Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/224

206 While yet he lived; but now I mourn his loss. Messenger: One may not rightly mourn what he has willed. Theseus: This is indeed the crowning woe, I think, When chance fulfils the prayers we should not make. Messenger: If still you hate your son, why weep for him? Theseus: Because I slew, not lost my son, I weep.

Chorus: How on the wheel of circumstance We mortals whirl! 'Gainst humble folk Does fate more gently rage, and God More lightly smites the lightly blest. A life in dim retirement spent Insures a peaceful soul; and he Who in a lowly cottage dwells May live to tranquil age at last. The mountain tops that pierce the skies, Feel all the stormy winds that blow, Fierce Eurus, Notus, and the threats Of Boreas, and Corus too, Storm bringer. The vale low lying seldom feels The thunder's stroke; but Caucasus, The huge, and the lofty Phrygian groves Of mother Cybele have felt The bolts of Jove the Thunderer. For Jupiter in jealousy Attacks the heights too near his skies; But never is the humble roof Uptorn by jealous heaven's assaults. Round mighty kings and homes of kings He thunders. The passing hour on doubtful wings Flits ever; nor may any claim Swift Fortune's pledge. Behold our king, Who sees at last the glowing stars And light of day, the gloom of hell Behind him left, a sad return Laments; for this his welcome home He finds more sorrowful by far