Epistulae

nished from your bed. An impious marriage may join, in unchaste bands, Iole the daughter of Eurytus, and the infatuated Alcides. My mind sickens with the apprehension; a shivering coldness spreads itself over all my limbs; and my languid hands lie motionless upon my knees. You loved also me among many others; but your love to me was without a crime. Think it no dishonor that twice you fought victorious in my behalf. Achelous gathered his shattered horns upon his oozy banks, and plunged his mutilated temples in the muddy stream. Nessus the Centaur fell near the stream of fatal Evenus, and tinged the waters with his unnatural blood. But why do I now mention these things? Even while I write, Fame brings me the news that my husband perishes by the poison of the shirt that I sent him. Alas! what have I done? Whither has my despairing love driven me? Impious Deianira, do you yet doubt whether you should die? Shall your husband perish miserably on Mount

Œta; and you, the cause of that barbarous crime, survive? If aught yet remains to be done by which I may shew myself the wife of Hercules, death shall be the confirmation of our union. You also, Meleager, shall own in me a true sister. Impious Deianira, do you yet doubt whether you should die? Oh! ill-fated house! Agrios usurps the lofty throne, and a desolate old age oppresses Œneus. My brother Tydeus wanders an exile on unknown coasts: the other perished alive in devouring flames. My mother transfixed her heart with steel. Impious Deianira, do you yet doubt whether you should die? It is my only request, by all the most sacred ties of marriage, that I may not be thought to have betrayed you to your fate. Nessus, when his breast was pierced by the flying arrow, said to me, "This blood of mine contains the powers of love." I sent you a robe stained with the poison of the Centaur. Impious Deianira, do you yet doubt whether you should die? And now, my aged sire, and sister Gorge, adieu. Farewell, my country, and my brother, banished from your native home. Adieu, light of day, the last to my now fading eyes. Farewell, my husband, (Oh that thou could'st fare well!) Hyllus, my dear Hyllus, adieu!

BEASTS of the most savage nature have proved more mild and gentle to me, than you; nor could I have been intrusted to more faithless hands. The epistle which you now read, Theseus, is sent to you from that shore, whence your ship, leaving me behind, was borne by the spreading sails; where soft sleep, and you also, who barbarously watched the opportunity of my slumbers, fatally betrayed me. It was the season when the earth begins to be covered with shining frost, and the birds, lurking among the leaves, complain of the decaying year; when, half awake, and still in slumber languidly reclining, I stretched my arms to grasp my Theseus. No Theseus was there: I suddenly pulled back my hands, and then tried once more to find him. I wandered with my arms over all the bed: still no Theseus was there. Fear instantly shook off sleep: I started up in a consternation, and headlong threw my limbs fiom the deserted bed. Forthwith my breast resounded with the repeated strokes of my hands; and I tore my hair, as yet disheveled from sleep. The moon shone: I looked round if I could discern any thing besides the shore. My eager eyes found nought to look at but the shore. I ran sometimes here, sometimes there, and with wild disorder on either side: the deep yielding sands impeted my tender feet. Mean-while the hollow rocks over all the shore resounded the name of Theseus to my incessant cries. As often as I named you, the place re-echoed the sound: the very place seemed willing to alleviate my wretched lot. Near the spot was a mountain, whose top was thinly covered with tufted shrubs; and where a steep rock, undermined by the beating waves, impended. I mounted the ascent: my passion gave me strength; and thence with wide prospect I surveyed the mighty deep. Hence (for the winds also were cruelly unkind) I could observe your sails full-stretched by stiff southern gales. I either saw, or, when I thought I saw, remained cold as ice, and half-dead with concern. Nor did grief long permit this indolent respite: I was roused by that sensation; I was roused, and in a loud complaining strain called upon Theseus: "Whither do you fly? Return, perjured wretch, change your course; the ship has not her complement." Thus I complained: I made up in shrieks what was wanting in articulate sounds, and mingled my words with repeated blows upon my breast. My hands, waved high in the air, made signs, that, if you could not hear, you might at least perceive me. I also held out a white robe upon a long pole, to admonish you of her whom you had left behind. But, alas! I soon lost sight of you; it was then I began to weep; my tender cheeks had hitherto been stiffened with grief. What could my eyes do better, after ceasing to behold your sails, than help me to bemoan my forlorn state? Sometimes I wandered solitary, with my hair disheveled, like the raving priestesses inspired by the Theban God. Sometimes, fixing my eyes upon the sea, I silently seated myself upon some pointed rock, cold and senseless as the stone whereon I sat. Often I repair to the bed which once sheltered us both: Alas! it will never more exhibit the once happy lovers. I kiss the print left by your dear body, and love to repose myself upon the spot which your dear joints have warmed.