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CHORUS
CHORUS.
596
Island of glory! whom the glowing eyes
Of all the wondering world immortalize,
Thou, Salamis, art planted evermore,
Happy amid the wandering billows’ roar;
While I—ah, woe the while!—this weary time,
By the green wold where flocks from Ida stray,
Lie worn with fruitless hours of wasted prime,
Hoping—ah, cheerless hope!—to win my way
Where Hades’ horrid gloom shall hide me from the day.
Aias is with me, yea, but crouching low,
Where Heaven-sent madness haunts his overthrow,
Beyond my cure or tendance: woful plight!
Whom thou, erewhile, to head the impetuous fight,
Sent’st forth, thy conquering champion. Now he feeds
His spirit on lone paths, and on us brings
Deep sorrow; and all his former peerless deeds
Of prowess fall like unremembered things
From Atreus’ loveless brood, this caitiff brace of kings.
Ah! when his mother, full of days and bowed
With hoary eld, shall hear his ruined mind,
How will she mourn aloud!
Not like the warbler of the dale,
The bird of piteous wail,
But in shrill strains far borne upon the wind,
While on the withered breast and thin white hair
Falls the resounding blow, the rending of despair.
Best hid in death were he whom madness drives
Remediless; if, through his father’s race
Born to the noblest place
Among the war-worn Greeks, he lives
By his own light no more,
Self-aliened from the self he knew before.
Oh, hapless sire, what woe thine ear shall wound!
One that of all thy line no life save this hath found.
Island of glory! whom the glowing eyes
Of all the wondering world immortalize,
Thou, Salamis, art planted evermore,
Happy amid the wandering billows’ roar;
While I—ah, woe the while!—this weary time,
By the green wold where flocks from Ida stray,
Lie worn with fruitless hours of wasted prime,
Hoping—ah, cheerless hope!—to win my way
Where Hades’ horrid gloom shall hide me from the day.
Aias is with me, yea, but crouching low,
Where Heaven-sent madness haunts his overthrow,
Beyond my cure or tendance: woful plight!
Whom thou, erewhile, to head the impetuous fight,
Sent’st forth, thy conquering champion. Now he feeds
His spirit on lone paths, and on us brings
Deep sorrow; and all his former peerless deeds
Of prowess fall like unremembered things
From Atreus’ loveless brood, this caitiff brace of kings.
Ah! when his mother, full of days and bowed
With hoary eld, shall hear his ruined mind,
How will she mourn aloud!
Not like the warbler of the dale,
The bird of piteous wail,
But in shrill strains far borne upon the wind,
While on the withered breast and thin white hair
Falls the resounding blow, the rending of despair.
Best hid in death were he whom madness drives
Remediless; if, through his father’s race
Born to the noblest place
Among the war-worn Greeks, he lives
By his own light no more,
Self-aliened from the self he knew before.
Oh, hapless sire, what woe thine ear shall wound!
One that of all thy line no life save this hath found.
Ajax. Sophocles. Lewis Campbell (Translator). London, New York and Toronto. 1906.