Four Plays of Aeschylus. Aeschylus

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       And ye who, deep beneath the ground,

       Bring vengeance weird on mortal man,

       Powers of the grave, on you we cry!

       And unto Zeus the Saviour, guard

       Of mortals' holy purity!

       Receive ye us—keep watch and ward

       Above the suppliant maiden band!

       Chaste be the heart of this your land

       Towards the weak! but, ere the throng,

       The wanton swarm, from Egypt sprung,

       Leap forth upon the silted shore,

       Thrust back their swift-rowed bark again,

       Repel them, urge them to the main!

       And there, 'mid storm and lightning's shine,

       And scudding drift and thunder's roar,

       Deep death be theirs, in stormy brine!

       Before they foully grasp and win

       Us, maiden-children of their kin,

       And climb the couch by law denied,

       And wrong each weak reluctant bride.

       And now on her I call,

       Mine ancestress, who far on Egypt's shore

       A young cow's semblance wore—

       A maiden once, by Hera's malice changed!

       And then on him withal,

       Who, as amid the flowers the grazing creature

       ranged,

       Was in her by a breath of Zeus conceived;

       And, as the hour of birth drew nigh,

       By fate fulfilled, unto the light he came;

       And Epaphus for name,

       Born from the touch of Zeus, the child received.

       On him, on him I cry,

       And him for patron hold—

       While in this grassy vale I stand,

       Where lo roamed of old!

       And here, recounting all her toil and pain,

       Signs will I show to those who rule the land

       That I am child of hers; and all shall understand,

       Hearing the doubtful tale of the dim past made plain.

       And, ere the end shall be,

       Each man the truth of what I tell shall see.

       And if there dwell hard by

       One skilled to read from bird-notes augury,

       That man, when through his ears shall thrill our

       tearful wail,

       Shall deem he hears the voice, the plaintive tale

       Of her, the piteous spouse of Tereus, lord of guile—

       Whom the hawk harries yet, the mourning nightingale.

       She, from her happy home and fair streams scared

       away,

       Wails wild and sad for haunts beloved erewhile.

       Yea, and for Itylus—ah, well-a-day!

       Slain by her own, his mother's hand,

       Maddened by lustful wrong, the deed by Tereus

       planned.

       Like her I wail and wail, in soft Ionian tones,

       And as she wastes, even so

       Wastes my soft cheek, once ripe with Nilus' suns

       And all my heart dissolves in utter woe

       Sad flowers of grief I cull,

       Fleeing from kinsmen's love unmerciful—

       Yea, from the clutching hands, the wanton crowd,

       I sped across the waves, from Egypt's land of cloud{1}

      {Footnote: 1: AeRas apogas This epithet may appear strange to modern readers accustomed to think of Egypt as a land of cloudless skies and pellucid atmosphere. Nevertheless both Pindar (Pyth iv 93) and Apollonius Rhodius (iv 267) speak of it in the same way as Aeschylus. It has been conjectured that they allude to the fog banks that often obscure the low coasts—a phenomenon likely to impress the early navigators and to be reported by them.}

      Gods of the ancient cradle of my race,

       Hear me, just gods! With righteous grace

       On me, on me look down!

       Grant not to youth its heart's unchaste desire,

       But, swiftly spurning lust's unholy fire,

       Bless only love and willing wedlock's crown

       The war-worn fliers from the battle's wrack

       Find refuge at the hallowed altar-side,

       The sanctuary divine—

       Ye gods! such refuge unto me provide—

       Such sanctuary be mine!

       Though the deep will of Zeus be hard to track,

       Yet doth it flame and glance,

       A beacon in the dark, 'mid clouds of chance

       That wrap mankind

       Yea, though the counsel fall, undone it shall not be,

       Whate'er be shaped and fixed within Zeus' ruling mind—

       Dark as a solemn grove, with sombre leafage shaded,

       His paths of purpose wind,

       A marvel to man's eye

       Smitten by him, from towering hopes degraded,

       Mortals lie low and still

       Tireless and effortless, works forth its will

       The arm divine!

       God from His holy seat, in calm of unarmed power,

       Brings СКАЧАТЬ