Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/174

156 With fruitless motion tossed. Not yet Has all the fever from his veins Been driven out, but rages on; As waves, by mighty tempests vexed, Toss wildly on and swell with rage, Although the winds have ceased to blow. Oh, calm this tempest in his soul; Let piety and manly strength Return; or, rather, let his mind Be still by mad impulses stirred, And his blind error go the way It has begun. For madness now Alone can make him innocent. To have the hands unstained by guilt Is best, but next to this is sin Done in unconsciousness. Now let thy breast resound with blows, And let those arms which once have borne The heavens up be smitten now By thy victorious hands; thy cries Be heard throughout the realms of air, By her who rules the world of night, And Cerberus crouching in his cave, His neck still burdened with thy chains. Let Chaos with the dolorous sound Re-echo, and the widespread waves Of ocean, and the air above Which had thy darts in better use Beheld. Thy breast, with ills beset So mighty, must with no light blow Be smitten. With one great sound of grief Let heaven, sea, and hell be filled. And thou, brave shaft, above his neck So long suspended, armament And weapon too, thou quiver huge, Smite heavily his savage back. Thou sturdy club of oak, come beat His mighty shoulders, and oppress His breast with thy hard-knotted stock.