their fierce career, his voice But adding to their fright, his body soon One mass of wounds. Our cries of anguish fill The plain. At last they slacken their swift pace, Then stop, not far from those old tombs that mark Where lie the ashes of his royal sires. Panting I thither run, and after me His guard, along the track stain'd with fresh blood That reddens all the rocks; caught in the briers Locks of his hair hang dripping, gory spoils! I come, I call him. Stretching forth his hand, He opens his dying eyes, soon closed again.           "The gods have robb'd me of a guiltless life,"           I hear him say: "Take care of sad Aricia When I am dead. Dear friend, if e'er my father Mourn, undeceived, his son's unhappy fate Falsely accused; to give my spirit peace, Tell him to treat his captive tenderly, And to restore—" With that the hero's breath Fails, and a mangled corpse lies in my arms, A piteous object, trophy of the wrath Of Heav'n—so changed, his father would not know him. THESEUS Alas, my son! Dear hope for ever lost! The ruthless gods have served me but too well. For what a life of anguish and remorse Am I reserved!            THERAMENES Aricia at that instant, Flying from you, comes timidly, to take him For husband, there, in presence of the gods. Thus drawing nigh, she sees the grass all red And reeking, sees (sad sight for lover's eye!)           Hippolytus stretch'd there, pale and disfigured. But, for a time doubtful of her misfortune, Unrecognized the hero she adores, She looks, and asks—"Where is Hippolytus?"           Only too sure at last that he lies there Before her, with sad eyes that silently Reproach the gods, she shudders, groans, and falls Swooning and all but lifeless, at his feet.           Ismene, all in tears, kneels down beside her, And calls her back to life—life that is naught But sense of pain. And I, to whom this light Is darkness now, come to discharge the duty The hero has imposed on me, to tell thee His last request—a melancholy task. But hither comes his mortal enemy. 

           SCENE VII THESEUS, PHAEDRA, THERAMENES, PANOPE, GUARDS 

           THESEUS Madame, you've triumph'd, and my son is kill'd! Ah, but what room have I for fear! How justly Suspicion racks me that in 

 Prev. P 36/38 next