Enjoyment willed not to bestow
On human lot, unmixed with woe:
Grief and delight, in endless change,
Bound man in mazy circles range,
Like never-setting stars, that roll
In ceaseless courses round the pole.
Soon spangled night must yield to day,
Soon wealth, soon trouble flits away;
In turn, so fixed the eternal plan,
Bliss and bereavement wait on man.
My Queen! on hope thy soul be stayed,
Nor yield thee to despair;
When hath not Jove his children made
His providential care?"—(A.)
But Dejanira, though she appreciates their kindness, is but half-convinced by the words of the Chorus. They are but young girls, she says, and know little of the sad experiences of a wife and mother. Night after night she has started up in an agony of terror, lest she should be bereaved of the "noblest man on earth;" and that mysterious tablet causes her grave misgivings.
Suddenly comes a messenger with good news. Hercules is not only alive, but is on the point of returning home after victory, and has sent his herald Lichas with the captives on before him. Then Lichas himself enters, and behind him follow a train of women, the unfortunate prizes of the war. Dejanira turns eagerly to the herald. "Tell me," she asks, "O dearest of messengers, what I most wish to know,—shall I receive Hercules again alive?" "Yes," is the answer; "I left him alive and strong, and smitten of no
