 | Aias |  |
APPENDIX OF RHYMED CHORAL ODES AND LYRICAL DIALOGUES.
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.
348–427.
Aias.Stroph. I.
O sailors dear to me, my true friends still,
483
Ye see how o'er me waves of deadly ill
Go surging round and round.
Chorus.
Ah me! Too well thou speakest all the truth.
[Aside.]
Yet his acts show how frenzied is his soul.
Aias.
Antistroph. I.
O race of men who with my good ship sailed,
Who came and plied the oar,
Ye only have in trouble never failed;
Now slay me, I implore.
Chorus.
Hush, hush! nor seek fresh ill on ill to pour,
Nor make the weight of sorrow more and more.
Aias.
Stroph. II.
Thou see'st the brave and bold,
(Fearless in fight was he,)
His prowess show on brute beasts of the field:
Ah me! What scorn and outrage fall on me!
Tecmessa.
Dear lord! I pray thee, Aias, speak not thus.
Aias.
Away! Wilt thou not go?
Away with thee! ... Woe, woe!
Tecmessa.
Nay, by the Gods, be calm and yield to us.
484
O wretched fool, whose hands have failed to keep
My foe's accursèd brood,
And falling on horn'd kine and goodly sheep,
Poured out their purple blood!
Chorus.
Why wilt thou grieve at what is past and done?
These things can never be but as they are.
Aias.
O thou, who spy'st out all,
Thou son of Lartios, tool for all things vile,
Of all the host to shame the meanest thrall,
For joy of heart, I trow, thou now wilt smile.
Chorus.
It is through God we all or smile or wail.
Aias.
Ah! might I see him near,
Sore vexèd though I be with grief and fear. ...
Chorus.
Hush thy rash speech. What! See'st not where thou art?
Aias.
O Zeus, my father's God! Ah would that I,
Might on that scoundrel foe
And those two kings my vengeance work, and die
Myself by that same blow!
485
When this thou prayest, pray for my death too.
Why should I care for life when thou art dead?
Aias.
Stroph. III.
O dark that art my light!
O gloom that art to me supremely bright!
Oh, take me, I entreat,
Take me to dwell with you; I am not meet
To look to Heaven's high race
For any helping grace,
Nor yet to men whose brief days swiftly fleet.
But She, the mighty One,
Daughter of Zeus on high,
With shameful contumely,
My life to death hath done.
Where, where is room for flight?
Or whither roam and stay?
If evil day still follows evil night,
And we are hunting for a madman's prey,
Then should the whole host, hurling thrice strong spear,
Smite me and slay me here.
Tecmessa.
Ah misery! That one so brave and good
Should say the things he never dared before!
Aias.
Antistroph. III.
O ye paths of the waves!
Grove on the shore, and sea-encompassed caves!
Long time ye held me bound,
Imprisoned long, too long, on Troïa's ground,
486
As long as life shall flow;
This let him know with whom is wisdom found;
And ye, O streams, that glide,
Scamandros, murmuring near,
Friend to the Argives dear,
No longer at your side
Shall ye this hero see,
Of whom I dare proclaim,
Though great the boast, that of all Hellenes he
To Troïa came of mightiest name and fame;
But now, disgraced and whelmed with infamy,
All helpless here I lie.
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.
488
693–717.
Strophe.
I thrill with eager delight,
And with passionate joy I leap;
Io Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan!
Come over the waves from the height
Of the cliffs of Kyllene, where sweep
The storm-blasts of snow in their might!
Come, come, O King, at the head
Of the dance of the Gods as they tread,
That thou, with me, may'st twine
The self-taught Nysian line,
Or Knossian dance divine!
Right well I now may dance:
And o'er Icarian wave,
Coming with will to save,
May Delos' King, Apollo, gloriously advance!
Antistrophe.
And with passionate joy I leap;
Io Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan!
Come over the waves from the height
Of the cliffs of Kyllene, where sweep
The storm-blasts of snow in their might!
