HYL.  What word is spoken, mother?  May I know?

DE.  That, with thy father lost to us so long,
’Tis shame thou dost not learn his dwelling-place.

HYL.  Yea, I have learnt, if one may trust report.

DE.  Where art thou told his seat is fixed, my son?

HYL.  ’Tis said that through the length of this past year
He wrought as bondman to a Lydian girl.

DE.  Hath he borne that?  Then nothing can be strange!

HYL.  Well, that is over, I am told.  He is free.

DE.  Where is he rumoured, then, alive or dead?

HYL.  In rich Euboea, besieging, as they tell,
The town of Eurytus, or offering siege.

DE.  Child, hast thou heard what holy oracles
He left with me, touching that very land?

HYL.  What were they, mother, for I never knew?

DE.  That either he must end his being there,
Or, this one feat performed, his following time
Should grace his life with fair prosperity. 
Wilt thou not then, my child, when he is held
In such a crisis of uncertain peril,
Run to his aid?—­since we must perish with him,
Or owe our lasting safety to his life.

HYL.  I will go, mother.  Had I heard this voice
Of prophecy, long since I had been there. 
Fear is unwonted for our father’s lot. 
But now I know, my strength shall all be spent
To learn the course of these affairs in full.

DE.  Go then, my son.  Though late, to learn and do
What wisdom bids, hath certainty of gain.
                                   [Exit HYLLUS.  DEANIRA withdraws

CHORUS (entering and turning towards the East). 
    Born of the starry night in her undoing, I 1
    Lulled in her bosom at thy parting glow,
        O Sun!  I bid thee show,
    What journey is Alcmena’s child pursuing? 
        What region holds him now,
    ’Mong winding channels of the deep,
    Or Asian plains, or rugged Western steep? 
        Declare it, thou
    Peerless in vision of thy flashing ray
    That lightens on the world with each new day. 
    Sad Deanira, bride of battle-wooing[1], I 2
    Ne’er lets her tearful eyelids close in rest,
        But in love-longing breast,
    Like some lorn bird its desolation rueing,
        Of her great husband’s way
    Still mindful, worn with harrowing fear
    Lest some new danger for him should be near,
        By night and day
    Pines on her widowed couch of ceaseless thought,
    With dread of evil destiny distraught:  [Enter DEANIRA.

    For many as are billows of the South II 1
    Blowing unweariedly, or Northern gale,
    One going and another coming on
    Incessantly, baffling the gazer’s eye,
    Such Cretan ocean of unending toil
    Cradles our Cadmus-born, and swells his fame. 
      But still some power doth his foot recall
      From stumbling down to Hades’ darkling hall.