_Hyllus:_ O bitter light, O day with evil filled! Dead is the Thunderer's daughter, and his son 1420 Lies dying. I alone of all survive. By my own mother's crime my father dies, But she by guile was snared. What agéd man, Throughout the round of years, in all his life, Will e'er be able to recount such woes? One day has snatched away my parents both. 1425 But though I say naught of my other ills, And cease to blame the fates, still must I say: My sire, the mighty Hercules, is gone. _Alcmena:_ Restrain thy words, child of illustrious sire, And matched with sad Alcmena in her grief; Perchance long slumber will assuage his pain. But see, repose deserts his weary heart, 1430 And gives him back to suffering, me to grief. _Hercules_ [_awakening in delirium_]: Why, what is this? Do I with waking eyes See little Trachin on her craggy seat, Or, set amongst the stars, have I at length Escaped the race of men? Who opes for me The gate of heaven? Thee, father, now I see, 1435 Thee, and my stepdame too at last appeased. What heavenly sound is this that fills my ears? Great Juno calls me son! Now I behold The gleaming palace of the heavenly world, And Phoebus' path worn by his burning wheels. [_Beginning to come out of his delirium._] I see night's couch; her shadows call me hence. 1440 But what is this? who shuts me out of heaven, And from the stars, O father, leads me down? I felt the glow of Phoebus on my face, So near to heaven was I; but now, alas, 'Tis Trachin that I see. Oh, who to earth Has given me back again? A moment since, 1445 And Oeta's lofty peak stood far below, And all the world was lying at my feet. How sweet the respite that I had from thee, O grief. Thou mak'st me to confess--but stay, Let not such shameful words escape thy lips. [_To_ Hyllus.] This woe, my son, is of thy mother's gift. Oh, that I might crush out her guilty life With my great club, as once the Amazons 1450 I smote upon the snowy Caucasus. O well-loved Megara, to think that thou Wast wife of mine when in that fit I fell Of maddened rage! Give me my club and bow; Let my hand be disgraced, and with a blot Let me destroy the luster of my praise-- My latest conquest on a woman gained! 1455 _Hyllus:_ Now curb the dreadful threatenings of thy wrath; She has her wound--'tis over--and has paid The penalty which thou wouldst have her pay: For now, self-slain, my mother lies in death.