The just-dead lady: ay, establish here

I' the house again Alkestis, bring about

Comfort and succor to Admetos so!

I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stoled

King of the corpses! I shall find him, sure,

Drinking, beside the tomb, o' the sacrifice:

And if I lie in ambuscade, and leap

Out of my lair, and seize—encircle him

Till one hand join the other round about—

There lives not who shall pull him out from me,

Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go!

But even say I miss the booty,—say,

Death comes not to the boltered blood,—why then,

Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-place

Of Koré and the king there,—make demand,

Confident I shall bring Alkestis back,

So as to put her in the hands of him

My host, that housed me, never drove me off:

Though stricken with sore sorrow, hid the stroke,

Being a noble heart and honoring me!

Who of Thessalians, more than this man, loves

The stranger? Who, that now inhabits Greece?

Wherefore he shall not say the man was vile

Whom he befriended,—native noble heart!"

So, one look upward, as if Zeus might laughApproval of his human progeny,—One summons of the whole magnific frame,Each sinew to its service,—up he caught,And over shoulder cast, the lion-shag,Let the club go,—for had he not those hands?And so went striding off, on that straight wayLeads to Larissa and the suburb tomb.Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world!I think this is the authentic sign and sealOf Godship, that it ever waxes glad,And more glad, until gladness blossoms, burstsInto a rage to suffer for mankind,And recommence at sorrow: drops like seedAfter the blossom, ultimate of all.Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun?Surely it has no other end and aimThan to drop, once more die into the ground,Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there:And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy,More joy and most joy,—do man good again.

So, one look upward, as if Zeus might laugh

Approval of his human progeny,—

One summons of the whole magnific frame,

Each sinew to its service,—up he caught,

And over shoulder cast, the lion-shag,

Let the club go,—for had he not those hands?

And so went striding off, on that straight way

Leads to Larissa and the suburb tomb.

Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world!

I think this is the authentic sign and seal

Of Godship, that it ever waxes glad,

And more glad, until gladness blossoms, bursts

Into a rage to suffer for mankind,

And recommence at sorrow: drops like seed

After the blossom, ultimate of all.

Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun?

Surely it has no other end and aim

Than to drop, once more die into the ground,

Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there:

And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy,

More joy and most joy,—do man good again.

So, to the struggle off strode Herakles.When silence closed behind the lion-garb,Back came our dull fact settling in its place,Though heartiness and passion half-dispersedThe inevitable fate. And presentlyIn came the mourners from the funeral,One after one, until we hoped the lastWould be Alkestis and so end our dream.Could they have really left Alkestis loneI' the wayside sepulchre! Home, all save she!And when Admetos felt that it was so,By the stand-still: when he lifted head and faceFrom the two hiding hands and peplos' fold,And looked forth, knew the palace, knew the hills,Knew the plains, knew the friendly frequence there,And no Alkestis any more again,Why, the whole woe billow-like broke on him.

So, to the struggle off strode Herakles.

When silence closed behind the lion-garb,

Back came our dull fact settling in its place,

Though heartiness and passion half-dispersed

The inevitable fate. And presently

In came the mourners from the funeral,

One after one, until we hoped the last

Would be Alkestis and so end our dream.

Could they have really left Alkestis lone

I' the wayside sepulchre! Home, all save she!

And when Admetos felt that it was so,

By the stand-still: when he lifted head and face

From the two hiding hands and peplos' fold,

And looked forth, knew the palace, knew the hills,

Knew the plains, knew the friendly frequence there,

And no Alkestis any more again,

Why, the whole woe billow-like broke on him.

"O hateful entry, hateful countenanceO' the widowed halls!"—he moaned. "What was to be?Go there? Stay here? Speak, not speak? All was nowMad and impossible alike; one wayAnd only one was sane and safe—to die:Now he was made aware how dear is death,How lovable the dead are, how the heartYearns in us to go hide where they repose,When we find sunbeams do no good to see,Nor earth rests rightly where our footsteps fall.His wife had been to him the very pledge,Sun should be sun, earth—earth; the pledge was robbed,Pact broken, and the world was left no world."He stared at the impossible, mad life:Stood, while they urged "Advance—advance! Go deepInto the utter dark, thy palace-core!"They tried what they called comfort, "touched the quickOf the ulceration in his soul," he said,With memories,—"once thy joy was thus and thus!"True comfort were to let him fling himselfInto the hollow grave o' the tomb, and soLet him lie dead along with all he loved.

"O hateful entry, hateful countenance

O' the widowed halls!"—he moaned. "What was to be?

Go there? Stay here? Speak, not speak? All was now

Mad and impossible alike; one way

And only one was sane and safe—to die:

Now he was made aware how dear is death,

How lovable the dead are, how the heart

Yearns in us to go hide where they repose,

When we find sunbeams do no good to see,

Nor earth rests rightly where our footsteps fall.

His wife had been to him the very pledge,

Sun should be sun, earth—earth; the pledge was robbed,

Pact broken, and the world was left no world."

He stared at the impossible, mad life:

Stood, while they urged "Advance—advance! Go deep

Into the utter dark, thy palace-core!"

They tried what they called comfort, "touched the quick

Of the ulceration in his soul," he said,

With memories,—"once thy joy was thus and thus!"

True comfort were to let him fling himself

Into the hollow grave o' the tomb, and so

Let him lie dead along with all he loved.

One bade him note that his own familyBoasted a certain father whose sole son,Worthy bewailment, died: and yet the sireBore stoutly up against the blow and lived;For all that he was childless now, and proneAlready to gray hairs, far on in life.Could such a good example miss effect?Why fix foot, stand so, staring at the house,Why not go in, as that wise kinsman would?

