Scarce had we pass'd out of the gates of Troezen, He silent in his chariot, and his guards Downcast and silent too, around him ranged; To the Mycenian road he turn'd his steeds, Then, lost in thought, allow'd the reins to lie Loose on their backs. His noble chargers, erst So full of ardour to obey his voice, With head depress'd and melancholy eye Seem'd now to mark his sadness and to share it. A frightful cry, that issues from the deep, With sudden discord rends the troubled air; And from the bosom of the earth a groan Is heard in answer to that voice of terror. Our blood is frozen at our very hearts; With bristling manes the list'ning steeds stand still. Meanwhile upon the watery plain there rises A mountain billow with a mighty crest Of foam, that shoreward rolls, and, as it breaks Before our eyes vomits a furious monster. With formidable horns its brow is arm'd, And all its body clothed with yellow scales, In front a savage bull, behind a dragon Turning and twisting in impatient rage. Its long continued bellowings make the shore Tremble; the sky seems horror-struck to see it; The earth with terror quakes; its poisonous breath Infects the air. The wave that brought it ebbs In fear. All fly, forgetful of the courage That cannot aid, and in a neighbouring temple Take refuge—all save bold Hippolytus. A hero's worthy son, he stays his steeds, Seizes his darts, and, rushing forward, hurls A missile with sure aim that wounds the monster Deep in the flank. With rage and pain it springs E'en to the horses' feet, and, roaring, falls, Writhes in the dust, and shows a fiery throat That covers them with flames, and blood, and smoke. Fear lends them wings; deaf to his voice for once, And heedless of the curb, they onward fly. Their master wastes his strength in efforts vain; With foam and blood each courser's bit is red. Some say a god, amid this wild disorder, Was seen with goads pricking their dusty flanks. O'er jagged rocks they rush urged on by terror; Crash! goes the axle-tree. Th' intrepid youth Sees his car broken up, flying to pieces; He falls himself entangled in the reins. Pardon my grief. That cruel spectacle Will be for me a source of endless tears. I saw thy hapless son, I saw him, Sire, Drag'd by the horses that his hands had fed, Pow'rless to check
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