Sophocles Trachiniae 163

Lewis Campbell (Translator)

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CHORUS
CHORUS . MONODY . 947
Which shall come first in my wail,
Which shall be last to prevail,
Is a doubt that will never be done.
Trouble at home may be seen,
Trouble is looked for with teen;
And to have and to look for are one.
Would some fair wind
But waft me forth to roam
Far from the native region of my home,
Ere death me find, oppressed with wild affright
Even at the sudden sight
Of him, the valiant son of Zeus most High!
Before the house, they tell, he fareth nigh,
A wonder beyond thought,
With torment unapproachable distraught.
Hark! ...
The cause then of my cry
Was coming all too nigh:
(Doth the clear nightingale lament for nought?)
Some step of stranger folk is this way brought.
As for a friend they love
Heavy and slow with noiseless feet they move.
Which way? which way? Ah me! behold him come.
His pallid lips are dumb.
Dead, or at rest in sleep? What shall I say?
Oh, woe is me!
My father, piteous woe for thee!
Oh, whither shall I turn my thought! Ah me!
Hush! speak not, O my child,
Lest torment fierce and wild
Rekindle in thy father’s rugged breast,
And break this rest
Where now his life is held at point to fall.
With firm lips clenched refrain thy voice through all.
Yet tell me, doth he live,
Old sir?
Wake not the slumberer,
Nor kindle and revive
The terrible recurrent power of pain,
My son!
My foolish words are done,
But my full heart sinks ’neath the heavy strain.
O Father, who are these?
What countrymen? Where am I? What far land
Holds me in pain that ceaseth not? Ah me!
Again that pest is rending me. Pain, pain!
Now thou may’st know
’Twas better to have lurked in silent shade
And not thus widely throw
The slumber from his eyelids and his head.
I could not brook
All speechless on his misery to look.
O altar on the Euboean strand,
High-heaped with offerings from my hand,
What meed for lavish gifts bestowed
From thy new sanctuary hath flowed!
Father of Gods! thy cruel power
Hath foiled me with an evil blight.
Ah! would mine eyes had closed in night
Ere madness in a fatal hour
Had burst upon them with a blaze,
No help or soothing once allays!
What hand to heal, what voice to charm,
Can e’er dispel this hideous harm?
Whose skill save thine,
Monarch Divine?
Mine eyes, if such I saw,
Would hail him from afar with trembling awe.
Ah! ah!
O vex me not, touch me not, leave me to rest,
To sleep my last sleep on Earth’s gentle breast.
You touch me, you press me, you turn me again,
You break me, you kill me! O pain! O pain!
You have kindled the pang that had slumbered still.
It comes, it hath seized me with tyrannous will!
Where are ye, men, whom over Hellas wide
This arm hath freed, and o’er the ocean-tide,
And through rough brakes, from every monstrous thing?
Yet now in mine affliction none will bring
A sword to aid, a fire to quell this fire,
O most unrighteous! nor to my desire
Will come and quench the hateful life I hold
With mortal stroke! Ah! is there none so bold?
Son of our hero, this hath mounted past
My feeble force to cope with. Take him thou!
Fresher thine eye and more the hope thou hast
Than mine to save him.
I support him now
Thus with mine arm: but neither fleshly vest
Nor inmost spirit can I lull to rest
From torture. None may dream
To wield this power, save he, the King supreme.
Son!
Where art thou to lift me and hold me aright?
It tears me, it kills me, it rushes in might,
This cruel, devouring, unconquered pain
Shoots forth to consume me. Again! again!
O Fate! O Athena!—O son, at my word
Have pity and slay me with merciful sword!
Pity thy father, boy; with sharp relief
Smite on my breast, and heal the wrathful grief
Wherewith thy mother, God-abandoned wife,
Hath wrought this ruin on her husband’s life.
O may I see her falling, even so
As she hath thrown me, to like depth of woe!
Sweet Hades, with swift death,
Brother of Zeus, release my suffering breath!

Trachiniae. Sophocles. Lewis Campbell (Translator). London, New York and Toronto. 1906.

Current edition Experimental

English (Lewis Campbell, 1906) (OCR draft) (English) (English (Lewis Campbell, 1906))

Provisional text from uncorrected OCR; expect errors.

Editions (2)
Greek (Lewis Campbell, 1879) (OCR draft) Experimental (Greek (Lewis Campbell, 1879)) — 163 focus
μοῖραν πατρώας γῆς διαιρετὸν νέμοι διαιρετὸν μένειν,
Greek (F. Storr, 1912) (OCR draft) Experimental (Greek (F. Storr, 1912)) — 141-204 focus
Translations (4)
German (J. J. C. Donner, 1875; OCR review) (OCR draft) Experimental (German (J. J. C. Donner, 1875; OCR review)) — 180 focus
Ich bin der erste Bote, der von deiner Angst
Dich löst, o Deianeira; denn Alkmene's Sohn
175
Er lebt, und kommt als Sieger, und vom Kampfe bringt
Er unsers Landes Göttern hier die Erstlinge.
English (Thomas Francklin, 1758–1759) (OCR draft) Experimental (English (Thomas Francklin, 1758–1759)) — 163 focus
Hercules
Meant she well to slay
Thy father?
English (Robert Potter, 1788) (OCR draft) Experimental (English (Robert Potter, 1788)) — 163 focus
Hercules
Ah, to what region am I come? O Jove,
English (Sir Richard Jebb, 1904) (OCR draft) Experimental (English (Sir Richard Jebb, 1904)) — 141-495 focus

Commentary

Commentary (R. C. Jebb) (OCR draft) (Commentary (R. C. Jebb))

mvp-comment-486-1 πότερα πρότερον 1

mvp-comment-486-2 μέλεα 2 τέλεα 3

Commentary (Lewis Campbell, 1879) (OCR draft) (Commentary (Lewis Campbell, 1879)) focus

947. mvp-comment-687-1 foll. The Nurse goes into the house to lay out the body of Deianira. The Chorus, who, down to l. 862, had been lamenting the imminent fate of Heracles, are doubting whether they should not mourn for Deianira first, when Heracles is brought in, and awakes in agony. The following is the scheme of metres from 947-970...

947. mvp-comment-687-2 πότερ' *ἄρα] This reading is as near to the MSS. as the vulgate πότερα. and secures a more exact metrical correspondence with l.950. For the sense, cp Phil. 337, 8, ἀμηχανῶ δὲ πότερον, ὦ τέκνον, τὸ σὸν | πάθημ᾽ ἐλέγχω πρῶτον, ἢ κεῖνον στένω.