whereby a child of
mine shall be born, excelling among the immortal Gods, without
dishonouring thy sacred bed or mine, for verily to thy bed I will not
come, but far from thee will nurse my grudge against the Immortal Gods."

So spake she, and withdrew from among the Gods with angered heart. Right
so she made her prayer, the ox-eyed lady Hera, striking the earth with
her hand flatlings, {121} and spake her word:

"Listen to me now, Earth, and wide Heavens above, and ye Gods called
Titans, dwelling beneath earth in great Tartarus, ye from whom spring
Gods and men! List to me now, all of you, and give me a child apart from
Zeus, yet nothing inferior to him in might, nay, stronger than he, as
much as far-seeing Zeus is mightier than Cronus!"

So spake she, and smote the ground with her firm hand. Then Earth, the
nurse of life, was stirred, and Hera, beholding it, was glad at heart,
for she deemed that her prayer would be accomplished. From that hour for
a full year she never came to the bed of wise Zeus, nor to her throne
adorned, whereon she was wont to sit, planning deep counsel, but dwelling
in her temples, the homes of Prayers, she took joy in her sacrifices, the
ox-eyed lady Hera.

Now when her months and days were fulfilled, the year revolving, and the
seasons in their course coming round, she bare a birth like neither Gods
nor mortals, the dread Typhaon, not to be dealt with, a bane of men. Him
now she took, the ox-eyed lady Hera, and carried and gave to the
Dragoness, to bitter nurse a bitter fosterling, who received him, that
ever wrought many wrongs among the renowned tribes of men.]

Whosoever met the Dragoness, on him would she bring the day of destiny,
before the Prince, far-darting Apollo, loosed at her the destroying
shaft; then writhing in strong anguish, and mightily panting she lay,
rolling about the land. Dread and dire was the din, as she writhed
hither and thither through the wood, and gave up the ghost, and Phoebus
spoke his malison:

"There do thou rot upon the fruitful earth; no longer shalt thou, at
least, live to be the evil bane of mortals that eat the fruit of the
fertile soil, and hither shall bring perfect hecatombs. Surely from thee
neither shall Typhoeus, nay, nor Chimaera of the evil name, shield death
that layeth low, but here shall black earth and bright Hyperion make thee
waste away."

So he spake in malison, and darkness veiled her eyes, and there the
sacred strength of t