O let him come to-day! II Ne'er may his vessel stay, But glide with feathery sweep of many an oar, Till from his altar by yon island shore Even to our town he wind his prosperous way, In mien returning mild, And inly reconciled, With that anointing in his heart ingrained, Which the dark Centaur's wizard lips ordained. _Enter_ DEANIRA. DE. O how I fear, my friends, lest all too far I have ventured in my action of to-day! CH. What ails thee, Deanira, Oeneus' child? DE. I know not, but am haunted by a dread, Lest quickly I be found to have performed A mighty mischief, through bright hopes betrayed. CH. Thou dost not mean thy gift to Heracles? DE. Indeed I do. Now I perceive how fond Is eagerness, where actions are obscure. CH. Tell, if it may be told, thy cause of fear. DE. A thing is come to pass, which should I tell, Will strike you with strange wonder when you learn. For, O my friends, the stuff wherewith I dressed That robe, a flock of soft and milkwhite wool, Is shrivelled out of sight, not gnawn by tooth Of any creature here, but, self-consumed, Frittered and wasting on the courtyard-stones. To let you know the circumstance at full, I will speak on. Of all the Centaur-Thing, When labouring in his side with the fell point O' the shaft, enjoined me, I had nothing lost, But his vaticination in my heart Remained indelible, as though engraved With pen of iron upon brass. 'Twas thus:-- I was to keep this unguent closely hid In dark recesses, where no heat of fire Or warming ray might reach it, till with fresh Anointing I addressed it to an end. So I had done. And now this was to do, Within my chamber covertly I spread The ointment with piece of wool, a tuft Pulled from a home-bred sheep; and, as ye saw, I folded up my gift and packed it close In hollow casket from the glaring sun. But, entering in, a fact encounters me Past human wit to fathom with surmise. For, as it happened, I had tossed aside The bit of wool I worked with, carelessly, Into the open daylight, 'mid the blaze Of Helios' beam. And, as it kindled warm, It fell away to nothing, crumbled small, Like dust in severing wood by sawyers strewn. So, on the point of vanishing, it lay. But, from the place where it had lain, brake forth A frothy scum in clots of seething foam, Like the rich draught in purple vintage poured From Bacchus' vine upon the thirsty ground. And I, unhappy, know not toward what thought To turn me, but I see mine act is dire. For wherefore should the Centaur, for what end, Show kindness to the cause for whom he died? That cannot be. But seeking to destroy His slayer, he cajoled me. This I learn Too late, by sad experience, for no good. And, if I err not now, my hapless fate Is all alone to be his murderess. For, well I know, the shaft that made the wound Gave pain to Cheiron, who was more than man; And wheresoe'er it falls, it ravageth All the wild creatures of the world. And now