Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/315

Rh The whole grove lets its riches down, And flaunts them in his face, soft fruits On drooping boughs, and whets once more His hunger, bidding stretch again His hands—but all in vain. For now, When it has lured him on to hope, And mocked its fill, the boughs recede, And the whole ripe harvest of the wood Is snatched far out of reach. Then comes a raging thirst more fierce Than hunger, which inflames his blood, And with its parching fires burns up Its moisture. There the poor wretch stands, Striving to quaff the nearby waves; But the fleeing waters whirl away, And leave but the empty bed to him Who seeks to follow. Quick he quaffs At that swift stream, but to drink—the dust.

Atreus [in soliloquy]: O soul, so sluggish, spiritless, and weak, And (what in kings I deem the last reproach) Still unavenged, after so many crimes, Thy brother's treacheries, and every law Of nature set at naught, canst vent thy wrath In vain and meaningless complaints? By now The whole wide world should be astir with arms, Thy arms, and on both seas thy ships of war Should swarm; the fields and towns should be ablaze, And gleaming swords should everywhere be seen. Beneath our charging squadrons' thundering tread Let Greece resound; let this my enemy Within no forest's depths a hiding find. No citadel upon the mountain heights Shall shelter him. Let all the citizens, Mycenae leaving, sound the trump of war. Whoe'er grants refuge to that cursed head. Shall die a dreadful death. This noble pile, The home of our illustrious Pelops' line,