THE CYCLOPS OF EURIPIDES

Re-enter Hercules, leading a veiled woman

Herc.I would speak freely to my friend, Admetus, Nor what I blame keep secret in my breast. I came to thee amidst thy ills, and thought I had been worthy to be proved thy friend. Thou told'st me not the obsequies prepared {1080} Were for thy wife; but in thy house receiv'dst me As if thou griev'dst for one of foreign birth. I bound my head with garlands, to the gods Pouring libations in thy house with grief Oppress'd. I blame this: yes, in such a state I blame this: yet I come not in thine ills To give thee pain; why I return in brief Will I unfold. This woman from my hands Receive to thy protection, till return'd I bring the Thracian steeds, having there slain {1090} The proud Bistorian tyrant; should I fail— Be that mischance not mine, for much I wish Safe to revisit thee—yet should I fail, I give her to the safeguard of thy house. For with much toil she came unto my hands. To such as dare contend some public games, Which well deserv'd my toil, I find propos'd; I bring her thence, she is the prize of conquest: For slight assays each victor led away A courser; but for those of harder proof {1100} The conqueror was rewarded from the herd, And with some female graced; victorious there, A prize so noble it were base to slight. Take her to thy protection, not by stealth Obtain'd, but the reward of many toils: The time, perchance, may come when thou will thank me.Adm.Not that I slight thy friendship, or esteem thee Other than noble, wished I to conceal My wife's unhappy fate; but to my grief It had been added grief, if thou had'st sought Elsewhere the rites of hospitality; Suffice it that I mourn ills which are mine. This woman, if it may be, give in charge, I beg thee, king, to some Thessalian else, That hath not cause like me to grieve; in Pherae Thou may'st find many friends; call not my woes Fresh to my memory; never in my house Could I behold her, but my tears would flow: To sorrow add not sorrow; now enough I sink beneath its weight. Where should her youth With me be guarded? for her gorgeous vests Proclaim her young; if mixing with the men She dwell beneath my roof, how shall her fame, Conversing with the youths, be kept unsullied? It is not easy to restrain the warmth Of that intemperate age; my care for thee Warns me of this. Or if from them remov'd I hide her in th' apartments late my wife's, How to my bed admit her? I should fear A double blame: my citizens would scorn me As light and faithless to the kindest wife That died for me, if to her bed I took Another blooming bride; and to the dead Behoves me pay the highest reverence Due to her merit. And thou, lady, know, Whoe'er thou art, that form, that shape, that air Resembles my Alcestis! By the Gods, Remove her from my sight! it is too much, I cannot bear it; when I look on her, Methinks I see my wife; this wounds my heart And calls the tears fresh gushing from my eyes. This is the bitterness of grief indeed!Chor.I cannot praise thy fortune; but behoves thee To bear with firmness what the gods assign.Herc.O that from Jove I had the pow'r to bring Back from the mansions of the dead thy wife To heav'n's fair light, that grace achieving for thee!Adm.I know thy friendly will; but how can this Be done? The dead return not to this light.Herc.Check then thy swelling griefs; with reason rule them.Adm.How easy to advise, but hard to bear!Herc.What should it profit should'st thou always groan?Adm.I know it; but I am in love with grief.Herc.Love to the dead calls forth the ceaseless tear.Adm.O, I am wretched more than words can speak.Herc.A good wife hast thou lost, who can gainsay it?Adm.Never can life be pleasant to me more.Herc.Thy sorrow now is new; time will abate it.Adm.Time say'st thou? Yes, the time that brings me death.Herc.Some young and lovely bride will bid it cease.Adm.No more: What say'st thou? Never could I think—Herc.Will thou still lead a lonely widow'd life?Adm.Never shall other women share my bed.Herc.And think'st thou this will aught avail the dead?Adm.This honor is her due, where'er she be.Herc.This hath my praise, though near allied to frenzy.Adm.Praise me or not, I ne'er will wed again.Herc.I praise thee that thou'rt faithful to thy wife.Adm.Though dead, if I betray her, may I die!Herc.Well, take this noble lady to thy house. {1170}Adm.No, by thy father Jove, let me entreat thee.Herc.Not to do this would be the greatest wrong.Adm.To do it would with anguish rend my heart.Herc.Let me prevail; this grace may find its meed.Adm.O that thou never had'st receiv'd this prize!Herc.Yet in my victory thou art victor with me.Adm.'Tis nobly said: yet let this woman go.Herc.If she must go, she shall! but must she go?Adm.She must, if I incur not thy displeasure.Herc.There is a cause that prompts my earnestness. {1180}Adm.Thou hast prevailed, but much against my will.Herc.The time will come when thou wilt thank me for it.Adm.Well, if I must receive her, lead her in.Herc.Charge servants with her! No, that must not be.Adm.Lead her thyself, then, if thy will incline thee.Herc.No, to thy hand alone will I commit her.Adm.I touch her not; but she hath leave to enter.Herc.I shall entrust her only to thy hand.Adm.Thou dost constrain me, king, against my will.Herc.Venture to stretch thy hand, and touch the stranger's. {1190}Adm.I touch her, as I would the headless Gorgon.Herc.Hast thou her hand?Adm.I have.Herc.(lifting the veil) Then hold her safe. Hereafter thou wilt say the son of Jove Hath been a generous guest; view now her face, See if she bears resemblance to thy wife, And thus made happy bid farewell to grief.Adm.O, Gods, what shall I say? 'Tis marvelous, Exceeding hope. See I my wife indeed? Or doth some god distract me with false joy?Herc.In very deed dost thou behold thy wife. {1200}Adm.See that it be no phantom from beneath.Herc.Make not thy friend one that evokes the shades.Adm.And do I see my wife, whom I entomb'd?Herc.I marvel not that thou art diffident.Adm.I touch her; may I speak to her as living?Herc.Speak to her: thou hast all thy heart could wish.Adm.Dearest of women, do I see again That face, that person? This exceeds all hope; I never thought that I should see thee more.Herc.Thou hast her; may no God be envious of thee. {1210}Adm.O be thou blest, thou generous son of Jove! Thy father's might protect thee! Thou alone Hast rais'd her to me; from the realms below How hast thou brought her to the light of life?Herc.I fought with him that lords it o'er the shades.Adm.Where with the gloomy tyrant didst thou fight?Herc.I lay in wait and seized him at the tomb.Adm.But wherefore doth my wife thus speechless stand?Herc.It is not yet permitted[3] that thou hear Her voice addressing thee, till from the Gods {1220} That rule beneath she be unsanctified With hallow'd rites, and the third morn return. But lead her in; and as thou'rt just in all Besides, Admetus, see thou reverence strangers. Farewell: I go t' achieve the destined toil For the imperial son of Sthenelus.Adm.Abide with us, and share my friendly hearth.Herc.That time will come again; this demands speed.Adm.Success attend thee: safe may'st thou return. Now to my citizens I give in charge, {1230} And to each chief, that for this blest event They institute the dance; let the steer bleed, And the rich altars, as they pay their vows, Breathe incense to the gods; for now I rise To better life, and grateful own the blessing.

