View:
By Scene
CHOROS.
Hail, herald from the army of Achaians!
Hail, herald from the army of Achaians!
HERALD.
I hail: — to die, will gainsay gods no longer!
I hail: — to die, will gainsay gods no longer!
CHOROS.
Love of this fatherland did exercise thee?
540
Love of this fatherland did exercise thee?
540
HERALD.
So that I weep, at least, with joy, my eyes full.
So that I weep, at least, with joy, my eyes full.
CHOROS.
What, of this gracious sickness were ye gainers?
What, of this gracious sickness were ye gainers?
HERALD.
How now? instructed, I this speech shall master.
How now? instructed, I this speech shall master.
CHOROS.
For those who loved you back, with longing stricken.
For those who loved you back, with longing stricken.
HERALD.
This land yearned for the yearning army, say’st thou?
545
This land yearned for the yearning army, say’st thou?
545
CHOROS.
So as to set me oft, from dark mind, groaning.
So as to set me oft, from dark mind, groaning.
HERALD.
Whence came this ill mind — hatred to the army?
Whence came this ill mind — hatred to the army?
CHOROS.
Of old, I use, for mischiefs physic, silence.
Of old, I use, for mischiefs physic, silence.
HERALD.
And how, the chiefs away, did you fear any?
And how, the chiefs away, did you fear any?
CHOROS.
So that now, — late thy word, — much joy were — dying!
550
So that now, — late thy word, — much joy were — dying!
550
HERALD.
For well have things been worked out: these, — in much time,
Some of them, one might say, had luck in falling,
While some were faulty: since who, gods excepted,
Goes, through the whole time of his life, ungrieving?
For labours should I tell of, and bad lodgments,
555
Narrow deckways ill-strewn, too, — what the day’s woe
We did not groan at getting for our portion?
As for land-things, again, on went more hatred!
Since beds were ours hard by the foemen’s ramparts,
And, out of heaven and from the earth, the meadow
560
Dews kept a-sprinkle, an abiding damage
Of vestures, making hair a wild-beast matting.
Winter, too, if one told of it — bird-slaying —
Such as, unbearable, Idaian snow brought —
Or heat, when waveless, on its noontide couches
565
Without a wind, the sea would slumber falling
— Why must one mourn these? O’er and gone is labour:
O’er and gone is it, even to those dead ones,
So that no more again they mind uprising.
Why must we tell in numbers those deprived ones,
570
And the live man be vexed with fate’s fresh outbreak?
Rather, I bid full farewell to misfortunes!
For us, the left from out the Argeian army,
The gain beats, nor does sorrow counterbalance.
So that ’t is fitly boasted of, this sunlight,
575
By us, o’er sea and land the aery flyers,
Troia
at last taking, the band of Argives
Hang up such trophies to the gods of
Hellas
Within their domes — new glory to grow ancient!
Such things men having heard must praise the city
580
And army-leaders: and the grace which wrought them —
Of Zeus, shall honoured be. Thou hast my whole word.
For well have things been worked out: these, — in much time,
Some of them, one might say, had luck in falling,
While some were faulty: since who, gods excepted,
Goes, through the whole time of his life, ungrieving?
For labours should I tell of, and bad lodgments,
555
Narrow deckways ill-strewn, too, — what the day’s woe
We did not groan at getting for our portion?
As for land-things, again, on went more hatred!
Since beds were ours hard by the foemen’s ramparts,
And, out of heaven and from the earth, the meadow
560
Dews kept a-sprinkle, an abiding damage
Of vestures, making hair a wild-beast matting.
Winter, too, if one told of it — bird-slaying —
Such as, unbearable, Idaian snow brought —
Or heat, when waveless, on its noontide couches
565
Without a wind, the sea would slumber falling
— Why must one mourn these? O’er and gone is labour:
O’er and gone is it, even to those dead ones,
So that no more again they mind uprising.
Why must we tell in numbers those deprived ones,
570
And the live man be vexed with fate’s fresh outbreak?
Rather, I bid full farewell to misfortunes!
For us, the left from out the Argeian army,
The gain beats, nor does sorrow counterbalance.
So that ’t is fitly boasted of, this sunlight,
575
By us, o’er sea and land the aery flyers,
Troia
at last taking, the band of Argives
Hang up such trophies to the gods of
Hellas
Within their domes — new glory to grow ancient!
Such things men having heard must praise the city
580
And army-leaders: and the grace which wrought them —
Of Zeus, shall honoured be. Thou hast my whole word.
Agamemnon. Aeschylus. London. 1889.
Sponsored by Perseus Project, Tufts University.