Or else indeed Acastus is no man,

Except he avenge on thee his sister's death.

Adm. Begone! thou and thy mate in childless age
Live, as ye merit, though your child yet lives.

For never shall ye come beneath my roof;
And if 'twere needful to renounce thy hearth
By heralds, I would e'en renounce it so.

But since we must, my friends, bear this infliction,

Let us with the procession now advance.

[PHERES withdraws; on the other side ADMETUS and the Funeral Train depart, the CHORUS chanting the Dirge.

Chor. Alas! to thy own ruin bold,

Oh passing noble, and high-souled!
Farewell! may Hermes on the way
To thee all gentle kindness pay;
And may great Dis receive thee well!
If ever good the good befell

In the under-world, that come to thee,
Sitting beside Persephone!

[While the Funeral Train retires, a Servant
advances from the Palace.

Serv. I've at the hearth received many a guest,
From many a land, for whom I've spread the feast,
But never worse than this. In the first place,
He saw my lord in grief, yet entered in ;
Next, for his fare, such as it chanced to be,
Made no allowance, knowing our distress,
But loudly roared for any thing he lacked;
Then in both hands he seized an ivy goblet,
And quaffed the pure juice of the purple mother,
Until the flame o' the wine enkindled him ;
And then with myrtle-wreath he crowned himself,
And howled discordantly snatches of song.
There were two strains to hear; for while he sang,
Without a thought of our domestic wo,
We servants were bewailing our lost lady:
We did not let him see our eyes were wet,
For so Admetus ordered. I mean-while
Must entertain this stranger, vagabond!
But she is gone, nor I did follow her,

Nor stretch my hand, lamenting my lost mistress,
Who was e'en as a mother to us all;
For from a thousand ills she saved us,
Appeasing for us oft her husband's ire.
Is it not justly then I hate this stranger,
Who has intruded on us in our grief?

HERCULES enters.

Her. Hark you, why do you look so grave and thoughtful?

A servant should receive his master's guests,

Not with a puckered brow, but cheerfully.

You show to me, that am your master's friend,
Contracted brow and gloomy countenance,
Only because of some out-door distress.
Come, learn of me, and be a wiser man.
Know you the way of life and its events?

I think not-but, indeed, how should you? Hark!
Death is a debt that all mankind must pay;
None knows if he shall be alive to-morrow;
For slippery fortune is uncertain ever,

Cannot be learnt, nor be found out by skill.
Drink and be merry; and consider life
To be thine own only from day to day-
The rest is Fortune's. Honour Cytherea,
Sweetest of deities to mortal men,
For she to them is goddess most benign.
If you suppose me right-I think I am,-
Leave your dark thoughts and follow
my advice.
Will you not then quit your excessive grief,
Go in, and crown yourself, and drink with me?

I know right well the wine-cup's generous gush

Will clear your brow, and cleanse your mind of gloom.
Mortals should entertain such sentiments

As suit their mortal state: to them, methinks,
That wear their visages to sorrow set,

Life is not truly life but wretchedness.

Serv. We know it; but the feast, laughter, and mirth, Are quite unsuited to our present state.

Her. Grieve not so much; the lady was a stranger—
The rulers of the mansion are alive.

Serv. Alive? do you not know our sad mischance?
Her. I do, unless your master did deceive me.
Serv. He is too hospitable.

Her. Is there some wo he did not tell me of?

Serv. Farewell! our master's trouble toucheth us.

Her. Your words express more grief than for a stranger.
Serv. Your revels, in that case, had not disturbed me.

Her. Have I then been ill-treated by my host?

Serv. You did not come at a convenient time;

Grief is among us, and you see our hair

Is shorn, our dress is of the mourning hue.

Her. But who is dead? one of the children gone? Or his old father?

Her. What? his wife dead? and yet did he receive me?
Serv. He scrupled to repel you from his house.

Her. Unhappy man!-Oh, what a loss is thine !

Serv. Not only she, with her we all are lost.

Her. I thought 'twas some misfortune, when I saw
His woful face, shorn hair, and weeping eyes;
But saying 'twas a stranger's funeral,

He did deceive me; and against my will

I went within his doors, drank, crowned myself,
And revelled while he was in his affliction.

And yet you told me not of this distress!

Where does he bury her? where can I find him?
Serv. On the high-road that to Larissa leads,

Just past the city gate, you will observe

The tomb of marble shining to the view.

What sort of son Alcmena bore to Zeus.

Her. My much-tried heart! my soul! exhibit now

The newly-dead Alcestis must I rescue,

And to this house restore, to kind Admetus

Doing a work of kindness in return.

I'll go, and watch for Death, the black-robed king
Of the Departed; if, as I expect,

I find him near the tomb, drinking the blood

[Exit Servant.

Of victims, and I can surprise and seize him,
None shall release my panting prisoner
Till he resign the woman. If I fail
To take him captive so, and he abstains
From coming near to taste the clotted gore,
Then to the sunless mansions will I go
Of fair Proserpine and her gloomy lord,
And ask her at their hands: I have no doubt
That I shall bring Alcestis up again,

And give her back to his embracing arms,
Who welcomed and received me in his house,
Though smitten with a sore calamity,
Which from respect for me he nobly hid.
What man of Thessaly has toward guests
A larger spirit and heart more bountiful?
Or what Hellenian? Never shall he say,
While he was noble, I was otherwise.
[Exit HERCULES.

