Numberless , the Earth breeds
dangers, and the sober thought of fear.
The bending sea's arms swarm
with bitter, savage beasts.
Torches blossom to burn along
the high space between ground and sky.
Things fly, and things walk the Earth,
Remember too, the wrath of the whirlwind.
But who can recount all
the high daring in the will
of man, and in the stubborn hearts of women
the all-adventurous passions
that couple with man's overthrow.
The female force, the desperate
love crams its' resisted way
on marriage and the dark embrace
of brute beasts, of mortal men.
Let him, who goes not on flimsy wings
of thought, learn from her,
Althea, Thestius'
daughter: who maimed her child, and hard
of heart, in deliberate guile,
set fire to the blood torch, her own son's
agemate, that from the day he emerged
from the mother's womb crying
shared the measure of all his life
down to the marked death day.
Of all foul things legends tell the Lemnian
outranks a vile wizard's charm, detestable
so that man names a hideous crime "Lemnian," in memory of their wickedness.
When once the Gods loathe a breed
of men they go outcast and forgotten.
No man respects what the Gods have turned against.
What of these tales I gather has no meaning?
The sword edges near the lungs.
It stabs deep, bittersharp, and right drives it.
For that which had no right
lies not yet stamped into the ground, although
one in sin transgressed Zeus' majesty.
Right's anvil stands staunch on the ground
and the Smith, destiny, hammers out the sword.
Delayed in glory, pensive from the murk,
vengeance brings home at last
a child to wipe out the stain, of blood shed long ago.