Our fates the Gods in various shapes dispose: {1236}Heaven sets the crown on many a hopeless cause:That which is looked forFails in the issue.To goals unexpectedHeav'n points out a passage.And this is the end of the matter.

[1] The quotations are from Potter's Translation, in Routledge's Universal Library, freely altered in parts for the purpose of bringing out changes of metre, etc., in the original. The References are to the numbering of the lines in Potter.

[2] That is, a scene carried on upon the Stage without the presence of the Chorus in the Orchestra,—a very rare effect in Greek Drama.

[3] The fact was that theAlcestiswas represented in place of a 'Satyric Drama,' which only allowed two (speaking) personages on the Stage at the same time.

Scene: Sicily, in front of cave of the Cyclops, Polyphemus.

Prologueby Silenus, the rural demi-god, who recounts his faithful service to Bacchus, and yet the ungrateful god has let himself and his children fall into this slavery to the horrid Cyclops Polyphemus, where, worst of their many woes, they are debarred from the wine they worship.

Parode: The Chorus of Satyrs driving their goats and lamenting how different this from the merry service of Bacchus.

Episode I. Silenus hurries back with the news that a ship is approaching to water in the island: fresh victims for the monster.Enter Ulysses and crew: mutual explanations, all couched in 'burlesque' tone. The mariners have had no food except flesh, and gladly partake milk and fruits of the Satyrs, affording in return to Silenus the long-lost luxury of wine: the scene then going on to paint [with the utmost coarseness] the oncoming of drunkenness.

Suddenlyenter Polyphemus: Ulysses and the crew hide. After some rough bandying between the Monster and the Chorus, the strangers are discovered: and Silenus, to save himself, turns traitor, and tells Polyphemus how they have beaten him because he would not let them steal, also what dire woes they were going to work upon Polyphemus. In spite of their protests Silenus is believed: Ulysses promises, if set free, to erect shrines in Greece for the Cyclops, besides dwelling upon the impiety of attacking innocent strangers: Polyphemus replies that he does not care for shrines, and as for impiety he is independent of Zeus; which gives occasion for a glorification of the life of nature. They are driven into the cave to be fed on at leisure.

