Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/277

Rh From Summer's burning zone, inflames my breast? My lungs, once filled with pulsing streams of blood, Are dry and empty now; my liver burns, Its healthy juices parched and dried away; And all my blood is by slow creeping fires Consumed. Destruction on my skin feeds first, Then deep within my flesh it eats its way, Devours my sides, my limbs and breast consumes, Dries up the very marrow of my bones. There in my empty bones the pest remains; Nor can my massive frame for long endure, But even now, with broken, crumbling joints, Begins to fall away. My strength is gone, And e'en the limbs of mighty Hercules Arc not enough to satisfy this pest. Alas, how mighty must that evil be, When I confess it great! Oh, cruel wrong! Now see, ye cities, see what now remains Of famous Hercules. Dost know thy son, O father Jove? Was't with such arms as these That I crushed out the Nemean monster's life? Did this hand stretch that mighty bow of mine Which brought to earth from out the very stars The vile Stymphalian birds? These sluggish feet— Did they outstrip the swiftly fleeing stag, With golden antlers gleaming on his head? Did rocky Calpe, shattered by these hands, Let out the sea? So many monstrous beasts, So many cruel men, so many kings— Did these poor hands of mine destroy them all? Upon these shoulders did the heavens rest? Is this my mighty frame? Is this my neck? Are these the hands which once the tottering skies Upheld? Oh, can it be that ever I The Stygian watchdog dragged into the light? Where are those powers, which ere their proper time Are dead and buried? Why on Jupiter As father do I call? Why, wretched one, Do I lay claim to heaven by right of him?