 | Aias |  |
477
133–262.
O Son of Telamon,
Who hast thine home in sea-girt Salamis,
Where the waves plash and moan,
I joy when all with thee goes well and right;
But when the stroke of Zeus thy head doth smite,
Or from the Danai evil rumour flies,
Spread far by enemies,
Then am I filled with dread, and, like a dove,
In fear and trembling move,
And glance with shuddering eyes.
And now this very night, its end just come,
Great sorrows on us press,
Hearing ill news, that thou
Hast rushed upon the meadow where they roam,
Our good steeds numberless,
And there hast slain the Danai's treasured spoil,
All that was left us, won by war's sharp toil,
And dost destroy them now
With the keen, bright-edged sword.
Who hast thine home in sea-girt Salamis,
Where the waves plash and moan,
I joy when all with thee goes well and right;
But when the stroke of Zeus thy head doth smite,
Or from the Danai evil rumour flies,
Spread far by enemies,
Then am I filled with dread, and, like a dove,
In fear and trembling move,
And glance with shuddering eyes.
And now this very night, its end just come,
Great sorrows on us press,
Hearing ill news, that thou
Hast rushed upon the meadow where they roam,
Our good steeds numberless,
And there hast slain the Danai's treasured spoil,
All that was left us, won by war's sharp toil,
And dost destroy them now
With the keen, bright-edged sword.
Yea, such the gist of every whispered word
Odysseus now to each man's hearing brings,
And gains belief too well;
For lo! he tells of things
That now are found of thee too credible,
And every one that hears
Rejoiceth more than he who tells the tale,
And has but taunts and jeers
For all the sorrows that o'er thee prevail;
For if one takes his aim
Against the great,
He shall not fail, attacking their fair fame;
But one who should relate
Such tales of me would little credence gain,
For envy still attends on high estate;
And yet the poor but little may sustain,
Weak tower and bulwark they,
Who have not great and mighty men their stay;
And still the great must own
The poor and weak the best props of their throne.
Yet men are slow to see,
Senseless and blind, the truth of laws like these.
And now, O king, on thee
Such men pour idle clamour, as they please,
And we are weak and frail,
And without thee to ward them off we fail;
But when thy form shall fill their souls with fear,
As flocks of wingèd birds in fluttering haste,
When swoops a vulture near,
Raise din and chattering loud,
So, should'st thou once appear,
They too would crouch in dread, a dumb and voiceless crowd.
Strophe.
Odysseus now to each man's hearing brings,
And gains belief too well;
For lo! he tells of things
That now are found of thee too credible,
And every one that hears
478
And has but taunts and jeers
For all the sorrows that o'er thee prevail;
For if one takes his aim
Against the great,
He shall not fail, attacking their fair fame;
But one who should relate
Such tales of me would little credence gain,
For envy still attends on high estate;
And yet the poor but little may sustain,
Weak tower and bulwark they,
Who have not great and mighty men their stay;
And still the great must own
The poor and weak the best props of their throne.
Yet men are slow to see,
Senseless and blind, the truth of laws like these.
And now, O king, on thee
Such men pour idle clamour, as they please,
And we are weak and frail,
And without thee to ward them off we fail;
But when thy form shall fill their souls with fear,
As flocks of wingèd birds in fluttering haste,
When swoops a vulture near,
Raise din and chattering loud,
So, should'st thou once appear,
They too would crouch in dread, a dumb and voiceless crowd.
Yes, of a truth, the huntress Artemis,
Daughter of Zeus, the wild bull bringing low,
(O dark and evil fame!
O mother of my shame!)
She, she hath urged and driven thee on to this,
Against the people's herds with sword to go.
Was it for conquest whence she did not bear
In war's success her share?
Or was she tricked of gifts of glorious spoils,
Or wild deer quarry, taken in the toils?
Or was it Enyalios, brazen-clad,
Brooding o'er fancied slight
For help in war whence he no booty had,
Who thus avenged his wrong in stratagems of night?
Antistrophe.
Daughter of Zeus, the wild bull bringing low,
(O dark and evil fame!
O mother of my shame!)
She, she hath urged and driven thee on to this,
479
Was it for conquest whence she did not bear
In war's success her share?
Or was she tricked of gifts of glorious spoils,
Or wild deer quarry, taken in the toils?
Or was it Enyalios, brazen-clad,
Brooding o'er fancied slight
For help in war whence he no booty had,
Who thus avenged his wrong in stratagems of night?
