Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/35

Rh Here bears his son unto the funeral flames; And there the mother lays her dead child down, And hastes to bring another to the pyre. Nay, in the midst of grief a new woe springs; For, while they minister unto the dead, Themselves need funeral rites. Anon they burn With others' fires the bodies of their friends. The fire is stol'n, for in their wretchedness No shame remains. No separate tombs receive The hallowed bones; mere burning is enough. How small a covering their ashes need! And yet the land does not suffice for all; And now the very woods have failed the pyre. Nor prayers nor skill avail to serve the sick, For even they who own the healing art Are smitten down. The baleful pestilence Removes the check that would restrain its force. So, prostrate at the altar, do I fall And, stretching suppliant hands, I pray the gods To grant a speedy end; that in my death I may anticipate my falling throne, Nor be myself the last of all to die, The sole surviving remnant of my realm. O gods of heaven, too hard! O heavy fate! Is death to be denied to me alone, So easy for all else? Come, fly the land Thy baleful touch has tainted. Leave thou here The grief, the death, the pestilential air, Which with thyself thou bring'st. Go speed thy flight To any land, e'en to thy parents' realm. Jocasta [who has entered in time to hear her husband's last words]: What boots it, husband, to augment thy woes With lamentations? For I think, indeed, This very thing is regal, to endure Adversity, and all the more to stand. With heart more valiant and with foot more sure, When the weight of empire totters to its fall. For 'tis not manly to present thy back To fortunes's darts.