One bade him note that his own family

Boasted a certain father whose sole son,

Worthy bewailment, died: and yet the sire

Bore stoutly up against the blow and lived;

For all that he was childless now, and prone

Already to gray hairs, far on in life.

Could such a good example miss effect?

Why fix foot, stand so, staring at the house,

Why not go in, as that wise kinsman would?

"Oh that arrangement of the house I know!How can I enter, how inhabit theeNow that one cast of fortune changes all?Oh me, for much divides the then from now!Then—with those pine-tree torches, Pelian pompAnd marriage-hymns, I entered, holding highThe hand of my dear wife; while many-voicedThe revelry that followed me and herThat 's dead now,—friends felicitating both,As who were lofty-lineaged, each of usBorn of the best, two wedded and made one;Now—wail is wedding-chant's antagonist,And, for white peplos, stoles in sable stateHerald my way to the deserted couch!"

"Oh that arrangement of the house I know!

How can I enter, how inhabit thee

Now that one cast of fortune changes all?

Oh me, for much divides the then from now!

Then—with those pine-tree torches, Pelian pomp

And marriage-hymns, I entered, holding high

The hand of my dear wife; while many-voiced

The revelry that followed me and her

That 's dead now,—friends felicitating both,

As who were lofty-lineaged, each of us

Born of the best, two wedded and made one;

Now—wail is wedding-chant's antagonist,

And, for white peplos, stoles in sable state

Herald my way to the deserted couch!"

The one word more they ventured was, "This griefBefell thee witless of what sorrow means,Close after prosperous fortune: but, reflect!Thou hast saved soul and body. Dead, thy wife—Living, the love she left. What 's novel here?Many the man, from whom Death long agoLoosed the life-partner!"Then Admetos spoke:Turned on the comfort, with no tears, this time.He was beginning to be like his wife.I told you of that pressure to the point,Word slow pursuing word in monotone,Alkestis spoke with; so Admetos, now,Solemnly bore the burden of the truth.And as the voice of him grew, gathered strength,And groaned on, and persisted to the end,We felt how deep had been descent in grief,And with what change he came up now to light,And left behind such littleness as tears.

The one word more they ventured was, "This grief

Befell thee witless of what sorrow means,

Close after prosperous fortune: but, reflect!

Thou hast saved soul and body. Dead, thy wife—

Living, the love she left. What 's novel here?

Many the man, from whom Death long ago

Loosed the life-partner!"

Then Admetos spoke:

Turned on the comfort, with no tears, this time.

He was beginning to be like his wife.

I told you of that pressure to the point,

Word slow pursuing word in monotone,

Alkestis spoke with; so Admetos, now,

Solemnly bore the burden of the truth.

And as the voice of him grew, gathered strength,

And groaned on, and persisted to the end,

We felt how deep had been descent in grief,

And with what change he came up now to light,

And left behind such littleness as tears.

"Friends, I account the fortune of my wifeHappier than mine, though it seem otherwise:For, her indeed no grief will ever touch,And she from many a labor pauses now,Renowned one! Whereas I, who ought not live,But do live, by evading destiny,Sad life am I to lead, I learn at last!For how shall I bear going in-doors here?Accosting whom? By whom saluted back,Shall I have joyous entry? Whither turn?Inside, the solitude will drive me forth,When I behold the empty bed—my wife's—The seat she used to sit upon, the floorUnsprinkled as when dwellers loved the cool,The children that will clasp my knees about,Cry for their mother back: these servants tooMoaning for what a guardian they have lost!Inside my house such circumstance awaits,Outside,—Thessalian people's marriage-feastsAnd gatherings for talk will harass me,With overflow of women everywhere;It is impossible I look on them—Familiars of my wife and just her age!And then, whoever is a foe of mine,And lights on me—why, this will be his word—'See there! alive ignobly, there he skulksThat played the dastard when it came to die,And, giving her he wedded, in exchange,Kept himself out of Hades safe and sound,The coward! Do you call that creature—man?He hates his parents for declining death,Just as if he himself would gladly die!'This sort of reputation shall I have,Beside the other ills enough in store.Ill-famed, ill-faring,—what advantage, friends,Do you perceive I gain by life for death?"

"Friends, I account the fortune of my wife

Happier than mine, though it seem otherwise:

For, her indeed no grief will ever touch,

And she from many a labor pauses now,

Renowned one! Whereas I, who ought not live,

But do live, by evading destiny,

Sad life am I to lead, I learn at last!

For how shall I bear going in-doors here?

Accosting whom? By whom saluted back,

Shall I have joyous entry? Whither turn?

Inside, the solitude will drive me forth,

When I behold the empty bed—my wife's—

The seat she used to sit upon, the floor

Unsprinkled as when dwellers loved the cool,

The children that will clasp my knees about,

Cry for their mother back: these servants too

Moaning for what a guardian they have lost!

Inside my house such circumstance awaits,

Outside,—Thessalian people's marriage-feasts

And gatherings for talk will harass me,

With overflow of women everywhere;

It is impossible I look on them—

Familiars of my wife and just her age!

And then, whoever is a foe of mine,

And lights on me—why, this will be his word—

'See there! alive ignobly, there he skulks

That played the dastard when it came to die,

And, giving her he wedded, in exchange,

Kept himself out of Hades safe and sound,

The coward! Do you call that creature—man?

He hates his parents for declining death,

Just as if he himself would gladly die!'

This sort of reputation shall I have,

Beside the other ills enough in store.

Ill-famed, ill-faring,—what advantage, friends,

Do you perceive I gain by life for death?"

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