by Sophocles
[227-266] Alas! the approaching doom awakes my terror.
The man will die, disgraced in open day,
Whose dark dyed steel hath dared through mad brained error
The mounted herdmen with their herds to slay.
TEC. O horror! Then ’twas there he found
The flock he brought as captives tied,
And some he slew upon the ground,
And some, side smiting, sundered wide
Two white foot rams he backward drew,
And bound. Of one he shore and threw
The tipmost tongue and head away,
The other to an upright stay
He tied, and with a harness thong
Doubled in hand, gave whizzing blows,
Echoing his lashes with a song
More dire than mortal fury knows.
CH. Ah! then ’tis time, our heads in mantles hiding,2
Our feet on some stol’n pathway now to ply,
Or with swift oarage o’er the billows gliding,
With ordered stroke to make the good ship fly
Such threats the Atridae, armed with two fold power,
Launch to assail us. Oh, I sadly fear
Stones from fierce hands on us and him will shower,
Whose heavy plight no comfort may come near.
TEC. ’Tis changed, his rage, like sudden blast,
Without the lightning gleam is past
And now that Reason’s light returns,
New sorrow in his spirit burns.
For when we look on self made woe,
In which no hand but ours had part,
Thought of such griefs and whence they flow
Brings aching misery to the heart.
CH. If he hath ceased to rave, he should do well
The account of evil lessens when ’tis past.
TEC. If choice were given you, would you rather choose
Hurting your friends, yourself to feel delight,
[267-302] Or share with them in one commingled pain?
CH. The two fold trouble is more terrible.
TEC. Then comes our torment now the fit is o’er.
CH. How mean’st thou by that word? I fail to see.
TEC. He in his rage had rapture of delight
And knew not how he grieved us who stood near
And saw the madding tempest ruining him.
But now ’tis over and he breathes anew,
The counterblast of sorrow shakes his soul,
Whilst our affliction vexeth as before,
Have we not double for our single woe?
CH. I feel thy reasoning move me, and I fear
Some heavenly stroke hath fallen. How else, when the end
Of stormy sickness brings no cheering ray?
TEC. Our state is certain. Dream not but ’tis so.
CH. How first began the assault of misery?
Tell us the trouble, for we share the pain.
TEC. It toucheth you indeed, and ye shall hear
All from the first. ’Twas midnight, and the lamp
Of eve had died, when, seizing his sharp blade,
He sought on some vain errand to creep forth.
I broke in with my word: ‘Aias, what now?
Why thus uncalled for salliest thou? No voice
Of herald summoned thee. No trumpet blew.
What wouldst thou when the camp is hushed in sleep?’
He with few words well known to women’s ears
Checked me: ‘The silent partner is the best.’
I saw how ’twas and ceased. Forth then he fared
Alone — What horror passed upon the plain
This night, I know not. But he drags within,
Tied in a throng, bulls, shepherd dogs, and spoil
Of cattle and sheep. Anon he butchers them,
Felling or piercing, hacking or tearing wide,
Ribs from breast, limb from limb. Others in rage
He seized and bound and tortured, brutes for men.
Last, out he rushed before the doors, and there
Whirled forth wild language to some shadowy form,
Flouting the generals and Laërtes’ son
[303-341] With torrent laughter and loud triumphing
What in his raid he had wreaked to their despite.
Then diving back within — the fitful storm
Slowly assuaging left his spirit clear.
And when his eye had lightened through the room
Cumbered with ruin, smiting on his brow
He roared; and, tumbling down amid the wreck
Of woolly carnage he himself had made,
Sate with clenched hand tight twisted in his hair.
Long stayed he so in silence. Then flashed forth
Those frightful words of threatening vehemence,
That bade me show him all the night’s mishap,
And whither he was fallen I, dear my friends,
Prevailed on through my fear, told all I knew.
And all at once he raised a bitter cry,
Which heretofore I ne’er had heard, for still
He made us think such doleful utterance
Betokened the dull craven spirit, and still
Dumb to shrill wailings, he would only moan
With half heard muttering, like an angry bull.
But now, by such dark fortune overpowered,
Foodless and dry, amid the quivering heap
His steel hath quelled, all quietly he broods;
And out of doubt his mind intends some harm:
Such words, such groans, burst from him. O my friends. —
Therefore I hastened, — enter and give aid
If aught ye can! Men thus forgone will oft
Grow milder through the counsel of a friend.
CH. Teleutas’ child! we shudder at thy tale
That fatal frenzy wastes our hero’s soul.
AIAS (within). Woe’s me, me, me!
TEC. More cause anon! Hear ye not Aias there,
How sharp the cry that shrills from him?
AI. Woe! Woe!
CH. Madly it sounds — Or springs it of deep grief
For proofs of madness harrowing to his eye?
AI. Boy, boy!
TEC. What means he? Oh, Eurysakes!
He cries on thee. Where art thou? O my heart!
