View:
By Card
AI
545
Lift him to me: lift him! He will not fear
545
At sight of this fresh havoc of the sword,
545
If rightly he be fathered of my blood.
545
Like some young colt he must be trained and taught
545
To run fierce courses with his warrior sire.
545
Be luckier than thy father, boy! but else
545
Be like him, and thy life will not be low.
545
One thing even now I envy thee, that none
545
Of all this misery pierces to thy mind.
545
For life is sweetest in the void of sense,
545
Ere thou know joy or sorrow. But when this
Hath found thee, make thy father’s enemies
Feel the great parent in the valiant child.
Meantime grow on in tender youthfulness,
Nursed by light breezes, gladdening this thy mother.
No Greek shall trample thee with brutal harm,
That I know well, though I shall not be near—
So stout a warder to protect thy life
I leave in Teucer. He’ll not fail, though now
He follow far the chase upon his foes.
My trusty warriors, people of the sea,
Be this your charge, no less,—and bear to him
My clear commandment, that he take this boy
Home to my fatherland, and make him known
To Telamon, and Eriboea too,
My mother. Let him tend them in their age.
And, for mine armour, let not that be made
The award of Grecian umpires or of him
Who ruined me. But thou, named of the shield,
Eurysakes, hold mine, the unpierceable
Seven-hided buckler, and by the well stitched thong
Grasp firm and wield it mightily.—The rest
Shall lie where I am buried.—Take him now,
Quickly, and close the door. No tears! What! weep
Before the tent? How women crave for pity!
Make fast, I say. No wise physician dreams
With droning charms to salve a desperate sore.
Lift him to me: lift him! He will not fear
545
At sight of this fresh havoc of the sword,
545
If rightly he be fathered of my blood.
545
Like some young colt he must be trained and taught
545
To run fierce courses with his warrior sire.
545
Be luckier than thy father, boy! but else
545
Be like him, and thy life will not be low.
545
One thing even now I envy thee, that none
545
Of all this misery pierces to thy mind.
545
For life is sweetest in the void of sense,
545
Ere thou know joy or sorrow. But when this
Hath found thee, make thy father’s enemies
Feel the great parent in the valiant child.
Meantime grow on in tender youthfulness,
Nursed by light breezes, gladdening this thy mother.
No Greek shall trample thee with brutal harm,
That I know well, though I shall not be near—
So stout a warder to protect thy life
I leave in Teucer. He’ll not fail, though now
He follow far the chase upon his foes.
My trusty warriors, people of the sea,
Be this your charge, no less,—and bear to him
My clear commandment, that he take this boy
Home to my fatherland, and make him known
To Telamon, and Eriboea too,
My mother. Let him tend them in their age.
And, for mine armour, let not that be made
The award of Grecian umpires or of him
Who ruined me. But thou, named of the shield,
Eurysakes, hold mine, the unpierceable
Seven-hided buckler, and by the well stitched thong
Grasp firm and wield it mightily.—The rest
Shall lie where I am buried.—Take him now,
Quickly, and close the door. No tears! What! weep
Before the tent? How women crave for pity!
Make fast, I say. No wise physician dreams
With droning charms to salve a desperate sore.
Ajax. Sophocles. Lewis Campbell (Translator). London, New York and Toronto. 1906.