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.
But waft me forth to roam
Far from the native region of my home,
Ere death me find, oppressed with wild affright
Of him, the valiant son of Zeus most High!
Before the house, they tell, he fareth nigh,
With torment unapproachable distraught.
(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?
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,
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,
The terrible recurrent power of pain,
My foolish words are done,
But my full heart sinks ’neath the heavy strain.
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!
’Twas better to have lurked in silent shade
And not thus widely throw
The slumber from his eyelids and his head.
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?
Mine eyes, if such I saw,
Would hail him from afar with trembling awe.
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
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.
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!
