Book 7
Medea worked on Aegeus to present
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his own son, Theseus, with a deadly cup
of aconite; prevailing by her art
so that he deemed his son an enemy.
Theseus unwittingly received the cup,
but just before he touched it to his lips,
his father recognized the sword he wore,
for, graven on its ivory hilt was wrought
a known device—the token of his race.
Astonished, Aegeus struck the poison-cup
from his devoted son's confiding lips.
Medea suddenly escaped from death,
in a dark whirlwind her witch-singing raised.
Recoiling from such utter wickedness,
rejoicing that his son escaped from death,
the grateful father kindled altar-fires,
and gave rich treasure to the living Gods. —
He slaughtered scores of oxen, decked with flowers
and gilded horns. The sun has never shone
upon a day more famous in that land,
for all the elders and the common folk
united in festivities,—with wine
inspiring wit and song;—“O you,” they sang,
“Immortal Theseus, victory was yours!
Did you not slaughter the huge bull of Crete?
“Yes, you did slay the boar of Cromyon —
where now the peasant unmolested plows;
“And Periphetes, wielder of the club,
was worsted when he struggled with your strength;
“And fierce Procrustes, matched with you
beside the rapid river, met his death;
“And even Cercyon, in Eleusis lost
his wicked life—inferior to your might;
“And Sinis, a monstrosity of strength,
who bent the trunks of trees, and used his might
“Against the world for everything that's wrong.
For evil, he would force down to the earth,
“Pine tops to shoot men's bodies through the air.
Even the road to Megara is safe,
“For you did hurl the robber Scyron,—sheer—
