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Tecmessa
My lord, loved Ajax, no severer ill,
485
Than the necessity of fate, can fall
485
On man's unhappy race. I was born free;
485
My father 'mongst the Phrygians of high pow'r,
485
And ample wealth; but now I am a slave;
485
Such was the pleasure of the gods, and such
485
Thy puissant hand. Led from that hour to share
Thy bed, to thee benevolent I deem
Thy welfare mine; and by Ephestian Jove, i
By the dear tie that binds my fate to thine,
I now implore thee, leave me not exposed
To the offensive insults of thy foes,
Ah, leave me not to other lords a slave!
For, shou'dst thou die, abandon'd and bereaved
Of thee that very day, be thou assured,
I, with thy son, by some proud Argive seized
By force abhorr'd, shall eat the wretched food
Of slavery; and some lord with bitter taunt
Shall cut me to the soul, and say, Behold
The wife of Ajax, of the Grecian host
Once the most potent, from that envied height
Sunk to this abject state of servitude :
Thus shall he taunt me, by ill fate depress'd,
With words to thee disgraceful, and thy race.
But, ah! respect thy father, left to waste
In grief the cheerless hours of age; respect
Thy mother, to the weight of many years
Consign'd; with pray'rs she oft invokes the gods
To see thee in her house with life return'd..
Pity thy son, O king; of thee bereaved,
490
Who shall instruct and form his infant mind,
490
Left to unfriendly guardians? Shou'dst thou die,
490
What ill to him and me dost thou bequeath?
490
Nothing remains for me, to which mine eye
490
Looks up, save thee. Beneath thy conquering spear
490
My ruin'd country, and my mother sunk;
Fate snatch'd my father to the realms below,
And both my parents have their mansion there.
What country will console me for thy loss,
What wealth? On thee my all of safety rests,
Then hold me in thy memory: it becomes
A man, if aught delightful to his soul
He hath received, to bear a grateful mind: A
Kindness gives birth to kindness; in the heart
When grateful memory holds its seat no more,
The man to every generous sense is lost,
My lord, loved Ajax, no severer ill,
485
Than the necessity of fate, can fall
485
On man's unhappy race. I was born free;
485
My father 'mongst the Phrygians of high pow'r,
485
And ample wealth; but now I am a slave;
485
Such was the pleasure of the gods, and such
485
Thy puissant hand. Led from that hour to share
Thy bed, to thee benevolent I deem
Thy welfare mine; and by Ephestian Jove, i
By the dear tie that binds my fate to thine,
I now implore thee, leave me not exposed
To the offensive insults of thy foes,
Ah, leave me not to other lords a slave!
For, shou'dst thou die, abandon'd and bereaved
Of thee that very day, be thou assured,
I, with thy son, by some proud Argive seized
By force abhorr'd, shall eat the wretched food
Of slavery; and some lord with bitter taunt
Shall cut me to the soul, and say, Behold
The wife of Ajax, of the Grecian host
Once the most potent, from that envied height
Sunk to this abject state of servitude :
Thus shall he taunt me, by ill fate depress'd,
With words to thee disgraceful, and thy race.
But, ah! respect thy father, left to waste
In grief the cheerless hours of age; respect
Thy mother, to the weight of many years
Consign'd; with pray'rs she oft invokes the gods
To see thee in her house with life return'd..
Pity thy son, O king; of thee bereaved,
490
Who shall instruct and form his infant mind,
490
Left to unfriendly guardians? Shou'dst thou die,
490
What ill to him and me dost thou bequeath?
490
Nothing remains for me, to which mine eye
490
Looks up, save thee. Beneath thy conquering spear
490
My ruin'd country, and my mother sunk;
Fate snatch'd my father to the realms below,
And both my parents have their mansion there.
What country will console me for thy loss,
What wealth? On thee my all of safety rests,
Then hold me in thy memory: it becomes
A man, if aught delightful to his soul
He hath received, to bear a grateful mind: A
Kindness gives birth to kindness; in the heart
When grateful memory holds its seat no more,
The man to every generous sense is lost,
Ajax. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.