Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/445

Rh Who, when in life, unto his own true son Preferred the offspring of another's blood, And to himself in most incestuous bonds And rites unhallowed joined his brother's child. From this foul source has flowed a stream of crime: Of murder, treachery, the lust of power, The thirst for blood. Thy promised husband fell, A victim slain to grace that wedding feast, Lest, joined with thee, he should too mighty grow. Oh, monstrous deed! Silanus, charged with crime, Was slain to make a bridal offering, And stained the household gods with guiltless blood. And then this alien comes, Oh, woe is me, And by his mother's wiles usurps the house, Made son-in-law and son to the emperor, A youth of temper most unnatural, To impious crime inclined, whose passion's flame His mother fanned, and forced thee at the last In hated wedlock into his embrace. Emboldened by this notable success, She dared to dream of wider sovereignty. What tongue can tell the changing forms of crime, Her impious hopes, her cozening treacheries, Who seeks the throne along the ways of sin? Then Piety with trembling haste withdrew, And Fury through the empty palace halls With baleful tread resounded, and defiled The sacred images with Stygian brands. All holy laws of nature and of heaven In mad abandon did she set at naught. She mingled deadly poison for her lord, And she herself by the impious mandate fell Of her own son. Thou too dost lifeless lie, Poor youth, forever to be mourned by us, Ill-starred Britannicus, so late, in life, The brightest star of this our firmament, The prop and stay of our imperial house; But now, Oh, woe is me, a heap of dust, Of unsubstantial dust, a flitting shade.