For never else, O son of Telamon,
Had'st thou, from peace and healthy calmness driven,
(Turning so far astray
As these poor brutes to slay,)
To dark, sinister ill so madly gone!
It may be that this evil comes from Heaven;
But Zeus and Phœbos, may they still avert
The Argives' words of hurt!
But if the mighty kings, with evil will,
Spread tidings false, or, sunk in deepest ill,
That off-shoot of the stock of Sisyphos,
Do not, O king, I pray,
Still by the waves in tents abiding thus,
Take to thy shame and mine the evil that they say.
Epode.
Had'st thou, from peace and healthy calmness driven,
(Turning so far astray
As these poor brutes to slay,)
To dark, sinister ill so madly gone!
It may be that this evil comes from Heaven;
But Zeus and Phœbos, may they still avert
The Argives' words of hurt!
But if the mighty kings, with evil will,
Spread tidings false, or, sunk in deepest ill,
That off-shoot of the stock of Sisyphos,
Do not, O king, I pray,
Still by the waves in tents abiding thus,
Take to thy shame and mine the evil that they say.
Rise from thy seat, arise,
Where all too long thou hast unmoved stayed on,
Kindling a woe that spreadeth to the skies,
While thy foes' haughty scorn its course doth run,
With nothing to restrain,
As in a thicket when the wind blows fair;
And all take up the strain,
And tell of things that drive me to despair:
For me is nought but pain.
Tecmessa.
Where all too long thou hast unmoved stayed on,
Kindling a woe that spreadeth to the skies,
While thy foes' haughty scorn its course doth run,
With nothing to restrain,
As in a thicket when the wind blows fair;
And all take up the strain,
480
For me is nought but pain.
O men, who came to aid
Our Aias, ye who trace your ancient birth
To old Erectheus, sprung from out the earth,
We who watch, half afraid,
Far from his home, o'er Telamon's dear son,
Have cause enough to wail;
Aias, the dread, strong, mighty to prevail,
Lies smitten low
By stormy blast of wild tempestuous woe.
Chorus.
What trouble burdensome,
In place of peace and rest,
Hath the night to us brought?
O thou from Phrygia come,
Child of Teleutas old,
Speak thou at our behest,
For Aias holds thee high in his esteem,
Prize of his prowess bold;
And thou would'st speak not ignorant, I deem.
Tecmessa.
Yet how can I speak aught
Of what with woe unspeakable is fraught?
Dreadful and dark the things that thou wilt hear;
For Aias in the night
Hath fallen in evil plight:
Yes he, the great, far-famed, sits raving there.
Such the dread sight would meet thy shrinking eyes
Within his tent,
481
The hero's sacrifice.
Chorus.
Strophe.
Ah me! what news of fear
Of him, the man of spirit bright and keen,
Thou bringest to our ear,
Tidings we may not bear,
While yet no way of 'scaping them is seen,
By the great Danai spread,
Which mighty Rumour swells to form more dread:
Ah me! I fear, I fear,
What creepeth near and near;
In sight of all men draws he nigh to death;
For he with hand to frenzy turned aside,
And dark sword's edge hath slain
The herds that roamed the plain
And keepers who were there the steeds to guide.
Tecmessa.
Ah me! 'Twas thence he rushed,
Dragging the flock of sheep as bound with chain;
And some he stabbed until the blood outgushed,
And some with one sharp stroke he clove in twain;
And, seizing two swift rams with white-woolled feet,
Of one he took the head and tore the tongue,
And both away he flung;
The other to a column bound upright,
Taking his chariot's rein,
And with his double scourge that rings again,
Still more and more did smite,
Uttering foul words of shame,
Which never from a man, but from a demon came.
482
Antistrophe.
Now it is time to hide
One's head beneath the shelter of the veil,
Or in the ships that glide,
Swiftly o'er ocean's tide,
On bench of rowers sitting swift to sail:
Such are the threats they fling,
The two Atreidæ, each a sovereign king,
Against me, and I dread
Lest I should lie there dead,
By fearful fate of stoning doomed to die,
Sharing the woe of him our lord and friend,
Whom shame and dark disgrace,
That none may dare to face,
As prisoner keep, and hold him to the end.
Tecmessa.
Nay, it is so no more;
For as the swift South-west,
That rushes on without the lightning-blaze,
Soon lulls its tempest roar,
So he is calm; and now his care-worn breast
Broods o'er new trouble, filled with sore amaze;
For to look out on ills ourselves have wrought,
Which no hand else has brought,
This of all grief and pain
Is hardest to sustain.
| Aias | |