Classic Poem

Now a long Interval of Time succeeds,
When the great Son of Jove 's immortal Deeds,
And Stepdame's Hate, had fill'd Earth's utmost Round;
He from O'Echalia , with new Lawrels crown'd,
In Triumph was return'd. He Rites prepares,
And to the King of Gods directs his Pray'rs;
When Fame (who Falshood cloaths in Truth's Disguise,
And swells her little Bulk with growing Lies)
Thy tender Ear, O Deianira , mov'd,
That Hercules the fair Iole lov'd.
Her Love believes the Tale; the Truth she fears
Of his new Passion, and gives way to Tears
The flowing Tears diffus'd her wretched Grief.
Why seek I thus, from streaming Eyes, Relief?
She cries; indulge not thus these fruitless Cares,
The Harlot will but triumph in thy Tears:
Let something be resolv'd, while yet there's Time;
My Bed not conscious of a Rival's Crime.
In Silence shall I mourn, or loud complain?
Shall I seek Calydon ; or here remain?
What tho', ally'd to Meleager 's Fame,
I boast the Honours of a Sister's Name?
My Wrongs, perhaps, now urge me to pursue
Some desp'rate Deed, by which the World shall view
How far Revenge and Woman's Rage can rise,
When weltring in her Blood the Harlot dies.
Thus various Passions rul'd by turns her Breast.
She now resolves to send the fatal Vest,
Dy'd with Lernaean Gore, whose Pow'r might move
His Soul anew, and rouse declining Love.
Nor knew she what her sudden Rage bestows,
When she to Lychas trusts her future Woes;
With soft Endearments she the Boy commands,
To bear the Garment to her Husband's Hands.
Th'unwitting Heroe takes the Gift in haste,
And o'er his Shoulders Lorna 's Poyson cast,
As first the Fire with Frankincense he strows,
And utters to the Gods his holy Vows;
And on the Marble Altar's polish'd Frame
Pours forth the grapy Stream; the rising Flame
Sudden dissolves the subtle pois'nous Juice,
Which taints his Blood, and all his Nerves bedews.
With wonted Fortitude he bore the Smart,
And not a Groan confess'd his burning Heart.
At length his Patience was subdu'd by Pain,
He rends the sacred Altar from the Plain;
O Ete 's wide Forests eccho with his Cries:
Now to rip off the deathful Robe he tries,
Where-e'er he plucks the Vest, the Skin he tears,
The mangled Muscles and huge Bones he bares,
(A ghastful Sight!) or raging with his Pain,
To rend the sticking Plague he tugs in vain
As the red Iron hisses in the Flood,
So boils the Venom in his curdling Blood.
Now with the greedy Flame his Entrails glow,
And livid Sweats down all his Body flow;
The cracking Nerves burnt up are burst in twain,
The lurking Venom melts his swimming Brain.
Then, lifting both his Hands aloft, he cries,
Glut thy Revenge, dread Empress of the Skies;
Sate with my Death the Rancour of thy Heart,
Look down with Pleasure, and enjoy my Smart.
Or, if e'er Pity mov'd an hostile Breast,
(For here I stand thy Enemy profest)
Take hence this hateful Life with Tortures torn,
Inur'd to Trouble, and to Labours born.
Death is the Gift most welcome to my Woe,
And such a Gift a Stepdame may bestow.
Was it for this Busiris was subdu'd,
Whose barb'rous Temples reek'd with Stranger's Blood?
Press'd in these Arms his Fate Antaeus found,
Nor gain'd recruited Vigour from the Ground
Did I not triple-form'd Geryon fell?
Or did I fear the triple Dog of Hell?
Did not these Hands the Bull's arm'd Forehead hold?
Are not our mighty Toils in Elis told?
Do not Stymphalian Lakes proclaim thy Fame?
And fair Parthenian Woods resound thy Name?
Who seiz'd the golden Belt of Thermodon ?
And who the Dragon guarded Apples won?
Could the fierce Gentaur's Strength my Force withstand,
Or the fell Boar that spoil'd th' Arcadian Land?
Did not these Arms the Hydra 's Rage subdue,
Who from his Wounds to double Fury grew?
What if the Thracian Horses, fat with Gore,
Who human Bodies in their Mangers tore,
I saw, and with their barb'rous Lord o'erthrew?
What if these Hands Nemaea 's Lion slew?
Did not this Neck the heav'nly Globe sustain?
The female Partner of the Thundrer's Reign
Fatigu'd, at length suspends her harsh Commands,
Yet no Fatigue hath slack'd these valiant Hands.
But now new Plagues pursue me; neither Force,
Nor Arms, nor Darts can stop their raging Course
Devouring Flame thro' my rack'd Entrails strays,
And on my Lungs and shrivell'd Muscles preys.
Yet still Eurystheus breathes the vital Air.
What Mortal now shall seek the Gods with Pray'r?