Deianira
672
A thing, my friends, hath happen'd far beyond
All thought, and big with wonder. You shall hear.
The soft wool sever'd from the snow-white fleece,
With which I lately ting'd the robe, at once
Wasted and, touch'd by none within the house,
Shrunk self-corroded into dust, and lay
A loose heap on the surface of the stone.
That thou may'st know each circumstance, distinct
Shall my relation be, and giv'n at large.
Whate'er the dying Centaur, 'midst the pangs
Of the keen arrow in his side infix'd,
Gave me in charge, I treasured in my heart,
As characters indelibly engraved
On brazen tablets: his instructions these,
And I obey'd them; from the blazing hearth,
And by the warm beams of the sun untouch'd,
Close-cover'd still to keep this potent charm
Fresh, till occasion should require its use.
I did so: and when now my thought resolved
To put its virtue to the proof, retired
In secret, wool from my domestic stores
I for the purpose took, and tinged the vest;
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Then folded it, and laid it, as you saw,
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In a close chest by the sun's beams untouch'd.
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Again returning I beheld a sight
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No language can express, nor could the thought
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Of man conceive; the wool, wherewith I tinged
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The vest, I chanced to throw where the sun's rays
Beam'd in full force; as it grew warm, it shrunk
And wasted on the ground, like the light dust
Which falls beneath the saw, like this it lay:
But soon the swelling mass in froth arose,
Fermenting like the grape's rich juice, that drops
Pour'd in grey autumn on the earth. My mind Ho
Is troubled, and perplex'd with fears: I see
That I have done some dreadful deed; for whence
This kindness by the dying Centaur shown,
Or why to me, through whom the savage died?
It is not so; but, wishing to destroy
The author of his wound, he filed his tongue
To sooth my ear with glozing courtesy.
This I too late perceive, for now to know
Avails not: I alone, ah wretched me!
(If with false fears my soul is not deceived)
Have wrought his ruin: well I know the shaft
That gave the wound; e'en Chiron the divine
Fell by its fatal point; to every beast
Its touch is death; and the black poison, mix'd
With the vile Centaur's blood, shall now destroy
My lord too. Such my fears. But should he die,
Fix'd is the purpose of my soul, with him
I too will die: for who could bear to live
With infamy, that has a sense of shame,
And a base nature holds in high disdain?
Trachiniae. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.