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Chorus
To the sheltering roof, to the old man’s couch, leaning on my staff have I set forth,
chanting a plaintive dirge like some bird grown grey, I that am only a voice and a fancy bred of the visions of sleep by night, palsied with age, yet meaning kindly. All hail! you orphaned children!
110
all hail, old friend! you too, unhappy mother, wailing for your husband in the halls of Hades!
115
To the sheltering roof, to the old man’s couch, leaning on my staff have I set forth,
chanting a plaintive dirge like some bird grown grey, I that am only a voice and a fancy bred of the visions of sleep by night, palsied with age, yet meaning kindly. All hail! you orphaned children!
110
all hail, old friend! you too, unhappy mother, wailing for your husband in the halls of Hades!
115
Chorus
Do not faint too soon upon your way,
or let your limbs grow weary, as a colt beneath the yoke grows weary as he mounts some stony hill, dragging the weight of a wheeled chariot. Take hold of hand or robe, who ever feels his footsteps falter.
120
Old friend, escort another like yourself, who once amid his toiling peers in the days of our youth would take his place beside you, no blot upon his country’s glorious record.
125
Do not faint too soon upon your way,
or let your limbs grow weary, as a colt beneath the yoke grows weary as he mounts some stony hill, dragging the weight of a wheeled chariot. Take hold of hand or robe, who ever feels his footsteps falter.
120
Old friend, escort another like yourself, who once amid his toiling peers in the days of our youth would take his place beside you, no blot upon his country’s glorious record.
125
Chorus
See, how like their father’s sternly flash these children’s eyes! Misfortune has not failed his children, nor yet has his comeliness been denied them.
130
O
Hellas
! if you lose these, of what allies will you rob yourself!
135
See, how like their father’s sternly flash these children’s eyes! Misfortune has not failed his children, nor yet has his comeliness been denied them.
130
O
Hellas
! if you lose these, of what allies will you rob yourself!
135
Heracles. Euripides. Edward P. Coleridge (Translator). London. 1891.
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Funding provided by The Annenberg CPB/Project.