Heracles Mad (1146-1202)

Ah me! why do I spare my own life when I have become the murderer of my dear children? Shall I not hasten to leap from some sheer rock, or aim the sword against my heart

and avenge my children’s blood, or burn my body, which she drove mad, in the fire and so avert from my life the infamy which now awaits me?

But here I see Theseus coming to check my deadly counsels, my kinsman and friend.

Now shall I stand revealed, and the dearest of my friends will see the pollution I have incurred by my children’s murder. Ah, woe is me! what am I to do? Where can I find freedom from my sorrows? shall I take wings or plunge beneath the earth? Come, let me veil my head in darkness;

for I am ashamed of the evil I have done, and, since for these I have incurred fresh blood-guiltiness, I do not want to harm the innocent.

I have come, and others with me, young warriors from the land of Athens, encamped at present by the streams of Asopus,

to bring an allied army to your son, old friend. For a rumour reached the city of the Erechtheidae, that Lycus had usurped the scepter of this land and had become your enemy even to battle. Wherefore I came making recompense for the former kindness of Heracles

in saving me from the world below, if you have any need of such aid as I or my allies can give, old man.

Ha! why this heap of dead upon the floor? Surely I have not delayed too long and come too late to check a revolution? Who slew these children?

whose wife is this I see? Boys do not go to battle; no, it must be some other strange mischance I here discover.

O king, whose home is that olive-clad hill!

Why this piteous prelude in addressing me?

The gods have afflicted us with grievous suffering.

Whose are these children, over whom you weep?

My own son’s children, woe is him! he was their father and butcher both, hardening his heart to the bloody deed.

Hush! good words only!

I would I could obey!

What dreadful words!

Fortune has spread her wings, and we are ruined, ruined.

What do you mean? what has he done?

Slain them in a wild fit of frenzy

with arrows dipped in the venom of the hundred-headed hydra.

This is Hera’s work; but who lies there among the dead, old man?

My son, my own enduring son, that marched with gods to Phlegra’s plain, there to battle with giants and slay them, warrior that he was.

Ah, ah! whose fortune was ever so cursed as his?

Never will you find another mortal that has suffered more or been driven harder.

Why does he veil his head, poor wretch, in his robe?

He is ashamed to meet your eye;

his kinsman’s kind intent and his children’s blood make him abashed.

But I come to sympathize; uncover him.