She holds a more restricted course. Send such uncanny light abroad! Fill mortals with a dread unknown; And let our Corinth's priceless bronze Resound, Dictynna, for thy aid! 795 To thee a solemn sacrifice On bloody altar do we pay! To thee, snatched from the mournful tomb, The blazing torch nocturnal burns; On thee I call with tossing head, 800 And many a frantic gesture make; Corpselike upon the bier I lie, My hair with priestly fillet bound; Before thy awful shrine is waved The branch in Stygian waters dipped. And, calling on thy name, with gleaming shoulders bared, 805 Like Bacchus' mad adorers, will I lash my arms With sacrificial knife. Now let my life-blood flow! And let my hands be used to draw the deadly sword, And learn to shed belovéd blood! [_She cuts her arm and lets the blood flow upon the altar._] Behold, self-stricken have I poured the sacrifice! 810 But if too oft upon thy name I call, I pray forgive this importunity! The cause, O Hecate, of all my prayers Is ever Jason; this my constant care. 815 [_To attendants._] Take now Creüsa's bridal robe, and steep in these, My potent drugs; and when she dons the clinging folds, Let subtle flames go stealing through her inmost heart. The fire that in this tawny golden circlet lurks 820 Prometheus gave, who, for his daring heavenly theft In human aid, endured an ever-living death. 'Twas Vulcan showed the fires concealed in sulphur's veins; 825 While from my brother Phaëthon I gained a flame That never dies; I have preserved Chimera's breath, And that fierce heat that parched the fiery, brazen bull Of Colchis. These dread fires commingled with the gall 830 Of dire Medusa have I bidden keep the power Of lurking evil. Now, O Hecate, Give added force to these my deadly gifts. And strictly guard the hidden seeds of flame. Let them deceive the sight, endure the touch; 835 But through her veins let burning fever run; In fervent heat consume her very bones, And let her fiercely blazing locks outshine Her marriage torches! Lo, my prayer is heard: Thrice have replied the hounds of Hecate, 840 And she has shown her baleful, gleaming fires. Now all is ready: hither call my sons, And let them bear these presents to the bride. [_Enter sons._] Go, go, my sons, of hapless mother born, 845 And win with costly gifts and many prayers The favor of the queen, your father's wife. Begone, but quick your homeward way retrace, That I may fold you in a last embrace.