Come, come, O King, at the head
Of the dance of the Gods as they tread,
That thou, with me, may'st twine
The self-taught Nysian line,
Or Knossian dance divine!
Right well I now may dance:
And o'er Icarian wave,
Coming with will to save,
May Delos' King, Apollo, gloriously advance!
Yes, the dark sorrow and pain,
Far from me Ares hath set;
Io Pan! Io Pan! once more;
And now, O Zeus, yet again
May our swift-sailing vessels be met
By the dawn with clear light in its train.
Our Aias from woe is released,
And the wrath of the Gods hath appeased,
And now, with holiest care,
He offers reverent prayer.
Ah, great Time nought will spare:
Nought can I count as strange,
Since, out of hopeless pain,
Aias is calm again,
Nor lets his fierce hot wrath against the Atreidæ range.
Far from me Ares hath set;
Io Pan! Io Pan! once more;
And now, O Zeus, yet again
May our swift-sailing vessels be met
By the dawn with clear light in its train.
Our Aias from woe is released,
And the wrath of the Gods hath appeased,
And now, with holiest care,
He offers reverent prayer.
Ah, great Time nought will spare:
Nought can I count as strange,
Since, out of hopeless pain,
489
Nor lets his fierce hot wrath against the Atreidæ range.
1185–1222.
Stroph. I.
When will they cease, the years,
The long, long tale of years that come and go,
Bringing their ceaseless fears,
The toils of war that scatter woe on woe,
Through Troïa's champaign wide,
Reproach and shame to all the Hellenes' pride?
Antistroph. I.
The long, long tale of years that come and go,
Bringing their ceaseless fears,
The toils of war that scatter woe on woe,
Through Troïa's champaign wide,
Reproach and shame to all the Hellenes' pride?
Would that he first had trod
The wide, vast Heaven, or Hades, home of all,
Who erst the Hellenes showed
The hateful strife where men in conflict fall!
Ah, woes that woes begat!
For he, yes he, hath made men desolate.
Stroph. II.
The wide, vast Heaven, or Hades, home of all,
Who erst the Hellenes showed
The hateful strife where men in conflict fall!
Ah, woes that woes begat!
For he, yes he, hath made men desolate.
Yes he, e'en he, hath made it mine
To know nor joy of flowery wreaths,
Nor deep cups flowing o'er with wine,
Nor the sweet strain the soft flute breathes;
Nor yet (ah, woe! ah, cursed spite!)
The joy that crowns the livelong night.
To know nor joy of flowery wreaths,
Nor deep cups flowing o'er with wine,
Nor the sweet strain the soft flute breathes;
Nor yet (ah, woe! ah, cursed spite!)
The joy that crowns the livelong night.
Yes, he from love and all its joy
Has cut me off, ah me! ah me!
And here I linger still in Troy,
By all uncared for, sad to see,
My hair still wet with dew and rain;
Sad keepsake they from Troïa's plain!
Antistroph. II.
Has cut me off, ah me! ah me!
And here I linger still in Troy,
By all uncared for, sad to see,
490
Sad keepsake they from Troïa's plain!
Till now from every fear by night,
And bulwark against darts of foe,
Aias stood forward in his might,
But now the stern God lays him low:
Ah me! ah me! What share have I,
Yea what, in mirth and revelry?
And bulwark against darts of foe,
Aias stood forward in his might,
But now the stern God lays him low:
Ah me! ah me! What share have I,
Yea what, in mirth and revelry?
Ah! would that I my flight could take
Where o'er the sea the dark crags frown,
And on the rocks the wild waves break,
And woods the height of Sunion crown,
That so we might with welcome bless
Great Athens in her holiness!
Where o'er the sea the dark crags frown,
And on the rocks the wild waves break,
And woods the height of Sunion crown,
That so we might with welcome bless
Great Athens in her holiness!
| Aias | |