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Tecmessa
284
Thou shalt know all, as one that shares the grief.
The night was far advanced, the evening lamps
No longer blazed, when grasping in his hand
His dreadful sword, he bent his eager steps
Towards the passes from all haunt now clear;
285
I gently chide him, What thy purpose now?..
285
Of herald calls thee, nor the trumpet's sound,
285
Why thus rush forth? Now all the army sleeps.
Few were his words, the tune of every tongue,..
"To women silence gives their proper grace."
I stood rebuked, he issued forth alone.
What then befel I know not: he return'd
Driving in bonds the bulls, the herdsmen's dogs,
And lowing herds; some by his sword was slain,
And hewn in pieces; some like captives bound,
Raging against the flocks, he scourged as men.
At length he issued from the tent, and held
Long converse with some shadow; of the sons
Of Atreus much, and of Ulysses much
He spoke, and laugh'd aloud, how their base deeds
He in this sally amply had revenged.
290
Slow he regain'd; but when he saw the ground
290
With carnage cover'd thus, he smote his head,
290
And raised a mournful cry; then prostrate lay
Stretch'd 'midst the havoc of the slaughter'd flocks,
Rending with violence his hair. Long time
He lay, nor utter'd word; with rigorous threats
Then bade me tell him every circumstance
Of what had pass'd, and whence the carnage ask'd
That lay around him: struck with fear, my friends,
Distinct I told him all that had been done,
Far as I knew it; strait with mournful cries
Loud he lamented; such from him before
I never heard; for wailings he disdain'd
As marks of base and abject minds, nor gave
His griefs a voice, but like a murmuring bull
Groan'd inwardly: and now in this ill plight,
295
Refusing to be cheer'd with food or wine,
295
Grovelling amidst the slaughter'd herds he sits
295
In gloomy silence, forming in his mind
Some ill intent; this his imperfect words
And griefs denote. But, O my friends, (this cause
Impell'd me forth to seek you) go to him,
Give him your aid, if aught avails your pow'r;
Oft on such minds the words of friends prevail.
Thou shalt know all, as one that shares the grief.
The night was far advanced, the evening lamps
No longer blazed, when grasping in his hand
His dreadful sword, he bent his eager steps
Towards the passes from all haunt now clear;
285
I gently chide him, What thy purpose now?..
285
Of herald calls thee, nor the trumpet's sound,
285
Why thus rush forth? Now all the army sleeps.
Few were his words, the tune of every tongue,..
"To women silence gives their proper grace."
I stood rebuked, he issued forth alone.
What then befel I know not: he return'd
Driving in bonds the bulls, the herdsmen's dogs,
And lowing herds; some by his sword was slain,
And hewn in pieces; some like captives bound,
Raging against the flocks, he scourged as men.
At length he issued from the tent, and held
Long converse with some shadow; of the sons
Of Atreus much, and of Ulysses much
He spoke, and laugh'd aloud, how their base deeds
He in this sally amply had revenged.
290
Slow he regain'd; but when he saw the ground
290
With carnage cover'd thus, he smote his head,
290
And raised a mournful cry; then prostrate lay
Stretch'd 'midst the havoc of the slaughter'd flocks,
Rending with violence his hair. Long time
He lay, nor utter'd word; with rigorous threats
Then bade me tell him every circumstance
Of what had pass'd, and whence the carnage ask'd
That lay around him: struck with fear, my friends,
Distinct I told him all that had been done,
Far as I knew it; strait with mournful cries
Loud he lamented; such from him before
I never heard; for wailings he disdain'd
As marks of base and abject minds, nor gave
His griefs a voice, but like a murmuring bull
Groan'd inwardly: and now in this ill plight,
295
Refusing to be cheer'd with food or wine,
295
Grovelling amidst the slaughter'd herds he sits
295
In gloomy silence, forming in his mind
Some ill intent; this his imperfect words
And griefs denote. But, O my friends, (this cause
Impell'd me forth to seek you) go to him,
Give him your aid, if aught avails your pow'r;
Oft on such minds the words of friends prevail.
Ajax. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.