_Theseus:_ O god of heaven, and thou who holdest sway In that deep, all-embracing realm of death, And thou whose mother sought thee (but in vain) Through all the world: your powers I supplicate That I may speak with boldness of the things 660 Concealed and buried in the hold of earth. The Spartan land lifts high a famous cliff Where Taenarus juts out upon the sea, Dense wooded. Here the realm of hated Dis Opes wide its mouth; the high cliff spreads apart, 665 And in a mighty cavern yawns a pit With jaws portentous, huge, precipitous; And for all nations ample passage gives. The way begins, not dark with heavy shades. A watery gleam of daylight follows in, And doubtful light, as of the sun eclipsed, 670 Falls there and mocks the eye. Such light the day, While mingled still with night, at early dawn Or in its waning hour, is wont to give. The way then broadens into spaces vast And empty, where the human race entire Might plunge and perish. 'Tis no labor here 675 To travel, for the road itself draws down. As often whirlpools suck unwilling ships, So does the air, down streaming, urge us on, And hungry chaos. Here the clutching shades Permit no backward step. Deep in the abyss, With peaceful shallows gentle Lethe glides, 680 And by its draughts removes all mortal care And, that no backward way may be allowed, With many folds it wraps the stream of death; Just as the wandering Maeander sports With waves uncertain, now upon itself Retreats, now halts in hesitation slow, 685 Whether it shall its fountain seek again, Or journey to the sea. Here lies the marsh Of sluggish, vile Cocytus; here, behold, The vulture, there the doleful owl laments, And through the air the fearsome screech-owl sends Its sad, foreboding cry. There stands the yew, Its black leaves shuddering on the gloomy boughs; 690 And 'neath its shelter hover sluggish Sleep, And mournful Famine with her wasting jaws, And Shame, at last her guilty face concealed. Here quaking Fear, and Murder, desperate Grief, Black Mourning, tottering Disease, and War With weapons girded on, lie hid; and last 695 Comes feeble Age upon his staff upheld. _Amphitr.:_ Are there no fruitful fields of corn or wine? _Theseus:_ Not so: no joyful fields with verdure shine, No ripening grain waves gently in the breeze, No stately trees bear apple-laden boughs; 700 But sterile wastes defile those lonely depths, And in eternal sloth the foul earth lies. Here lie the lonesome remnants of the world. The air hangs motionless; and thick night broods Upon a sluggish, horror-stricken land. 705 The place of death is worse than death itself.