[342-376] AI. Teucer I call! Where ‘s Teucer? Will he ne’er
Come from the chase, but leave me to my doom?
CH. Not madness now. Disclose him. Let us look.
Haply the sight of us may calm his soul.
TEC. There, then; I open to your view the form
Of Aias, and his fortunes as they are.[AIAS is discovered
AI. Dear comrades of the deep, whose truth and loveI 1
Stand forth alone unbroken in my woe,
Behold what gory sea
Of storm-lashed agony
Doth round and round me flow!
CH. (to TEC.). Too true thy witness: for the fact cries out
Wild thoughts were here and Reason’s lamp extinct.
AI. Strong helpers of sea-speed, whose nimble handI 2
Plied hither the salt oar with circling stroke,
No shepherd there was found
To give the avenging wound.
Come, lay me with the flock!
CH. Speak no rash word! nor curing ill with ill
Augment the plague of this calamity.
AI. Mark ye the brave and bold,II 1
Whom none could turn of old,
When once he set his face to the fierce fight?
Now beasts that thought no harm
Have felt this puissant arm.
O laughter of my foes! O mockery of my might!
TEC. Aias, my lord! I entreat thee, speak not so!
AI. Thou here! Away! begone, and trouble me not!
O! O!
CH. Be softened! bear a steadier mind!
AI. O heaven-accursèd hand
That let
the ruffians go,
But falling ‘midst the horn’d and bleating band,
Made darkling blood-streams flow!
[377-409] CH. Why vex thy heart with what is over and done?
Do what we may, this ne’er will alter now.
AI. Child of Laërtes old,II 2
Thou that dost still behold
And still contrive all shapes of monstrous ill,
Winding in foulest ways
Through the army’s sinful maze, —
Now even for pleasure thou may’st laugh thy fill.
CH. Laughter and tears are in the gift of God.
AI. Ay, might I see him, though thus broken, — ay me!
Even yet —
CH. Nay, vaunt not. Look where thou art fallen.
AI. Source where my life-blood springs,
O Zeus, might I but slay
That crafty plague, with those twin-sceptred kings,
Then breathe my life away!
TEC. Pray thus, and pray that I too be no more!
If thou wert gone, what were my life to me?
AI. Darkness! my only light!III 1
O nether gloom, to me
Brighter than morning to the wakeful eye!
Take me to dwell with thee.
Take me! What help? Zeus’ daughter with fell might
Torments me sore. I may not look on high,
Nor to the tribe of momentary men. —
Oh, whither, then,
Should it avail to fly?
Ah! whither should I go and stay?
All here is ruin. This mad prey
Shames me for evermore:
Vengeance is at the door;
Yea, all the Achaean host, with armèd hand,
Is ready at command
To slay me o’er and o’er.
[410-447] TEC. Woe ‘s me! to hear from one so good and true
Words he had scorned to utter in past days.
AI. Grey firths of foaming brine,III 2 And ye, deep groves, that crown
The sea-caves and long cliffs upon the shore,
Too long did ye confine
My life about the walls of Troia’s town:
But no more now! a breathing man, no more!
The wise in heart may duly learn that lore.
Let Xanthus know,
Whose waters neighbouring flow,
And minister to Argive men:
One man he ne’er shall see again;
One, I will vaunt it forth!
Highest in warlike worth
Of all Greek forms that Troia’s towers have eyed:
Now, shorn of all that pride,
I lie thus low.
CH. I know not how to let thee speak, nor how
To silence thee. Such evils close thee round.
AI. Ay me!
Could human thought have prophesied
My name would thus give echo to mine ill?
‘Ai’ now for Aias, doubly, trebly said,
Sorts all too well to mark my misery;
Whose father from this land of Troy, as noblest
Of all the host, carrying the fairest prize,
Came girt about with glory to his home.
But I his son, not less of might than he,
Nor poorer in the achievements of my hand,
To this same region following in my prime,
Am scouted by the Achaeans and destroyed.
Yet know I one thing well. Had Peleus’ child,
Living, adjudged his armour as a meed
Of well-tried bravery, no grasp save mine
Had clutched it. But the Atridae with mean craft
Conveyed his heirloom to a wit-proud knave,
Whilst Aias’ peerless prowess was despised.
And had not this mine eye and mind distraught
[448-486] Glanced from my purpose, ne’er again had they
Perverted judgement. But the invincible
Stern daughter of the Highest, with baneful eye,
Even as mine arm descended, baffled me,
And hurled upon my soul a frenzied plague,
To stain my hand with these dumb victims’ blood.
And those mine enemies exult in safety, —
Not with my will; but where a God misguides,
Strong arms are thwarted and the weakling lives.
Now, what remains? Heaven hates me, ’tis too clear:
The Grecian host abhor me: Troy, with all
This country round our camp, is my sworn foe.
