View:
By Card
Teucer
Scene VII.
Come hither, boy, bend down and touch thy
father ;
There sit, and, liolding in thy hands this hair
And liers and thine, the suppHant's humble treasure,
Offer thy pious prayers for thy dead father :
If from yon hostile camp the foe should come
1275
'J'o drive thee hence, far from his native land,
1275
Whoe'er he be, unburied may he lie.
1275
From his whole lace uprooted, torn away,
1275
E'en as this hair which here I cut before thee ;
Oh ! guard it well, my child ; and you my friends.
Behave like men — assist, protect him now,
Till I return, and, spite of all our foes,
Perform the rites, niid raise a tomb to Ajax. [Eocif.
Tecjiessa, Eurysaces, Chorus.
When will the happy hour appear,
That comes to calm our every fear,
From endless toil to bring us sweet repose.
To bid our weary wanderings cease.
To fold us in the arms of peace.
And put the wished-for period to our woes 1
For since the day when first to Troy we came
Nought have we known but grief, reproach, and
shame.
Oh ! that the man, who erst inspired
With honud rage, our Grecians fired
To slaught'rous deeds, and taught them first to fight,
Ere he had learned the dreadful trade,
1280
Himself had mingled with the dead,
1280
Or scattered wide in air, or sunk in endless night !
1280
For oh ! from war unnumbered e\'ils flow,
1280
The unexhausted source of every human woe.
By war disturbed, the genial board
No longer will its sweets aflbrd ;
Their fragrant odoui's round my head
The verdant wreaths no longer spread ;
Nor music's charms my soul delight,
Nor love with rapture crowns the night ;
No love, alas ! for me, but grief and care ;
For when I think of Troy I still despair,
And wet with many a tear my wild dishevelled hair.
Nor nightly fear nor hostile dart;
But all our pleasures now are o'er,
Oh ! could I climb the woody steep
That hangs incumbent o'er the deep.
From Sunium's cliff by waves for ever beat.
Then should my eye the lovely prospect greet,
And smile on sacred Athens rising at my feet.
Come hither, boy, bend down and touch thy
father ;
There sit, and, liolding in thy hands this hair
And liers and thine, the suppHant's humble treasure,
Offer thy pious prayers for thy dead father :
If from yon hostile camp the foe should come
1275
'J'o drive thee hence, far from his native land,
1275
Whoe'er he be, unburied may he lie.
1275
From his whole lace uprooted, torn away,
1275
E'en as this hair which here I cut before thee ;
Oh ! guard it well, my child ; and you my friends.
Behave like men — assist, protect him now,
Till I return, and, spite of all our foes,
Perform the rites, niid raise a tomb to Ajax. [Eocif.
Tecjiessa, Eurysaces, Chorus.
When will the happy hour appear,
That comes to calm our every fear,
From endless toil to bring us sweet repose.
To bid our weary wanderings cease.
To fold us in the arms of peace.
And put the wished-for period to our woes 1
For since the day when first to Troy we came
Nought have we known but grief, reproach, and
shame.
Oh ! that the man, who erst inspired
With honud rage, our Grecians fired
To slaught'rous deeds, and taught them first to fight,
Ere he had learned the dreadful trade,
1280
Himself had mingled with the dead,
1280
Or scattered wide in air, or sunk in endless night !
1280
For oh ! from war unnumbered e\'ils flow,
1280
The unexhausted source of every human woe.
By war disturbed, the genial board
No longer will its sweets aflbrd ;
Their fragrant odoui's round my head
The verdant wreaths no longer spread ;
Nor music's charms my soul delight,
Nor love with rapture crowns the night ;
No love, alas ! for me, but grief and care ;
For when I think of Troy I still despair,
And wet with many a tear my wild dishevelled hair.
Nor nightly fear nor hostile dart;
But all our pleasures now are o'er,
Oh ! could I climb the woody steep
That hangs incumbent o'er the deep.
From Sunium's cliff by waves for ever beat.
Then should my eye the lovely prospect greet,
And smile on sacred Athens rising at my feet.
Ajax. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.