Lichas
248
No: but in Lydia he was long detain'd
Not free, such his account, but sold a slave.
We should not censure, Lady, what appears
Wrought by the hand of Jove. Betray'd, and sold
To the barbaric Omphale, he pass'd...
One tedious year a slave: but the disgrace
So stung his noble soul, that with an oath
He vow'd the author of this wrong, his wife,
And children should be slaves; nor vow'd in vain;
But, expiation made, with social hosts
Vengeful he march'd against the rampired walls
Of Eurytus, for him of all mankind
Alone he deem'd the cause of his disgrace,
Who, to his hearth when he approach'd, a friend
With hospitable rites received of old,
Insulted him aloud with taunting words,
And all the outrage of an hostile mind;
Reviling him as holding in his hands
Arrows by fate assign'd to reach the mark,
But that his sons excell'd him in the skill
To draw the bow; that by the nobly born
He as a slave should be trod down and crush'd;
Nay more, with wine when heated from his house:
He spurn'd him forth. Indignant at these wrongs,
O'er the Tirynthian hills when Iphitus
Search'd for his steeds that from their pastures roved,
His eye on other objects bent, his mind
On other thoughts engag'd, he hurl'd the youth
From the steep summit of the tow'ring rock.
Offended at the deed Olympian Jove,
The supreme king and father, sent him thence.
To slavery sold, nor brook'd a treacherous act
Unpractised but against this hapless youth:
250
With manly fortitude and front to front
250
In arms had he opposed him, heav'n's high king
250
Had pardon'd him, and deem'd his vengeance just;
250
But base insidious wrong the gods abhor.
250
But all those boasters, whose reviling tongues
250
Were wanton in their insolence, have now
250
Their mansions in the gloomy realms beneath,
250
And their proud city is enslaved. These dames,
250
Which here thou seest, from high and happy life
250
Sunk to this wretched state attend thy will.
250
Such are thy lord's commands, which I perform
250
With faithful zeal. When to his father Jove
250
The hallow'd victims for his conquest vow'd
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Are slain, expect him here: of my long speech,
250
Though grateful all, this gives thee highest joy.
250
Trachiniae. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.