No More Learning

All fled, and not pretending useless bravery, 1525
Each man sought refuge in the neighbouring sanctuary.
Hippolyte alone, worthy to be a hero's son,
Reined in his horses, seized his javelin,
Drove at the monster, and with a steady hand
Dealt him a gaping spear wound in the flank. 1530
The monster reared upwards in pain and anger,
Fell at the horses' feet, groaning, rolled over,
And presented its fiery muzzle to them, again,
Covering them with blood, smoke and flame.
Panic took them, and deaf as they were then, 1535
They recognised neither voice nor the rein.
Their master exhausted himself in useless struggle,
While in the blood-wet foam they stained their bridles.
They even say some saw, in this wild confusion,
A god who goaded their dusty flanks: a vision. 1540
Their fear drove them headlong over the rocks,
The axle groaned and shattered, brave Hippolytus
Saw his whole chariot break into fragments.
He himself fell entangled in the harness.
Forgive my sorrow. That cruel sight to see 1545
Will be an eternal source of tears to me.
My Lord, I have seen your unfortunate son
Dragged by the horses nourished by his hand.
He tried to call to them, and they feared the sound:
They ran. His whole body was one vast wound. 1550
And the plain echoed to our sorrowful cries.
At last they slowed their impetuous flight.
They stopped not far from the ancient sepulchres,
Where lie the cold relics of our ancestral rulers.
Sighing I ran to him, and his guards followed. 1555
The track of his noble blood ran on ahead.
The rocks were stained with it: the cruel brambles
Were strewn with his hair, in blood-wet tangles.
I reached him, called: stretching out his hand to me
He opened his dying eyes: and closed them suddenly. 1560
Saying: 'From me, Heaven claims an innocent life.
Take care of my dear Aricia, after I die.
Dear Friend, if my father's eyes are ever opened,
And he pities the fate of a falsely maligned son,
And wants to appease my blood, my shade so restless, 1565
Tell him to treat his captive with tenderness,
And give back to her. . . ' The hero was no more,
Leaving in my arms only his disfigured corpse,
Sad object of the god's triumphant anger,
Unrecognisable, even to his own father. 1570

Theseus

O my son! Dear hope now snatched from me!
Inexorable gods, who served me all too surely!
To what mortal regret my life will now be given!

Theramenes

Then Aricia, frightened, arrived on the scene.