Puslapio vaizdai
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Ah me!-honourest more than thy lover, O Antigone!

A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse.

The Chorus.

Nor was the love untrue

Which the Dawn- Goddess bore
To that fair youth she erst,
Leaving the salt sea-beds.

And coming flush'd over the stormy frith
Of loud Euripus, saw—

Saw and snatch'd, wild with love,
From the pine-dotted spurs

Of Parnes, where thy waves,
Asopus! gleam rock-hemm'd-

The Hunter of the Tanagræan Field.13

But him, in his sweet prime,

By severance immature,

By Artemis' soft shafts,

She, though a Goddess born,

Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die.
Such end o'ertook that love.

For she desired to make

Immortal mortal man,

And blend his happy life,

Far from the Gods, with hers;

To him postponing an eternal law.

Натоп.

But like me, she, wroth, complaining,
Succumb'd to the envy of unkind Gods;
And, her beautiful arms unclasping,
Her fair youth unwillingly gave.

The Chorus.

Nor, though enthroned too high

To fear assault of envious Gods, His beloved Argive seer would Zeus retain From his appointed end

In this our Thebes; but when
His flying steeds came near

To cross the steep Ismenian glen,

The broad earth open'd, and whelm'd them and him, And through the void air sang

At large his enemy's spear.

And fain would Zeus have saved his tired son
Beholding him where the Two Pillars stand
O'er the sun-redden'd western straits,1
Or at his work in that dim lower world.
Fain would he have recall'd

The fraudulent oath which bound
To a much feebler wight the heroic man.

But he preferr'd Fate to his strong desire.
Nor did there need less than the burning pile
Under the towering Trachis crags,
And the Spercheios vale, shaken with groans,
And the roused Maliac gulph,

And scared Etæan snows,

To achieve his son's deliverance, O my child!

FRAGMENT OF CHORUS OF A

DEJANEIRA.

O FRIVOLOUS mind of man,

Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts!

Though man bewails you not,

How I bewail you!

Little in your prosperity

Do you seek counsel of the Gods.

Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone.

In profound silence stern,

Among their savage gorges and cold springs,
Unvisited remain

The great oracular shrines.

Thither in your adversity

Do you betake yourselves for light,

But strangely misinterpret all you hear.

For you will not put on

New hearts with the enquirer's holy robe,
And purged, considerate minds.

And him on whom, at the end

Of toil and dolour untold,
The Gods have said that repose

At last shall descend undisturb'd

Him you expect to behold

In an easy old age, in a happy home;
No end but this you praise.

But him, on whom, in the prime
Of life, with vigour undimm'd,
With unspent mind, and a soul

Unworn, undebased, undecay'd,

Mournfully grating, the gates

Of the city of death have for ever closedHim, I count him, well-starr'd.

EARLY DEATH AND FAME.

FOR him who must see many years,
I praise the life which slips away

Out of the light and mutely; which avoids.
Fame, and her less fair followers, envy, strife,
Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal,
Insincere praises; which descends
The quiet mossy track to age.

But, when immature death
Beckons too early the guest
From the half-tried banquet of life,
Young, in the bloom of his days;
Leaves no leisure to press,
Slow and surely, the sweets
Of a tranquil life in the shade—
Fuller for him be the hours!
Give him emotion, though pain!

Let him live, let him feel: I have lived.
Heap up his moments with life!

Triple his pulses with fame!

PHILOMELA.

HARK! ah, the nightingale

The tawny-throated!

Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!

What triumph! hark!-what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian shore,

Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain

That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain – ||

Say, will it never heal?

And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy rack'd heart and brain
Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold,

Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?
Dost thou again peruse

With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?

Dost thou once more assay

Thy flight, and feel come over thee,

Poor fugitive, the feathery change

Once more, and once more seem to make resound

With love and hate, triumph and agony,

Lone Daulis. and the high Cephissian vale?

Listen, Eugenia

How thick the bursts come crowding through the

leaves !

Again-thou hearest?

Eternal passion!

Eternal pain!

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