Where now his life is held at point to fall.
With firm lips clenched refrain thy voice through all.
Hyl. Yet tell me, doth he live,
Old sir?
Old M. Wake not the slumberer,
Nor kindle and revive
The terrible recurrent power of pain,
My son!
Hyl. My foolish words are done,
But my full heart sinks ’neath the heavy strain.
Heracles. O Father, who are these?
What countrymen? Where am I? What far land
Holds me in pain that ceaseth not? Ah me!
Again that pest is rending me. Pain, pain!
Old M. Now thou may’st know
’Twas better to have lurked in silent shade
And not thus widely throw
The slumber from his eyelids and his head.
Hyl. I could not brook
All speechless on his misery to look.
Monody.
Her. O altar on the Euboean strand,
High-heaped with offerings from my hand,
What meed for lavish gifts bestowed
From thy new sanctuary hath flowed!
Father of Gods! thy cruel power
Hath foiled me with an evil blight.
Ah! would mine eyes had closed in night
Ere madness in a fatal hour
Had burst upon them with a blaze,
No help or soothing once allays!
What hand to heal, what voice to charm,
Can e’er dispel this hideous harm?
Whose skill save thine,
Monarch Divine?
Mine eyes, if such I saw,
Would hail him from afar with trembling awe.
