Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/229

Rh Well trained to curb his horses with the reins. The marks of his left side I recognize; And yet how large a part is lacking still Unto our tears. Be firm, ye trembling hands, To do the last sad offices of grief; Be dry, my cheeks, and stay your flowing tears, While I count o'er the members of my son, And lay his body out for burial. What is this shapeless piece, on all sides torn With many a wound? I know not what it is, Save that 'tis part of thee. Here lay it down. Not in its own, but in an empty place. That face, that once with starry splendor gleamed, That softened by its grace e'en foemen's eyes, Has that bright beauty come to this? O fate, How bitter! Deadly favor of the gods! And is it thus my son comes back to me In answer to my prayers? These final rites Thy father pays, receive, O thou my son, Who often to thy funeral must be borne. And now let fires consume these dear remains. Throw open wide my palace, dark with death, And let all Athens ring with loud laments. Do some of you prepare the royal pyre, And others seek yet farther in the fields His scattered parts. [Pointing to Phaedra's corpse.] Let earth on her be spread, And may it heavy rest upon her head.