Choral Ode: General disgust at the monster.

Episode II. Ulysses [apparently standing at the mouth of the cave] describes Polyphemus gorging—then details his plan of deliverance by aid of the wine.

Choral Ode: Lyric delight of Chorus at prospect of deliverance.

Episode III. The Cyclops appears sated with his banquet, and settling down to this new treat of drinking—the effects of on-coming intoxication are painted again in Polyphemus, with the usual coarseness—a farcical climax being reached when the monster begins to be affectionate to his cup-bearer, old Silenus, in memory of Zeus and his famous cup-bearer, Ganymede.

Choral Ode: Anticipation of Revenge.

Exodus. The plan of Revenge, the boring out of the Cyclops's one eye while overpowered with drink, is carried out—various farcical effects by the way, e.g., the Chorus drawing back with excuses and leaving Ulysses to do the deed at the critical moment. The Drama ends with the Monster's rage and vain attempts to catch the culprit, Ulysses putting him off with his feigned name 'No man': thus all are delivered.

The permanent scene covered by movable scenery representing a wide landscape—the valley of the Dirce. A pile of buildings occupies the middle, to which the central entrance is an approach: these are the Cadmeia and royal palaces. That on the left is the palace of Pentheus, and further to the left is the mystic scene of Bacchus's birth—a heap of ruins, still miraculously smouldering, and covered by trailing vines. On the right is the palace of Cadmus, and the scene extends to take in the Electron gate of Thebes, and (on the right turn-scene) the slopes of Cithaeron.

DIONYSUS enters, in mortal guise, through the distance archway, and (in formal prologue) opens the situation. He brings out the points of the landscape before him, dear as the site of his miraculous birth and the sad end of his mortal mother. Then he details the Asiatic realms through which he has made triumphant progress, Lydia, Phrygia, sun-seared Persia, Bactria; the wild, wintry Median land; Araby the Blest, and the cities by the sea; everywhere his orgies accepted and his godhead received. Now for the first time he has reached an Hellenic city: and here—where least it should have been—his divinity is questioned by his own mother's sisters who make the story of his birth a false rumor, devised to cover Semele's shame, and avenged by the lightning flash which destroyed her. To punish his unnatural kin he has infected all their womenkind with his sacred phrensy, and maddened out of their quiet life, they are now on the revel under the pale pines of the mountain, unseemly mingled with the sons of Thebes: so shall the recusant city learn her guilt, and make atonement to him and his mother. Pentheus, it seems, is the main foe of his godhead, who reigns as king over Thebes, the aged Cadmus having yielded the sovereignty in his lifetime to his sister's son: he repels Bacchus from the sacred libations, nor names him in prayer. So he and Thebes must learn a dread lesson, and then away to make revelation in other lands. As to force, if attempt is made to drive the Maenads from the mountains, Bacchus himself will mingle in the war, and for this he has assumed mortal shape.

He calls upon his 'Thyasus of women,' fellow-pilgrims from the lands beyond the sea, to beat their Phrygian drums in noisy ritual about the palace of Pentheus till all Thebes shall flock to hear; he goes to join his worshippers on Cithaeron. {70}

The Chorus enter the orchestra, Asiatic women in wild attire of Bacchic rites, especially the motley (dappled fawnskin) always associated with abandon: they move with wild gestures and dances associated with Asiatic rituals.

The wild ode resumes the joyous dance that has made their whole way from Asia one long sacred revel—

Toilless toil and labour sweet.

Blest above all men he who hallows his life in such mystic rites, and, purified with holiest waters, goes dancing with the worshippers of Bacchus, and of thee, mighty Mother Cybele, shaking his thyrsus, and all his locks crowned with ivy. Bacchus's birth is sung, and how from the flashing lightning Jove snatched him and preserved in his thigh, until at the fated hour he gave him to light, horned and crowned with serpents. Wherefore should Thebes, sacred scene of the miracle, be one blossom of revellers, clad in motley and waving the thyrsus, the whole land maddening with the dance. The Chorus think of the first origin of such noisy joys, when the wild ones of Crete beat their cymbals round the sunless caverns where the infant Jove was hidden, and these rites of Rhoea soon mingled for the frantic Satyrs with the third year's dances to Bacchus. Then the ode recurs to the bliss of such holy rites, luxurious interchange of wild energy and delicious repose. They long for the climax of the dance, when, with luxuriant hair all floating, they can rage and madden to the clash of heavy cymbals and the shout Evoë, Evoê, frisking like colts to the soft breathing of the holy pipe, while the mountain echoes beneath their boundings. {178}

The blind prophet Teiresias enters from Thebes, and is soon joined by Cadmus from the palace. Old as they are they have put on the livery of the god, and will join in the dance, for which supernatural strength will be given: they alone of the city are wise.