Shall I, across the Aegean sailing home,
Leave these Atridae and their fleet forlorn?
How shall I dare to front my father’s eye?
How will he once endure to look on me,
Denuded of the prize of high renown,
Whose coronal stood sparkling on his brow?
No! ‘twere too dreadful. Then shall I advance
Before the Trojan battlements, and there
In single conflict doing valiantly
Last die upon their spears? Nay, for by this
I might perchance make Atreus’ offspring glad.
That may not be imagined. I must find
Some act to let my grey-haired father feel
No heartless recreant once called him sire.
Shame on the wight who when beset with ill
Cares to live on in misery unrelieved.
Can hour outlasting hour make less or more
Of death? Whereby then can it furnish joy?
That mortal weighs for nothing-worth with me,
Whom Hope can comfort with her fruitless fire.
Honour in life or honour in the grave
Befits the noble heart. You hear my will.
CH. From thine own spirit, Aias, all may tell,
That utterance came, and none have prompted thee.
Yet stay thy hurrying thought, and by thy friends
Be ruled to loose this burden from thy mind.
TEC. O my great master! heaviest of all woe
Is theirs whose life is crushed beyond recall.
[487-526] I, born of one the mightiest of the free
And wealthiest in the Phrygian land, am now
A captive. So Heaven willed, and thy strong arm
Determined. Therefore, since the hour that made
My being one with thine, I breathe for thee;
And I beseech thee by the sacred fire
Of home, and by the sweetness of the night
When from thy captive I became thy bride,
Leave me not guardless to the unworthy touch
And cruel taunting of thine enemies’
For, shouldst thou die and leave us, then shall I
Borne off by Argive violence with thy boy
Eat from that day the bread of slavery.
And some one of our lords shall smite me there
With galling speech: Behold the concubine
Of Aias, first of all the Greeks for might,
How envied once, worn with what service now!
So will they speak; and while my quailing heart
Shall sink beneath its burden, clouds of shame
Will dim thy glory and degrade thy race.
Oh! think but of thy father, left to pine
In doleful age, and let thy mother’s grief —
Who, long bowed down with many a careful year,
Prays oftentimes thou may’st return alive —
O’er awe thee. Yea, and pity thine own son,
Unsheltered in his boyhood, lorn of thee,
With bitter foes to tend his orphanhood,
Think, O my lord, what sorrow in thy death
Thou send’st on him and me. For I have nought
To lean to but thy life. My fatherland
Thy spear hath ruined. Fate — not thou — hath sent
My sire and mother to the home of death
What wealth have I to comfort me for thee?
What land of refuge? Thou art all my stay
Oh, of me to
o take thought! Shall men have joy,
And not remember? Or shall kindness fade?
Say, can the mind be noble, where the stream
Of gratitude is withered from the spring?
CH. Aias, I would thy heart were touched like mine
With pity; then her words would win thy praise.
[527-565] AI. My praise she shall not miss, if she perform
My bidding with firm heart, and fail not here.
TEC. Dear Aias, I will fail in nought thou bidst me.
AI. Bring me my boy, that I may see his face.
TEC. Oh, in my terror I conveyed him hence!
AI. Clear of this mischief, mean’st thou? or for what?
TEC. Lest he might run to thee, poor child, and die.
AI. That issue had been worthy of my fate!
TEC. But I kept watch to fence his life from harm.
AI. ’Twas wisely done. I praise thy foresight there.
TEC. Well, since ’tis so, how can I help thee now?
AI. Give me to speak to him and see him near.
TEC. He stands close by with servants tending him.
AI. Then why doth he not come, but still delay?
TEC. Thy father calls thee, child. Come, lead him hither,
Whichever of you holds him by the hand.
AI. Moves he? or do thine accents idly fall?
TEC. See, where thy people bring him to thine eye.
AI. Lift him to me: lift him! He will not fear
At sight of this fresh havoc of the sword,
If rightly he be fathered of my blood.
Like some young colt he must be trained and taught
To run fierce courses with his warrior sire.
Be luckier than thy father, boy! but else
Be like him, and thy life will not be low.
One thing even now I envy thee, that none
Of all this misery pierces to thy mind.
For life is sweetest in the void of sense,
Ere thou know joy or sorrow. But when this
Hath found thee, make thy father’s enemies
Feel the great parent in the valiant child.
Meantime grow on in tender youthfulness,
Nursed by light breezes, gladdening this thy mother.
No Greek shall trample thee with brutal harm,
That I know well, though I shall not be near —
So stout a warder to protect thy life
I leave in Teucer. He’ll not fail, though now
He follow far the chase upon his foes.
My trusty warriors, people of the sea,
[566-596] Be this your charge, no less, — and bear to him
My clear commandment, that he take this boy
Home to my fatherland, and make him known
To Telamon, and Eriboea too,
My mother. Let him tend them in their age.
And, for mine armour, let not that be made
The award of Grecian umpires or of him
