Book of illustrations : Ancient Tragedy

Adm. My friends, I deem the fortune of my wife
Happier than mine, though otherwise it seems. {990}
For nevermore shall sorrow touch her breast,
And she with glory rests from various ills.
But I, who ought not live, my destined hour
O'erpassing, shall drag on a mournful life,
Late taught what sorrow is. How shall I bear
To enter here? To whom shall I address
My speech? Whose greeting renders my return
Delightful? Which way shall I turn? Within
In lonely sorrow shall I waste away,
As, widowed of my wife, I see my couch, {1000}
The seats deserted where she sat, the rooms
Wanting her elegance. Around my knees
My children hang, and weep their mother lost:
The household servants for their mistress sigh.
This is the scene of misery in my home:
Abroad the nuptials of Thessalia's youth
And the bright circles of assembled dames
Will but augment my grief: how shall I bear
To see the lov'd companions of my wife!
And if one hates me, he will say: Behold {1010}
The man who basely lives, who dared not die,
But giving, through the meanness of his soul,
His wife, avoided death – yet would be deem'd
A man: he hates his parents, yet himself
Had not the spirit to die. These ill reports
Cleave to me: why then wish for longer life,
On evil tongues thus fallen, and evil days!

Admetus sinks down on the threshold and buries his face in his robe. The Chorus gather up the feeling of the situation in a full Choral Ode, celebrating the natural topics of consolation; the stern laws of Necessity, the fair memory of the dead.

CHORAL INTERLUDE IV

Strophe I

My venturous foot delights {1018}
To tread the Muses' arduous heights;
Their hallow'd haunts I love t' explore,
And listen to their lore:
Yet never could my searching mind
Aught, like Necessity, resistless find.
No herb of sovereign pow'r to save,
Whose virtues Orpheus joy'd to trace,
And wrote them in the rolls of Thrace;
Nor all that Phoebus gave,
Instructing the Asclepian train,
When various ills the human frame assail,
To heal the wound, to soothe the pain,
'Gainst Her stern force avail.

Antistrophe I

Of all the Pow'rs Divine {1032}
Alone none dares t' approach Her shrine;
To Her no hallow'd image stands,
No altar She commands.
In vain the victim's blood would flow,
She never deigns to hear the suppliant's vow.
Never to me mayst Thou appear,
Dread Goddess, with severer mien
Than oft in life's past tranquil scene
Thou hast been known to wear.
By Thee Jove works his stern behest:
Thy force subdues e'en Scythia's stubborn steel;
Nor ever does Thy rugged breast
The touch of pity feel.

Strophe II

And now, with ruin pleas'd, {1046}
On thee, O King, her hands have seiz'd,
And bound thee in her iron chain:
Yet her fell force sustain.
For from the gloomy realms of night
No tears recall the dead to life's sweet light.
No virtue, though to heav'n allied,
Saves from the inevitable doom:
Heroes and sons of gods have died,
And sunk into the tomb.
Dear, whilst our eyes her presence blest,
Dear, in the gloomy mansions of the dead:
Most generous she, the noblest, best,
Who graced thy nuptial bed.

Antistrophe II

Thy wife's sepulchral mound {1060}
Deem not as common, worthless ground
That swells their breathless bodies o'er
Who die, and no are more.
No, be it honor'd as a shrine;
Raised high, and hallow'd to some Pow'r Divine:
The traveller, as he passes by,
Shall thither bend his devious way,
With reverence gaze, and with a sigh,
Smite on his breast, and say:
"She died of old to save her lord;
Now blest among the blest; Hail, Pow'r revered,