The ancestral faith, coeval with our race,No subtle reasoning, if it soar aloftEv'n to the height of wisdom, can o'erthrow.

They are stopped by the entrance of Pentheus, as from a far journey. His opening words betray his anxiety as to the scandal in his realm—the young women of his family, even his mother Agave, all gone to join the impious revels.

In pretext, holy sacrificing Maenads,But serving Aphrodite more than Bacchus.

Some he has imprisoned, the rest he will hunt from the mountains, and put an end to the joyous movements of this fair stranger with golden locks, who has come to guide their maidens to soft inebriate rites. Suddenly he sees his hero ancestor and the prophet in Bacchic attire. Bitter reproaches follow; the scene soon settling down into the forensic contest. Teiresias elaborately puts the case for the god. Man has two primal needs: one is the solid food of the boon mother, the other has been discovered by the son of their Semele—the rich grape's juice: this beguiles the miserable of their sorrow, this gives all-healing sleep. The author of such blessings is recognized in heaven as a god: yet Pentheus puts scorn upon him by the story of the babe hidden in Jove's thigh. [This is explained away by a play upon words, as betweenho meeros, thigh, andhomeeros, a hostage: Jove hid the infant god in a cleft of air, a hostage from the wrath of Heré.] Prophecy is ascribed to the wine-god, for phrensy is prophetic; and he is an ally in war, sending panic on the foe ere lance crosses lance. He will soon be a god celebrated through all Greece and hold torchdance on the crags of Delphi. Let Thebes take her place among the worshippers, fearing nought for the purity of its daughters, who will be no less holy in the revel than at home.—The Chorus approve, and Cadmus follows on the same side, urging policy: a splendid falsehood making Semele the mother of a god will advance their household. Pentheus shakes off Cadmus's clasp in disgust: bids some of his servants go and overturn the prophet's place of divination, and others seek out the stranger who leads the rebels. Exit to the palace, while Teiresias and Cadmus depart, in horror at his impiety, in the direction of Cithaeron. {379}

Shocked at such defiance of heaven the Chorus invoke Sanctity, crowned as goddess in the nether world, to hear the awful words of Pentheus, uttered against the immortal son of Semele, first and best of gods, ruler of the flower-crowned feast, and the dance's jocund strife, and the laughter, and the sparkling wine-cup, and the sweet sleep that follows the festival. Sorrow closes the lot of such aweless, unbridled madness: stability is for the calmly reverent life, knitting whole houses in sweet domestic harmony. Clasp the present of brief life: no grasping after a bright future with far-fetched wisdom. Oh, for the lands where the graces and sweet desire have their haunts, and young loves soothe the heart with tender guile: fit regions for the Bacchanals, whose joy is Peace—wealth-giver to rich and poor. Away with stern austerity: hail the homely wisdom of the multitude. {439}

An officer brings in Dionysus as prisoner; he has yielded himself without resistance, while as for the imprisoned worshippers their chains have fallen off spontaneous, and they are away to the revels on the mountains. In long-drawn parallel dialogue Pentheus questions the Stranger—struck with his beauty though he be. Dionysus calmly answers to every point, but allows the orgies are secret and must not be revealed to the uninitiated. The King threatens in vain.

Pen.First I will clip away those soft bright locks.Dio.My locks are holy, dedicate to my god.Pen.Next, give thou me that thyrsus in thy hand.Dio.Take it thyself; 'tis Dionysus' wand.Pen.I'll bind thy body in strong iron chains.Dio.My god himself will loose them when he will.Pen.When thou invok'st him 'mid thy Bacchanals.Dio.Even now he is present, he beholds me now.Pen.Where is he then? mine eyes perceive him not.Dio.Near me: the impious eyes may not discern him.

The king relies on his superior strength.

Dio.Thou knowest not where thou art or what thou art.Pen.Pentheus, Agave's son, my sire Echion.Dio.Thou hast a name whose very sound is woe.

Dionysus is removed a prisoner to the palace of Pentheus, while the latter retires to prepare measures against the Maenads.

