The steeds of Phoebus hurled young Phaëthon Far through the airs of heaven in wandering course. Now far and wide he stains the fields with blood, His head rebounding from the smitten rocks. The bramble thickets pluck away his hair, 1095 And that fair face is bruised upon the stones. His fatal beauty which had been his bane, Is ruined now by many a wound. His limbs Are dragged along upon the flying wheels. At last, his bleeding trunk upon a charred And pointed stake is caught, pierced through the groin; And for a little, by its master held, 1100 The car stood still. The horses by that wound Were held awhile, but soon they break delay-- And break their master too. While on they rush, The whipping branches cut his dying form, The rough and thorny brambles tear his flesh, And every bush retains its part of him. Now bands of servants scour those woeful fields, 1105 Those places where Hippolytus was dragged, And where his bloody trail directs the way; And sorrowing dogs trace out their master's limbs. But not as yet has all this careful toil Of grieving friends sufficed to gather all. 1110 And has it come to this, that glorious form? But now the partner of his father's realm, And his acknowledged heir, illustrious youth, Who shone refulgent like the stars--behold His scattered fragments for the funeral pile They gather up and heap them on the bier! _Theseus:_ O mother Nature, all too potent thou! How firmly dost thou hold me by the ties 1115 Of blood! How thou dost force me to obey Thy will! I wished to slay my guilty son, While yet he lived; but now I mourn his loss. _Messenger:_ One may not rightly mourn what he has willed.[24] _Theseus:_ This is indeed the crowning woe, I think, When chance fulfils the prayers we should not make. 1120 _Messenger:_ If still you hate your son, why weep for him? _Theseus:_ Because I slew, not lost my son, I weep. * * * * *