Book of illustrations : Ancient Tragedy

I have no priest, no altar more,
Whose aid I may implore!

Antistrophe

O that the Son of Phoebus now {121}
Lived to behold th' ethereal light!
Then might she leave the seats below,
Where Pluto reigns in cheerless night!
The Sage's potent art,
Till thund'ring Jove's avenging pow'r
Hurl'd his red Thunders at his breast,
Could, from the yawning gulf releast,
To the sweet light of life the dead restore.
Who now shall aid impart?
To ev'ry god, at ev'ry shrine,
The king hath paid the rites divine:
But vain his vows, his pious care;
And ours is dark despair!

EPISODE I

At last they have been heard, and one of the Queen's Women comes weeping from the Palace [by one of the Inferior Doors]: the Chorus fall into their Episode position, in two ranks, between the Altar and the Stage, taking part by their Foreman in the dialogue.

The Chorus eagerly enquire whether Alcestis yet lives. {138}

Attend. As living may I speak of her, and dead. Cho. Living and dead at once, how may that be? Attend. E'en now she sinks in death and breathes her last.

They join in extolling her heroic devotion, and the Attendant tells of her bearing on this day of Death, which she celebrates as if a day of religious festival.

When she knew {160}
The destin'd day was come, in fountain water
She bath'd her lily-tinctured limbs, then took
From her rich chests, of odorous cedar form'd,
A splendid robe, and her most radiant dress;
Thus gorgeously array'd she stood before
The hallow'd flames, and thus address'd her pray'r:
"O Queen, I go to the infernal shades!
Yet, e'er I go, with reverence let me breathe
My last request: Protect my orphan children,
Make my son happy with the wife he loves, {170}
And wed my daughter to a noble husband:
Nor let them, like their mother, to the tomb
Untimely sink, but in their native land
Be blest through length'ned life to honour'd age."
Then to each altar in the royal house
She went, and crown'd it, and address'd her vows,
Plucking the myrtle bough; nor tear, nor sigh
Came from her, neither did the approaching ill
Change the fresh beauties of her vermeil cheek.
Her chamber then she visits, and her bed; {180}
There her tears flow'd, and thus she spoke: "O bed
To which my wedded lord, for whom I die,
Led me a virgin bride, farewell; to thee
No blame do I impute, for me alone
Hast thou destroy'd; disdaining to betray
Thee and my lord, I die: to thee shall come
Some other woman, not more chaste, perchance
More happy" – as she lay, she kissed the couch,
And bath'd it with a flood of tears; that pass'd,
She left her chamber, then return'd, and oft {190}
She left it, oft return'd, and on the couch
Fondly, each time she enter'd, cast herself.
Her children, as they hung upon her robes,
Weeping, she rais'd, and clasp'd them to her breast
Each after each, as now about to die.
Each servant through the house burst into tears
In pity of their mistress; she to each
St[r?]etch'd her right hand; nor was there one so mean
To whom she spoke not, and admitted him
To speak to her again. Within the house {200}
So stands it with Admetus. Had he died,
His woes were over: now he lives to bear
A weight of pain no moment shall forget.

Alcestis is wasting away, and fading with swift disease, while her distracted husband holds her in his arms, entreating impossibilities. And now they are about to bring her out, for the dying Alcestis has a longing for one more sight of heaven and the radiant morning. The Chorus are plunged in despair: how will their king bear to live after the loss of such a wife!

The lamentations rise higher still as the Central Gates open and the couch of Alcestis is borne out, Admetus holding her in his arms, and, her children clinging about her; the Stage fills with weeping friends and attendants. The whole dialogue falls into lyrical measures with strophic alternations just perceptible. Alcestis commences to address the sunshine and fair scenery she has come out to view – when the scene changes to her dying eyes, and she can see nothing but the gloomy river the dead have to cross, with the boatman ready waiting, and the long dreary journey beyond. Dark night is creeping over her eyes, when Admetus, as he ever mingles his passionate prayers with her wanderings, conjures her for her children's sake as well as his own not to forsake them. A thought for her children's future rouses the mother from her stupor, and she rallies for a solemn last appeal [the measure changing to blank verse to mark the change of tone]. She begins to recite the sacrifice she is making for her lord:

I die for thee, though free {284}
Not to have died, but from Thessalia's chiefs
Preferring whom I pleas'd, in royal state
To have lived happy here – I had no will
To live bereft of thee with these poor orphans —
I die without reluctance, though the gifts
Of youth are mine to make life grateful to me. {290}
Yet he that gave thee birth, and she that bore thee,
Deserted thee, though well it had beseem'd them
With honour to have died for thee, t' have saved
Their son with honour, glorious in their death.
They had no child but thee, they had no hope
Of other offspring, should'st thou die; and I
Might thus have lived, thou mightst have lived till age
Crept slowly on, nor wouldst thou heave the sigh
Thus of thy wife deprived, nor train alone
Thy orphan children: – but some God appointed {300}
It should be thus: thus be it.

All this is the basis for a requital she demands of her husband: that he shall let her children be lords in their own house, and not set over them the cruel guardianship of a step-mother.