HYL. Art thou to hear it? On, then, with my tale! When after sacking Eurytus' great city He marched in triumph with first-fruits of war,-- There is a headland, last of long Euboea, Surf-beat Cenaeum,--where to his father Zeus He dedicates high altars and a grove. There first I saw him, gladdened from desire. And when he now addressed him to the work Of various sacrifice, the herald Lichas Arrived from home, bearing thy fatal gift, The deadly robe: wherewith invested straight, As thou hadst given charge, he sacrificed The firstlings of the spoil, twelve bulls entire, Each after each. But the full count he brought Was a clear hundred of all kinds of head. Then the all-hapless one commenced his prayer In solemn gladness for the bright array. But presently, when from the holy things, And from the richness of the oak-tree core, There issued flame mingled with blood, a sweat Rose on his flesh, and close to every limb Clung, like stone-drapery from the craftsman's hand, The garment, glued unto his side. Then came The tearing pangs within his bones, and then The poison feasted like the venomed tooth Of murderous basilisk.--When this began, He shouted on poor Lichas, none to blame For thy sole crime, 'What guile is here, thou knave? What was thy fraud in fetching me this robe?' He, all-unknowing, in an evil hour Declared his message, that the gift was thine. Whereat the hero, while the shooting spasm Had fastened on the lungs, seized him by the foot Where the ankle turns i' the socket, and, with a thought, Hurl'd on a surf-vex'd reef that showed i' the sea: And rained the grey pulp from the hair, the brain Being scattered with the blood. Then the great throng Saddened their festival with piteous wail For one in death and one in agony. And none had courage to approach my sire,-- Convulsed upon the ground, then tossed i' the air With horrid yells and crying, till the cliffs Echoed round, the mountain-promontories Of Locris, and Euboea's rugged shore. Wearied at length with flinging on the earth, And shrieking oft with lamentable cry, Cursing the fatal marriage with thyself The all-wretched, and the bond to Oeneus' house, That prize that was the poisoner of his peace, He lifted a wild glance above the smoke That hung around, and 'midst the crowd of men Saw me in tears, and looked on me and said, 'O son, come near; fly not from my distress, Though thou shouldst be consumed in my death, But lift and bear me forth; and, if thou mayest, Set me where no one of mankind shall see me. But if thy heart withhold thee, yet convey me Out of this land as quickly as ye may. Let me not die where I am now.' We then, Thus urgently commanded, laid him down Within our bark, and hardly to this shore Rowed him convulsed and roaring.--Presently, He will appear, alive or lately dead. Such, mother, is the crime thou hast devised And done against our sire, wherefore let Right And Vengeance punish thee!--May I pray so? I may: for thou absolv'st me by thy deed,