Aeschylus Agamemnon 975

CHOROS.

Wherefore to me, this fear —

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Groundedly stationed here

Fronting my heart, the portent-watcher — flits she?

Wherefore should prophet-play

The uncalled and unpaid lay,

Nor — having spat forth fear, like bad dreams — sits she

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On the mind’s throne beloved — well-suasive Boldness?

For time, since, by a throw of all the hands,

The boat’s stern-cables touched the sands,

Has past from youth to oldness, —

When under Ilion rushed the ship-borne bands.

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And from my eyes I learn —

Being myself my witness — their return.

Yet, all the same, without a lyre, my soul,

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Itself its teacher too, chants from within

Erinus’ dirge, not having now the whole

Of Hope’s dear boldness: nor my inwards sin —

The heart that’s rolled in whirls against the mind

Justly presageful of a fate behind.

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But I pray — things false, from my hope, may fall

Into the fate that’s not-fulfilled-at-all!

Especially at least, of health that’s great

The term’s insatiable: for, its weight

— A neighbour, with a common wall between —

Ever will sickness lean;

And destiny, her course pursuing straight,

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Has struck man’s ship against a reef unseen.

Now, when a portion, rather than the treasure,

Fear casts from sling, with peril in right measure,

It has not sunk — the universal freight,

(With misery freighted over-full)

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Nor has fear whelmed the hull.

Then too the gift of Zeus,

Two-handedly profuse,

Even from the furrows’ yield for yearly use

Has done away with famine, the disease;

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But blood of man to earth once falling-deadly, black —

In times ere these, —

Who may, by singing spells, call back?

Zeus had not else stopped one who rightly knew

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The way to bring the dead again.

But, did not an appointed Fate constrain

The Fate from gods, to bear no more than due,

My heart, outstripping what tongue utters,

Would have all out: which now, in darkness, mutters

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Moodily grieved, nor ever hopes to find

How she a word in season may unwind

From out the enkindling mind.

LE CHŒUR

Pourquoi cette épouvante qui se lève ainsi devant mon cœur prophète et, obstinément, vole autour de lui ? Pourquoi, sans ordre ni salaire, mon chant joue-t-il le
devin ? Pourquoi enfin ne puis-je pas cracher, comme on fait pour un songe obscur, et sentir une persuasive

Klytaimestra.

Nein, meinem Wunsche darfst du nicht zuwider sein.

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Agamemnon.

Von meinem Willen weich' ich nicht. Verlass' dich drauf.

Klytaimestra.

Hast du's verschworen? Dich der Furcht vorab gebeugt?

Agamemnon.

Wenn einer, weiß ich, richtig ist was ich beschloß.

Klytaimestra.

935 Was, meinst du, thäte Priamos nach solchem Sieg?

Agamemnon.

In vollem Purpur zög' er ein, das glaub' ich auch.

985

Klytaimestra.

Wozu denn Rücksicht auf das Vorurteil der Welt?

Agamemnon.

Des Volkes Stimme hat bedeutendes Gewicht.

Klytaimestra.