Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/160

142 And, that no backward way may be allowed, With many folds it wraps the stream of death; Just as the wandering Maeander sports With waves uncertain, now upon itself Retreats, now halts in hesitation slow, Whether it shall its fountain seek again, Or journey to the sea. Here lies the marsh Of sluggish, vile Cocytus; here, behold, The vulture, there the doleful owl laments, And through the air die fearsome screech-owl sends Its sad, foreboding cry. There stands the yew, Its black leaves shuddering on the gloomy boughs; And 'neath its shelter hover sluggish Sleep, And mournful Famine with her wasting jaws, And Shame, at last her guilty face concealed. Here quaking Fear, and Murder, desperate Grief, Black Mourning, tottering Disease, and War With weapons girded on, lie hid; and last Comes feeble Age upon his staff upheld. Amphitr.: Are there no fruitful fields of corn or wine? Theseus: Not so: no joyful fields with verdure shine, No ripening grain waves gently in the breeze, No stately trees bear apple-laden boughs; But sterile wastes defile those lonely depths, And in eternal sloth the foul earth lies. Here lie the lonesome remnants of the world. The air hangs motionless; and thick night broods Upon a sluggish, horror-stricken land. The place of death is worse than death itself. Amphitr.: And what of him who rules those dusky realms? Where sits he as he rules his shadowy folk? Theseus: There is a place in an obscure recess Of Tartarus, which, with its heavy shades, Dense vapor shrouds. Hence, from a single source, Two different rivers flow: with silent stream One bears along the sacred Stygian waves On which the gods take oath; with mighty roar The other fiercely rolls the rocks along Within its flood, the raging Acheron,