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CHORUS.
Lo! where the hero’s housemate and his child,
Hitting the moment’s need, appear at hand,
To tend the burial of the ill fated dead.
Come, child, take thou thy station close beside:
Kneel and embrace the author of thy life,
In solemn suppliant fashion holding forth
This lock of thine own hair, and hers, and mine
With threefold consecration, that if one
Of the army force thee from thy father’s corse,
My curse may banish him from holy ground,
Far from his home, unburied, and cut off
From all his race, even as I cut this curl.
There, hold him, child, and guard him; let no hand
Stir thee, but lean to the calm breast and cling.
() And ye, be not like women in this scene,
Nor let your manhoods falter; stand true men
1180
To this defence, till I return prepared,
1180
Though all cry No, to give him burial.
1180
When shall the tale of wandering years be done?
1180
When shall arise our exile’s latest sun?
1180
Oh, where shall end the incessant woe
1180
Of troublous spear-encounter with the foe,
1180
Through this vast Trojan plain,
1180
Of Grecian arms the lamentable stain?
Would he had gone to inhabit the wide sky,
Or that dark home of death where millions lie,
Who taught our Grecian world the way
To use vile swords and knit the dense array!
His toil gave birth to toil
In endless line. He made mankind his spoil.
His tyrant will hath forced me to forgo
The garland, and the goblet’s bounteous flow:
Yea, and the flute’s dear noise,
And night’s more tranquil joys;
Ay me! nor only these,
The fruits of golden ease,
But Love, but Love—O crowning sorrow!—
Hath ceased for me. I may not borrow
Sweet thoughts from him to smooth my dreary bed,
Where dank night-dews fall ever on my head,
Lest once I might forget the sadness of the morrow.
Even here in Troy, Aias was erst my rock,
From darkling fears and ’mid the battle-shock
To screen me with huge might:
Now he is lost in night
And horror. Where again
Shall gladness heal my pain?
O were I where the waters hoary,
Round Sunium’s pine-clad promontory,
Plash underneath the flowery upland height.
Then holiest Athens soon would come in sight,
And to Athena’s self I might declare my story.
Lo! where the hero’s housemate and his child,
Hitting the moment’s need, appear at hand,
To tend the burial of the ill fated dead.
Come, child, take thou thy station close beside:
Kneel and embrace the author of thy life,
In solemn suppliant fashion holding forth
This lock of thine own hair, and hers, and mine
With threefold consecration, that if one
Of the army force thee from thy father’s corse,
My curse may banish him from holy ground,
Far from his home, unburied, and cut off
From all his race, even as I cut this curl.
There, hold him, child, and guard him; let no hand
Stir thee, but lean to the calm breast and cling.
() And ye, be not like women in this scene,
Nor let your manhoods falter; stand true men
1180
To this defence, till I return prepared,
1180
Though all cry No, to give him burial.
1180
When shall the tale of wandering years be done?
1180
When shall arise our exile’s latest sun?
1180
Oh, where shall end the incessant woe
1180
Of troublous spear-encounter with the foe,
1180
Through this vast Trojan plain,
1180
Of Grecian arms the lamentable stain?
Would he had gone to inhabit the wide sky,
Or that dark home of death where millions lie,
Who taught our Grecian world the way
To use vile swords and knit the dense array!
His toil gave birth to toil
In endless line. He made mankind his spoil.
His tyrant will hath forced me to forgo
The garland, and the goblet’s bounteous flow:
Yea, and the flute’s dear noise,
And night’s more tranquil joys;
Ay me! nor only these,
The fruits of golden ease,
But Love, but Love—O crowning sorrow!—
Hath ceased for me. I may not borrow
Sweet thoughts from him to smooth my dreary bed,
Where dank night-dews fall ever on my head,
Lest once I might forget the sadness of the morrow.
Even here in Troy, Aias was erst my rock,
From darkling fears and ’mid the battle-shock
To screen me with huge might:
Now he is lost in night
And horror. Where again
Shall gladness heal my pain?
O were I where the waters hoary,
Round Sunium’s pine-clad promontory,
Plash underneath the flowery upland height.
Then holiest Athens soon would come in sight,
And to Athena’s self I might declare my story.
Ajax. Sophocles. Lewis Campbell (Translator). London, New York and Toronto. 1906.