Waters that flow (men say) from the far-off western sea,
Down the rock-face,
And gush from the steep
To a deep place
Where pitchers may dip far down—thence hath come a message to me.[469]
Phædra in her delirium sees visions of unfettered life “beneath the poplars, amid the deep grass,” she fancies herself cheering on the hunting hounds through the pine-glades, and yearns to feel in her grasp “the iron-pointed shaft”—words to which we come back with deeper pain when in almost the same language Hippolytus, now himself delirious, longs to let out his tortured life with a “two-edged spear”.[470] When she enters the house to seek death, the chorus pour forth their yearning for escape from the sin and sorrow of this life to romantic regions where all is grace and unstained peace:—[471]
In yon precipice-face might I hide me from sorrow,
And God, in his love, of the air make me free!
Ah, to speed with the sea-gulls—alight on the morrow
Where Eridanus mingles his waves with the sea!