ADMETUS and the company of mourners return.
Adm. Oh, sad aspect, and entrance drear
Of my poor widowed house! Oh, where
Can I find rest? where go? what say?
Or how be silent? Woful day!
Would all were o'er with me forlorn,
A wretch to worst affliction born!
I count the dead the only blest,
And long to be with them at rest.
To tread on earth not gladdens me,
Nor the sun's cheerful beams to see:
One pledge of joy I had-Death stole her,
And Hades has my life's consoler.

Chor. Go in, and solitary moan;
Thy loss is worthy many a groan.
Ay, groan! I know thy heavy lot,
But thy lamenting helps her not.
Her sweet face ne'er to see again
Is grief indeed-and grief in vain! .
Adm. This, like an ulcer, frets my core,
Never to see my sweet wife more !

What worse ill has man through life
Than to lose his faithful wife?

Better that I had dwelt alone

Without the consort-that is gone!
Happy are they whose life is single,
That never with these sweet ones mingle!
The grief for ills that only touch
A single life, is not so much:

But to perceive our children droop
Under disease's mortal swoop;
And to behold the bridal bed
Defiled by Death, untenanted
Of the beloved lately there—

That is a grief too hard to bear!

When a man too might, if he chose,

Refrain from having ties like those.

But different men in different ways

The burden of distress o'erlays.

Adm. Oh, vain regret, and lasting sorrow,
For them that wake up to no morrow!
When I headlong wished to follow
Her to the sepulchral hollow,

Why did ye me from death restrain,
From lying where my dead is lain?
Then Hades had been pleased to take,
Together ferried o'er his lake,

Two faithful souls instead of one,
Two loving souls together gone.

Chor. I had a kinsman old and hoary,
That had one child, his hope and glory;
And on that son death sudden fell-
The old man bore it passing well.
Adm. My house! how can I dwell in thec,
Since this sad change has fall'n on me?
'Twixt life before, and that behind,
Oh, what a difference I find!

With light of many a Pelian torch
I whilom passed within the porch,
With bridal songs, and in my hand
My wife, the lady of the land!
Then was there many a cheerful voice
To bid the happy pair rejoice,

A noble match, well come together,

Both nobly born, in life's spring-weather :-
But now instead of nuptial songs

The wailing voice its note prolongs;
And for white shining robes to-day
I'm marshalled by a black array,

To what was once a happy spot

The chamber where-where she is not!

Chor. This came on thee in grief untried,
And after fortune's happy tide;

But thou, at least, hast saved thy life;
And from her loved thy loving wife
Is gone indeed :-is this thing new?
'Tis but what Death is used to do.

Adm. I deem her fortune happier than mine own;
It may not seem so, but I think it is;

For her no grief shall ever touch again,

And she, removed from care, with glory rests;
While I, that should have died, escaping death,
Must now drag on a weary, woful life-
I see it now. How can I bear my home?
What pleasure can I look for? whom addressing?
By whom addrest? oh, whither shall I turn?
The solitude within will drive me out,
When I behold the place void where she slept,
The seat whereon she sat; the house neglected;
And when the children, clinging to my knees,

Weep for their mother; and these poor kind creatures
Bewailing what a mistress they have lost!

Such is my state within doors; but without

The nuptials solemnized in Thessaly,

The troops of lovely women, will distract me ;

For never can I bear to look upon

Her friends, that number the same years she did.
Then whosoever loves me not will say :-

"Behold a man (in seeming such at least),

That ignominious lives, and dared not die,

But let his wife become his substitute,

And hates his parents that would not consent

To die for him the death the coward shrunk from."
This ill report be added to my grief,

And tell me, friends, if better 'tis to live
Suffering at once ill fame and misery?

Chor. I too have risen upon the pinion
Of song, sustained with knowledge high;
But never have I known dominion
Like that of stern Necessity.

No charm on Thracian table writ,
Though wisest Orpheus uttered it—
No remedy that Phoebus taught
His sons, with healing virtue fraught,
To be dispensed to mortals frail,
Against this Power doth aught avail.

To her alone is none approach
By vows at altar, statue, fane-
'Tis vain the victim's life to broach-
She sees not, hears not-prayer is vain.
Dread Goddess! spare me; for with thee
Zeus brings about whate'er must be.
The iron of the Chalybes

Is tamed by thee: nor is the stress
Of thy stern spirit e'er checked in force
By any touch of soft remorse.

Thee, my prince! she holdeth now
In chains resistless; bear it thou!
Weeping cannot raise the dead.
Sons of mortal mothers bred,
Stealth-begotten of the gods,
Also lie in Death's abodes.
Dear she was while yet in life,
Dear too, now, when she is not;
For thine was the noblest wife
Ever fell to mortal's lot.

Let the tomb that covers her
Be not as a sepulchre

O'er the dead. Her praises meet
Shall the traveller repeat,

As to Spirit of the Day,

Ere he passes on his way :

"She that once did death endure,

Of free will, to save her spouse,

Now is Spirit blest and pure

Hail, sweet Saint! and hear our vows!"

But lo! here comes Alcmena's son again.

HERCULES enters with a lady, whose face is concealed with a thick veil.

Her. 'Tis right with freedom to address a friend,

And not to hide offence we take at him.

I thought myself one worthy, as one near

In friendship, to demand what was your grief:
You told me not 'twas your wife's funeral,
But as 'twere death did not concern you nearly;
You entertained me as a welcome guest:
Mean-while I crowned myself with myrtle wreath,