Iphigenia in Tauris. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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      Freely to breathe alone is not to live.

      Say, is it life, within this holy fane,

      Like a poor ghost around its sepulchre

      To linger out my days? Or call you that

      A life of conscious happiness and joy,

      When every hour, dream'd listlessly away,

      Leads to those dark and melancholy days,

      Which the sad troop of the departed spend

      In self-forgetfulness on Lethe's shore?

      A useless life is but an early death;

      This, woman's lot, is eminently mine.

      I can forgive, though I must needs deplore,

      The noble pride which underrates itself

      It robs thee of the happiness of life.

      And hast thou, since thy coming here, done nought?

      Who cheer'd the gloomy temper of the king?

      Who hath with gentle eloquence annull'd,

      From year to year, the usage of our sires,

      By which, a victim at Diana's shrine,

      Each stranger perish'd, thus from certain death

      Sending so oft the rescued captive home?

      Hath not Diana, harbouring no revenge

      For this suspension of her bloody rites,

      In richest measure heard thy gentle prayer?

      On joyous pinions o'er the advancing host,

      Doth not triumphant conquest proudly soar?

      And feels not every one a happier lot,

      Since Thoas, who so long hath guided us

      With wisdom and with valour, sway'd by thee,

      The joy of mild benignity approves,

      Which leads him to relax the rigid claims

      Of mute submission? Call thyself useless! Thou,

      Thou, from whose being o'er a thousand hearts,

      A healing balsam flows? when to a race.

      To whom a god consign'd thee, thou dost prove

      A fountain of perpetual happiness,

      And from this dire inhospitable shore

      Dost to the stranger grant a safe return?

      The little done doth vanish to the mind,

      Which forward sees how much remains to do.

      Him dost thou praise, who underrates his deeds?

      Who estimates his deeds is justly blam'd.

      We blame alike, who proudly disregard

      Their genuine merit, and who vainly prize

      Their spurious worth too highly. Trust me, priestess,

      And hearken to the counsel of a man

      With honest zeal devoted to thy service:

      When Thoas comes to-day to speak with thee,

      Lend to his purpos'd words a gracious ear.

      The well-intention'd counsel troubles me:

      His offer studiously I've sought to shun.

      Thy duty and thy interest calmly weigh.

      Since the king lost his son, he trusts but few,

      Nor those as formerly. Each noble's son

      He views with jealous eye as his successor;

      He dreads a solitary, helpless age,

      Or rash rebellion, or untimely death.

      A Scythian studies not the rules of speech,

      And least of all the king. He who is used

      To act and to command, knows not the art,

      From far, with subtle tact, to guide discourse

      Through many windings to its destin'd goal.

      Do not embarrass him with shy reserve

      And studied misconception: graciously,

      And with submission, meet the royal wish.

      Shall I then speed the doom that threatens me?

      His gracious offer canst thou call a threat?

      'Tis the most terrible of all to me.

      For his affection grant him confidence.

      If he will first redeem my soul from fear.

      Why dost thou hide from him thy origin?

      A priestess secrecy doth well become.

      Nought to our monarch should a secret be;

      And, though he doth not seek to fathom thine,

      His noble nature feels, ay, deeply feels,

      That studiously thou hid'st thyself from him.

      Displeasure doth he harbour 'gainst me, then?

      Almost it seems so. True, he speaks not of thee.

      But casual words have taught me that the wish

      To call thee his hath firmly seiz'd his soul;

      Oh, do not leave the monarch to himself!

      Lest his displeasure, rip'ning in his breast,

      Should work thee woe, so with repentance thou

      Too late my faithful counsel shalt recall.

      How! doth the monarch purpose what no man

      Of noble mind, who loves his honest name,

      Whose bosom reverence for the gods restrains,

      Would ever think of? Will he force employ

      To tear me from this consecrated fane?

      Then will I call the gods, and chiefly thee,

      Diana, goddess resolute, to aid me;

      Thyself a virgin, thou'lt a virgin shield,

      And succour to thy priestess gladly yield.

      Be tranquil! Passion, and youth's fiery blood

      Impel not Thoas rashly to commit

      A deed so lawless. In his present mood,

      I fear from him another harsh resolve,

      Which (for his soul is steadfast and unmov'd,)

      He then will execute without delay.

      Therefore I pray thee, canst thou grant no more,

      At least be grateful – give thy confidence.

      Oh tell me what is further known to thee.

      Learn it from him. I see the king approach;

      Thou СКАЧАТЬ