Chorus
Hail, royal lord! Stormer of Ilion, hail!
Scion of Atreus! How compose my speech,
How due obeisance render thee,
Yet neither overshoot the mark, nor fail
The goal of fitting compliment to reach ?
For many men, transgressing right, there be
Semblance who place above reality.
To him who groans beneath affliction's smart,
All men have prompt condolence; but the sting
Of feignèd sorrow reaches not the heart.
So men with others' joy rejoicing, bring
Over their visage an enforced smile :
But the discerning shepherd knows his fleck,
And his unerring glance detects their guile,
Who simulating love, with glozing art
And watery kindness fawn, but inly mock.
But thou, O King, (I speak without disguise,)
In Helen's quarrel asking war's array,
A mien didst wear unseemly in mine eyes,
Guiding not well the rudder of thy mind,
Who didst, on death-devoted men, essay
Courage to urge, by sacrifice.
But those who have achieved the great emprize,
Not from the surface of my mind alone,
I welcome now, with feelings not unkind ;
And inquest made, in time shall it be known,
Who of thy citizens at home the while
Guarded thy state with truth, and who with guile.
Agamemnon. Aeschylus. Anna Swanwick (Translator). London. 1886.
Sponsored by University of Leipzig.
Funding provided by European Social Fund Saxony.