Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/452

434 And helping hands. But what avails To escape the grasp of the savage sea? By the sword of the son is she doomed to die, Whose monstrous deed posterity Will scarce believe. With rage and grief Inflamed, he raves that still she lives, His mother, snatched from the wild sea's jaws, And doubles crime on impious crime. Bent on his wretched mother's death, He brooks no tarrying of fate. His willing creatures work his will, And in the hapless woman's breast The fatal sword is plunged; but she To that fell minister of death Appeals with dying tongue: "Nay here, Here rather strike the murderous blow, Here sheathe thy sword, deep in the womb Which such a monster bore." So spake the dying queen, her words And groans commingling. So at last Through gaping wounds her spirit fled In grief and agony.

Seneca [alone]: Why hast thou, potent Fate, with flattering looks, Exalted me, contented with my lot, That so from this great height I might descend With heavier fall, and wider prospect see Of deadly fears? Ah, better was I, hid Far from the stinging lash of envy's tongue, Amid the lonely crags of Corsica. There was my spirit free to act at will, Was master of itself, had time to think And meditate at length each favorite theme. Oh, what delight, than which none greater is, Of all that mother nature hath produced, To watch the heavens, the bright sun's sacred rounds, The heavenly movements and the changing night,