Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/241

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And so he scorns the deadly fates, 155
And, all invincible, provokes
His death. No spears can pierce his heart,
No arrow shot from Scythian bow,
No darts which cold Sarmatians bear,
Or they who dwell beneath the dawn,
The Parthians, whose fatal shafts
More deadly than the Cretan dart, 160
The neighboring Nabathaeans wound.
Oechalia's walls he overthrew
With his bare hands. Naught can withstand
His onslaught. For whate'er he plans
To overcome, is by that fact
Already overcome. How few
The foes who by his wounds have fallen!
His angry countenance means death; 165
And to have met his threatening gaze
Is worse than death. What Gyas huge,
What vast Briareus, who stood
Upon Thessalia's mountain heap
And clutched at heaven with snaky hands,
Would not have frozen at the glance
Of that dread face? But mighty ills 170
Have mighty recompense: no more
Is left to suffer—we have seen,
Oh, woe! the angry Hercules!
Iole: ⁠But I, unhappy one, must mourn,
Not temples with their gods o'erthrown,
Not scattered hearths and burning homes,
Where lie in common ruin mixed
Fathers with sons, and gods with men, 175
Temples and towns—the common woe;
But fortune calls my tears away
To other grief. Fate bids me weep
O'er other ruins. What lament 180
Shall I make first? What greatest ill
Shall I bewail? All equally
I'll weep. Ah me, that mother earth
Hath not more bosoms given me,