Before the shrine: on such a day, that falls Propitious thus, the answer of the god
Would I receive: meanwhile these laurel boughs Bear round the altars, lady, breathe thy pray'rs To every god that from Apollo's shrine
I may bring back the promise of a son.
CREUSA, ION, CHORUS.
CREU. It shall, it shall be so. Should Phoebus now At least be willing to redress the fault
Of former times, he would not through the whole Be friendly to us: yet will I accept
What he vouchsafes us, for he is a god.
Why does this stranger always thus revile With obscure speech the god? Is it through love Of her, for whom she asks? or to conceal Some secret of importance? But to me What is the daughter of Erectheus? Nought Concerns it me. Then let me to my task, And sprinkle from the golden vase the dew. Yet must I blame the god; if thus perforce He mounts the bed of virgins, and by stealth Becomes a father, leaving then his children. To die, regardless of them. Do not thou Act thus; but, as thy pow'r is great, respect The Virtues; for whoe'er of mortal men
Dares impious deeds, him the gods punish: how Is it then just that you, who gave the laws
To mortals, should yourselves transgress those laws; If, though it is not thus, yet will I urge The subject, if to mortals you shall pay The penalty of forc'd embraces, thou
Neptune, and Jove that reigns supreme in heav'n, Will leave your temples treasureless by paying The mulcts of your injustice; for unjust You are, your pleasures to grave temperance Preferring and to men these deeds no more Can it be just to charge as crimes, these deeds
If from the gods they imitate: on those, Who give the ill examples, falls the charge.
Thee, prompt to yield thy lenient aid, And soothe a mother's pain;
And thee, my Pallas, martial maid,
I call; O hear the strain!
Thou, whom the Titan from the head of Jove, Prometheus, drew, bright Victory come, Descending from thy golden throne above, Haste, Goddess, to the Pythian dome, Where Phoebus from his central shrine Gives the oracle divine,
By the raving maid repeated,
On the hallow'd tripod seated,
O haste thee, Goddess, and with thee The daughter of Latona bring, A virgin thou, a virgin she, Sisters to the Delphian king;
Him, Virgins, let your vows implore, That now his pure oracular pow'r Will to Erectheus' ancient line declare The blessing of a long-expected heir! To mortal man this promis'd grace Sublimest pleasure brings,
When round the father's hearth a race
In blooming lustre springs.
The wealth, the honours, from their high-drawn line From sire to son transmitted down,
Shall with fresh glory through their offspring shine, And brighten with increas'd renown: A guard, when ills begin to low'r, Dear in fortune's happier hour; For their country's safety waking,
Firm in fight the strong spear shaking.
459. Prometheus. Against the interpretation of Barnes, see Dr. Musgrave, and note to the Furies of Eschylus, p. 408. l. t.
More than proud wealth's exhaustless store, More than a monarch's bride to reign,
The dear delight to Virtue's lore Careful the infant mind to train. Doth any praise the childless state? The joyless, loveless life I hate :
No: my desires to moderate wealth I bound, But let me see my children smile around.
Ye rustic seats, Pan's dear delight, Ye caves of Macrai's rocky height, Where oft the social virgins meet, And weave the dance with nimble feet, Descendants from Aglauros they In the third line, with festive play Minerva's hallow'd fane before
The verdant plain light-tripping o'er, When thy pipe's quick-varying sound Rings, O Pan, these caves around; Where, by Apollo's love betray'd, Her child some hapless mother laid, Expos'd to each night-prowling beast, Or to the ravenous birds a feast: For never have I heard it told,
Nor wrought it in historic gold,
That happiness attends the race,
When gods with mortals mix th' embrace.
Ye female train, that place yourselves around This incense-breathing temple's base, your lord Awaiting, hath he left the sacred tripod And oracle, or stays he in the shrine Making enquiries of his childless state?
CHOR. Yet in the temple, stranger, he remains.
But he comes forth, the sounding doors announce His near approach; behold our lord is here.
XUTHUS, ION, CHORUS.
XUTH. Health to my son! This first address is proper,
I have my health: be in thy senses thou, And both are well.
O let me kiss thy hand, And throw mine arms around thee.
Well in thy wits; or hath the god's displeasure Bereft thee of thy reason?
That which is dearest being found, to wish A fond embrace.
Off, touch me not, thy hands
Will mar the garlands of the god.
Asserts no pledge: my own, and that most dear, I find.
Wilt thou not keep thee distant, e'er Thou hast my arrow in thy heart?
When thou shou'dst own what is most fond of thee? I am not fond of curing wayward strangers, And mad men.
Kill me, raise my funeral pyre, But, if thou kill me, thou wilt kill thy father. My father thou! how so? it makes me laugh To hear thee.
This my words may soon explain. ION. What wilt thou say to me?
Hast thou e'er mounted an unlawful bed?
XUTH. In foolishness of youth.
« AnteriorContinuar » |