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Hercules
What hath this body suffered? Oh ! the toils,
The labours I endured, the pangs I felt,
Unutterable woes ! but never aught
So dreadful as this sore calamity.
Oppressed Alcides ! Not the wife of Jove,
Nor vile Enrystliens, could torment me thus,
As, CEneus, thy deceitful daughter hath.
Oh ! 1 am tangled in a cruel net,
Woven by the Fui-ies : it devours my flesh.
Dries up my veins, and drinks the vital blood ;
My body 's withered, and I cannot Ijreak
Th' indissoluble chain. Nor hostile spear.
Nor earth-born giants, nor the savage herd,
The wild Barbarian, or the Grecian host,
Not all the nations I have journeyed o'er
Could do a deed like this. At last I fall,
Like a poor coward, by a woman's hand,
Unarmed and unassisted. O my son !
Now prove thyself the ofi'spring of Alcides ;
Nor let thy reverence of a mother's name
Surpass thy duty to an injured father.
Go, bring her hither, give her to my wrath,
That 1 may see whom thou wilt most lament
When thou beholdst my vengeance fall on her.
Fear not, my son, but go. Have pity on me,
Pity thy father : all must pity me.
Whilst they behold, e'en as the tender maid,
Alcides weep, who never wept before.
I bore my sorrows all without a groan.
But now thou seest I am a very woman.
Come near, my child. Oh ! think what I endure.
For I will show thee. Look on this poor body —
Let all behold it : what a sight is here !
O me ! again the cruel poison tears
My entrails, nor affords a moment's ease.
Oh ! take me, Pluto, to thy gloomy reign ;
Father of lightning, mighty Jove, send down
Thy bolt, and strike me now ! Again it racks,
It tortures me ! O hands ! that once had strength,
And you, my sinewy arms, was it by you
The terrible Nemsean lion fell.
The dreadful hydra, and the lawless race
Of centaurs ? Did this withered hand subdue
The Erymanthian boar — wide-wasting plague !
^nd from the shades of Orcus drag to light
The triple-hen ded monster ? By this arm
Did the fierce guardian of the golden fruit
In Libya's deserts fall ? Unnumbered toils
Have I endured of old, and never yet
Did mortal bear a trophy from Alcides.
But nerveless now this arm— see, from the bone
Darts the loose flesh. I waste beneath the power
Of this dark pestilence. O Hercules !
Why boast thy mother sprung of nobler race,
And vainly call thyself the son of Jove?
But, mark me well : this creeping shadow still,
Poor as it is, shall yet revenge itself
On her who did the execrable deed.
Would she were here to feel my wrath, to know
And teach mankind that Hercules, though dead,
As whilst he lived, can scourge the guilty still !
What hath this body suffered? Oh ! the toils,
The labours I endured, the pangs I felt,
Unutterable woes ! but never aught
So dreadful as this sore calamity.
Oppressed Alcides ! Not the wife of Jove,
Nor vile Enrystliens, could torment me thus,
As, CEneus, thy deceitful daughter hath.
Oh ! 1 am tangled in a cruel net,
Woven by the Fui-ies : it devours my flesh.
Dries up my veins, and drinks the vital blood ;
My body 's withered, and I cannot Ijreak
Th' indissoluble chain. Nor hostile spear.
Nor earth-born giants, nor the savage herd,
The wild Barbarian, or the Grecian host,
Not all the nations I have journeyed o'er
Could do a deed like this. At last I fall,
Like a poor coward, by a woman's hand,
Unarmed and unassisted. O my son !
Now prove thyself the ofi'spring of Alcides ;
Nor let thy reverence of a mother's name
Surpass thy duty to an injured father.
Go, bring her hither, give her to my wrath,
That 1 may see whom thou wilt most lament
When thou beholdst my vengeance fall on her.
Fear not, my son, but go. Have pity on me,
Pity thy father : all must pity me.
Whilst they behold, e'en as the tender maid,
Alcides weep, who never wept before.
I bore my sorrows all without a groan.
But now thou seest I am a very woman.
Come near, my child. Oh ! think what I endure.
For I will show thee. Look on this poor body —
Let all behold it : what a sight is here !
O me ! again the cruel poison tears
My entrails, nor affords a moment's ease.
Oh ! take me, Pluto, to thy gloomy reign ;
Father of lightning, mighty Jove, send down
Thy bolt, and strike me now ! Again it racks,
It tortures me ! O hands ! that once had strength,
And you, my sinewy arms, was it by you
The terrible Nemsean lion fell.
The dreadful hydra, and the lawless race
Of centaurs ? Did this withered hand subdue
The Erymanthian boar — wide-wasting plague !
^nd from the shades of Orcus drag to light
The triple-hen ded monster ? By this arm
Did the fierce guardian of the golden fruit
In Libya's deserts fall ? Unnumbered toils
Have I endured of old, and never yet
Did mortal bear a trophy from Alcides.
But nerveless now this arm— see, from the bone
Darts the loose flesh. I waste beneath the power
Of this dark pestilence. O Hercules !
Why boast thy mother sprung of nobler race,
And vainly call thyself the son of Jove?
But, mark me well : this creeping shadow still,
Poor as it is, shall yet revenge itself
On her who did the execrable deed.
Would she were here to feel my wrath, to know
And teach mankind that Hercules, though dead,
As whilst he lived, can scourge the guilty still !
Trachiniae. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.