TANTALUS Down to the lakes, the rivers, the waters which flee me,
the tree whose laden branches escape my hungry lips.
If only I could escape to the black bed of my prison, 70
and if my punishment seems too light, I would change
to a different river: may I be plunged in fire,
trapped in the middle of Phlegethon's boiling water.*
I call to all who suffer punishments*
decreed by fate: to you, who lie in fear,
beneath the hollow cavern, always frightened
the ma** will fall upon you; you who shudder
at the gaping jaws of the ravening lions, and the awful Furies
who tangle you in their nets; and you, half-burnt,
trying to ward off the approaching torches. 80
Listen to what I have to say: believe me, I learnt the hard way:
love your punishments. When will I achieve
escape from those above?*
FURY First you must cause chaos,
bring evil to the house, create in the kings
the urge to fight and k**; stir up the heart
into a crazy commotion.
TANTALUS Punishment is something
I must accept, not become. Is it my mission to go
like deadly gas from a vent in the earth, or a plague
infecting the world? Will I bring my very own grandsons
to such a horror? Great Father of Gods — and my father*
as well,
though you blush to admit it — you may judge that my tongue
talks too much and deserves the cruellest torture;
still I must speak of this: I warn you all, do not
pollute your hands with blasphemous murder, do not
infect the altars with a Fury's curse. I will stand by,
I will prevent this evil. — Why are you lashing your whip
in my face? Why the threat of these circling snakes? Why pierce
my belly with desperate hunger? My heart is burning,
alight with thirst; my half-charred stomach smokes.
I follow you.*
FURY Good! Spread out your madness through the house.
Make them resemble you, make them hate, make them thirst
to drink their own blood. Now the palace feels
your coming and it trembles with your touch.
Well done! Now go back to your hellish lakes,
your old familiar water. Now earth grieves
to feel the burden of your feet. Do you not see
how water is pushed back* into the ground, and how the banks
stand dry, as a fiery wind drives the clouds away?
The trees grow white, the fruit falls from the branches, 110
and near at hand the Isthmus, roaring with the sound
of breaking waves dashing on both its sides,
as its slim strip of land divides the neighbouring waters,
now widens and hears the sound of distant tides.
Lerna* now moves back, and river Inachus
lies hidden, nor does sacred Alpheus
reveal its waters. Mount Cithaeron's heights
have shed their snow and all their white is gone.
The famous town of Argos fears its ancient thirst.*
See, even the Sun wonders whether to order the day, 120
whether to goad to life a day which is doomed to die.