 | Aias |  |
596–645.
Stroph. I.
O glorious Salamis!
Thou dwellest where the salt waves hurl their sprays,
Crowned with all brightest bliss,
And all men own thee worthy of great praise;
And I (ah, wretched me!
The time is long since I abandoned thee)
In Ida staying still,
Or when the frost was chill,
Or when the grass was green upon the hill,
Through all the long, long months innumerable,
Here, worn with sorrow, dwell.
Antistroph. I.
Thou dwellest where the salt waves hurl their sprays,
Crowned with all brightest bliss,
And all men own thee worthy of great praise;
And I (ah, wretched me!
The time is long since I abandoned thee)
In Ida staying still,
Or when the frost was chill,
Or when the grass was green upon the hill,
Through all the long, long months innumerable,
Here, worn with sorrow, dwell.
And Aias with us still,
Stays as fresh foe, and difficult to heal,
Dwelling with frenzied ill;
Whom thou of old did'st send with sword of steel,
Mighty in strife of war;
And now, in dreary loneliness of soul,
To all his friends around
Great sorrow is he found;
And deeds that did in noblest good abound,
With Atreus' sons, as deeds of foe to foe,
Are fallen, fallen low.
Stroph. II.
Stays as fresh foe, and difficult to heal,
Dwelling with frenzied ill;
Whom thou of old did'st send with sword of steel,
487
And now, in dreary loneliness of soul,
To all his friends around
Great sorrow is he found;
And deeds that did in noblest good abound,
With Atreus' sons, as deeds of foe to foe,
Are fallen, fallen low.
Now of a truth outworn
With length of years,
In hoary age his mother loud shall mourn,
When she with bitter tears
Of that his frenzied mood shall hear the tale,
And weep, ah, well-a-day!
Nor will she utter wail
Like mourning nightingale,
That sadly sings in tone of mood distressed;
But echoing hands shall smite upon her breast,
And she, her grey hair tearing, shall lament alway.
Antistroph. II.
With length of years,
In hoary age his mother loud shall mourn,
When she with bitter tears
Of that his frenzied mood shall hear the tale,
And weep, ah, well-a-day!
Nor will she utter wail
Like mourning nightingale,
That sadly sings in tone of mood distressed;
But echoing hands shall smite upon her breast,
And she, her grey hair tearing, shall lament alway.
Far better did he lie
In Hades drear,
Who is sore vexed, sore vexed with vanity,
Who doth no more appear
(Though boasting high descent in long array)
Steadfast in temper true,
But wanders far astray;
Ah, father, dark the day!
So sad a tale awaits thee now to hear,
Thy child's sore trouble, woe that none may bear,
Which until now the sons of Æacos ne'er knew.
In Hades drear,
Who is sore vexed, sore vexed with vanity,
Who doth no more appear
(Though boasting high descent in long array)
Steadfast in temper true,
But wanders far astray;
Ah, father, dark the day!
So sad a tale awaits thee now to hear,
Thy child's sore trouble, woe that none may bear,
Which until now the sons of Æacos ne'er knew.
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