HYL.  Thy mother is not here, but by the shore
Of Tiryns hath obtained a dwelling-place;
And of thy sons, some she hath with her there,
And some inhabit Thebe’s citadel. 
But we who are with thee, sire, if there be aught
That may by us be done, will hear, and do.

HER.  Then hearken thou unto this task, and show
If worthily thou art reputed mine. 
Now is time to prove thee.  My great father
Forewarned me long ago that I should die
By none who lived and breathed, but from the will
Of one now dwelling in the house of death. 
And so this Centaur, as the voice Divine
Then prophesied, in death hath slain me living. 
And in agreement with that ancient word
I now interpret newer oracles
Which I wrote down on going within the grove
Of the hill-roving and earth-couching Selli,—­
Dictated to me by the mystic tongue
Innumerous, of my Father’s sacred tree;
Declaring that my ever instant toils
Should in the time that new hath being and life
End and release me.  And I look’d for joy. 
But the true meaning plainly was my death.—­
No labour is appointed for the dead.—­
Then, since all argues one event, my son,
Once more thou must befriend me, and not wait
For my voice goading thee, but of thyself
Submit and second my resolve, and know
Filial obedience for thy noblest rule.

HYL.  I will obey thee, father, though my heart
Sinks heavily in approaching such a theme.

HER.  Before aught else, lay thy right hand in mine.

HYL.  Why so intent on this assurance, sire?

HER.  Give it at once and be not froward, boy.

HYL.  There is my hand:  I will gainsay thee nought.

HER.  Swear by the head of him who gave me life.

HYL.  Tell me the oath, and I will utter it.

HER.  Swear thou wilt do the thing I bid thee do.

HYL.  I swear, and make Zeus witness of my troth.

HER.  But if you swerve, pray that the curse may come.

HYL.  It will not come for swerving:—­but I pray.

HER.  Now, dost thou know on Oeta’s topmost height
The crag of Zeus?

HYL.  I know it, and full oft
Have stood there sacrificing.

HER.  Then even there,
With thine own hand uplifting this my body,
Taking what friends thou wilt, and having lopped
Much wood from the deep-rooted oak and rough
Wild olive, lay me on the gathered pile,
And burn all with the touch of pine-wood flame. 
Let not a tear of mourning dim thine eye;
But silent, with dry gaze, if thou art mine,
Perform it.  Else my curse awaits thee still
To weigh thee down when I am lost in night.

HYL.  How cruel, O my father, is thy tongue!

HER.  ’Tis peremptory.  Else, if thou refuse,
Be called another’s and be no more mine.

HYL.  Alas that thou shouldst challenge me to this,
To be thy murderer, guilty of thy blood!