Here I invoke you, silent company, Infer...

Here I invoke you, silent company, Infernal gods, blind Chaos, sunless home Of shadowy Dis, and squalid caves of Death Bound by the banks of Tartarus. Lost souls, For this new bridal leave your wonted toil. Stand still, thou whirling wheel, Ixion touch Again firm ground; come, Tantalus, and drink Unchecked the wave of the Pirenian fount. Let heavier punishment on Creon wait:— Thou stone of Sisyphus, worn smooth, roll back; And ye Danaïdes who strive in vain To fill your leaking jars, I need your aid. Come at my invocation, star of night, Endued with form most horrible, nor threat With single face, thou three-formed deity! To thee, according to my country's use, With hair unfilleted and naked feet I've trod the sacred groves; called forth the rain From cloudless skies; have driven back the sea; And forced the ocean to withdraw its waves. Earth sees heaven's laws confused, the sun and stars Shining together, and the two Bears wet In the forbidden ocean. I have changed The circle of the seasons:—at my word Earth flourishes with summer; Ceres sees A winter harvest; Phasis' rushing stream Flows to its source; the Danube that divides Into so many mouths restrains its flood Of waters—hardly moving past its shores. The winds are silent; but the waters speak, The wild seas roar; the home of ancient groves Loses its leafy shade; the day withdraws At my command; the sun stands still in heaven. My incantations move the Hyades. It is thy hour, Diana! For thee my bloody hands have wrought this crown Nine times by serpents girt; those knotted snakes Rebellious Typhon bore, who made revolt Against Jove's kingdom; Nessus gave this blood When dying; Œta's funeral pyre provides These ashes which have drunk the poisoned blood Of dying Hercules; and here thou seest Althea's vengeful brand. The harpies left These feathers in the pathless den they made A refuge when they fled from Zete's wrath; And these were dropped by the Stymphalian birds That felt the wound of arrows dipped in blood Of the Lernæan Hydra. The altars find a voice, the tripod moves Stirred by the favoring goddess. Her swift car I see approach—not the full-orbed that rolls All night through heaven; but as, with darkened light, Troubled by the Thessalians she comes, So her sad face upon my altars sheds A murky light. Terrify with new dread The men of earth! Costly Corinthian brass Sounds in thy honor, Hecate, and on ground Made red with blood I pay these solemn rites To thee; for thee have stolen from the tomb This torch that gives its baleful funeral light; To thee with bowed head I have made my prayer; And in accordance with my country's use, My loose hair filleted, have plucked for thee This branch that grows beside the Stygian wave; Like a wild Mænad, laying bare my breast, With sacred knife I cut for thee my arm; My blood is on the altars! Hand, learn well To strike thy dearest! See, my blood flows forth! Daughter of Perseus, have I asked too oft Thine aid? Recall no more my former prayers. To-day as always I invoke thine aid For Jason's sake alone! Endue this robe With such a baleful power that the bride May feel at its first touch consuming fire Of serpent's poison in her inmost veins; Let fire lurk hid in the bright gold, the fire Prometheus gave and taught men how to store— He now atones his daring theft from heaven With tortured vitals. Mulciber has given This flame, and I in sulphur nurtured it; I brought a spark from the destroying fire Of Phaeton; I have the flame breathed forth By the Chimæra, and the fire I snatched From Colchis' savage bull; and mixed with these Medusa's venom. I have bade all serve My secret sorcery; now, Hecate, add The sting of poison, aid the seeds of flame Hid in my gift; let them deceive the sight But burn the touch; let the heat penetrate Her very heart and veins, stiffen her limbs, Consume her bones in smoke. Her burning hair Shall glow more brightly than the nuptial torch! My vows are paid, and Hecate thrice has barked, And shaken fire from her funeral torch. 'Tis finished! Call my sons. My precious gifts, Ye shall be borne by them to the new bride. Go, go, my sons, a hapless mother's sons! Placate with gifts and prayers your father's wife! But come again with speed, that I may know A last embrace!

Seneca, Medea, Act 4, sc. 2.