In a bronze urn the ancient Centaur’s gift,
Which I, when a mere girl, culled from the wound
Of hairy-breasted Nessus in his death.
He o’er Evenus’ rolling depths, for hire,
Ferried wayfarers on his arm, not plying
Or rowing-boat, or canvas-winged bark.
Who, when with Heracles, a new-made bride,
I followed by my father’s sending forth,
Shouldering me too, in the mid-stream, annoyed
With wanton touch. And I cried out; and he,
Zeus’ son, turned suddenly, and from his bow
Sent a wing’d shaft, that whizzed into his chest
To the lungs. Then the weird Thing, with dying voice
Spake to me:—‘Child of aged Oeneüs,
Since thou wert my last burden, thou shalt win
Some profit from mine act, if thou wilt do
What now I bid thee. With a careful hand
Collect and bear away the clotted gore
That clogs my wound, e’en where the monster snake
Had dyed the arrow with dark tinct of gall;
And thou shalt have this as a charm of soul
For Heracles, that never through the eye
Shall he receive another love than thine.’
Whereof bethinking me, for since his death
I kept it in a closet locked with care,
I have applied it to this robe, with such
Addition as his living voice ordained.—
The thing is done. No criminal attempts
Could e’er be mine. Far be they from my thought,
As I abhor the woman who conceives them!
But if by any means through gentle spells
And bonds on Heracles’ affection, we
May triumph o’er this maiden in his heart,
My scheme is perfected. Unless you deem
Mine action wild. If so, I will desist.
Ch. If any ground of confidence approve
Thine act, we cannot check thy counsel here.
Dê. My confidence is grounded on belief,
Though unconfirmed as yet by actual proof.
