And cries and wild embracings of the dead, Groaned forth that he had slain her with false breath Of evil accusation, and was left Orphaned of both, his mother and his sire. Such is the state within. What fool is he That counts one day, or two, or more to come? To-morrow is not, till the present day In fair prosperity have passed away. [_Exit_ CHORUS. Which shall come first in my wail, I 1 Which shall be last to prevail, Is a doubt that will never be done. Trouble at home may be seen, I 2 Trouble is looked for with teen; And to have and to look for are one. Would some fair wind II 1 But waft me forth to roam Far from the native region of my home, Ere death me find, oppressed with wild affright Even at the sudden sight Of him, the valiant son of Zeus most High! Before the house, they tell, he fareth nigh, A wonder beyond thought, With torment unapproachable distraught. Hark! ... II 2 The cause then of my cry Was coming all too nigh: (Doth the clear nightingale lament for nought?) Some step of stranger folk is this way brought. As for a friend they love Heavy and slow with noiseless feet they move. Which way? which way? Ah me! behold him come. His pallid lips are dumb. Dead, or at rest in sleep? What shall I say? [HERACLES _is brought in on a litter, accompanied by_ HYLLUS _and an_ Old Man HYL. Oh, woe is me! My father, piteous woe for thee! Oh, whither shall I turn my thought! Ah me! OLD M. Hush! speak not, O my child, Lest torment fierce and wild Rekindle in thy father's rugged breast, And break this rest Where now his life is held at point to fall. With firm lips clenched refrain thy voice through all. HYL. Yet tell me, doth he live, Old sir? OLD M. Wake not the slumberer, Nor kindle and revive The terrible recurrent power of pain, My son! HYL. My foolish words are done, But my full heart sinks 'neath the heavy strain. HERACLES. O Father, who are these? What countrymen? Where am I? What far land Holds me in pain that ceaseth not? Ah me! Again that pest is rending me. Pain, pain! OLD M. Now thou may'st know 'Twas better to have lurked in silent shade And not thus widely throw The slumber from his eyelids and his head. HYL. I could not brook All speechless on his misery to look. MONODY. HER. O altar on the Euboean strand, High-heaped with offerings from my hand, What meed for lavish gifts bestowed From thy new sanctuary hath flowed! Father of Gods! thy cruel power Hath foiled me with an evil blight. Ah! would mine eyes had closed in night Ere madness in a fatal hour Had burst upon them with a blaze, No help or soothing once allays!