The Chorus, addressing the landscape before them, expostulate with the sacred stream in which the infant god was dipped for not accepting the divinity whose mystic name is 'Twice-born.' They call upon Dionysus to see them from Olympus, his rapt prophets at strife with dark necessity, and, golden wand in hand, to come to their rescue against the threats of the proud dragon-brood. They are wondering what fair land of song may be holding their sacred leader, when cries from within put an end to the ode. {582}

In wild lyric snatches shouts are interchanged between Dionysus within and groups of the disordered Chorus, bringing out the tumultuous scene—the earth rocking beneath them, sounds of crashing masonry, capitals of pillars hurled through the air; thenby the machinery of the hemicyclium the whole scene left of the center disappears and is replaced by a tableau representing Pentheus' palace in ruins, and the smouldering tomb of Semele surmounted by bright flame. From the ruins steps Dionysus, unharmed and free, the metre breaking into accelerated rhythm. {613}

Dio.O, ye Barbarian women. Thus prostrate in dismay;Upon the earth ye've fallen! See ye not as ye may,How Bacchus Pentheus' palace In wrath hath shaken down?Rise up! rise up! take courage—Shake off that trembling swoon.Chor.O light that goodliest shinest Over our mystic rite,In state forlorn we saw thee—Saw with what deep affright!Dio.How to despair ye yielded As I boldly entered inTo Pentheus, as if captured, into that fatal gin.Chor.How could I less? Who guards us If thou shouldst come to woe?But how wast thou delivered From thy ungodly foe?Dio.Myself myself delivered With ease and effort slight.Chor.Thy hands had he not bound them In halters strong and tight?Dio.'Twas even then I mocked him: He thought me in his chain;He touched me not nor reached me; His idle thoughts were vain!In the stable stood a heifer Where he thought he had me bound;Round the beast's knees his cords And cloven hoofs he wound,Wrath-breathing, from his body The sweat fell like a flood,He bit his lips in fury, While I beside who stoodLooked on in unmoved quiet.As at that instant come,Shook Bacchus the strong palace, And on his mother's tombFlames kindled. When he saw it, on fire the palace deeming,Hither he rushed and thither. For 'Water, water,' screaming;And every slave 'gan labor, But labored all in vain,The toil he soon abandoned. As though I had fled amainHe rushed into the palace: In his hand the dark sword gleamed.Then as it seemed, great Bromius—I say but, as it seemed—In the hall a bright light kindled. On thathe rushed, and there,As slaying me in vengeance, Stood stabbing the thin air.But then the avenging Bacchus Wrought new calamities;From roof to base that palace In smouldering ruin lies.Bitter ruing our imprisonment, With toil forespent he threwOn earth his useless weapon. Mortal, he had dared to do'Gainst a god unholy battle. But I, in quiet state,Unheeding Pentheus' anger, Came through the palace gate.It seems even now his sandal Is sounding on its way;Soon is he here before us, And what now will he say?With ease will I confront him, Ire-breathing though he stand.'Tis easy to a wise man To practice self-command. {651}

Blank verse is resumed as Pentheus enters, and meets his escaped prisoner who calmly confronts him. As Pentheus begins to threaten, Dionysus advises him first to hear the messenger even now entering from Cithaeron. An elaborateMessenger's Speechdescribes the miraculous life of the Maenads as they lie on the mountains, careless but not immodest. At the touch of their thyrsus the rock yields dew and the soil wine; their fingers lightly scraping the soil draw streams of exquisite milk, and honey distils from their ivied staffs. A city-bred agitator stirred up the herdsmen to confront them, but the phrensied women drove the men before them, and tore the herds to pieces; like a flock of birds they skimmed along the land, and all gave way before them.

And what they threw across their shoulders, clungUnfastened, nor fell down to the black ground,No brass, nor ponderous iron; on their locksWas fire that burned them not.

Then god-given fountains washed off the stains of their toil, and their serpents licked them clean. Even the Messenger advises submission to so mighty a god, dispensing such gifts.

Pentheus breathes nothing but defiance, and issues orders for the whole military force of Thebes to assemble. He is bewildered by the stranger, who doing or suffering still holds his peace. In long-drawn parallel verses Dionysus gradually assumes the friend, and—still warning the king that he is on the side of the god—insinuates into the mind of Pentheus the idea of visiting the scene, disguised in the feminine robes of the revellers. As the king retires to prepare, Dionysus proclaims that he is fallen into the net, and vengeance shall first deprive him of sense and then destroy him. {868}

As the crisis comes nearer the Chorus long for the moment of escape—the sensation of the hart that has leaped the net and with storm-wind haste escaped the hunter's pursuit and reached the silent shadow of the old hospitable wood. VICTORY IS THE JOY OF JOYS. Slow and true are the avenging deities, with printless foot hounding the impious along their winding path: for law is old as oldest time. VICTORY IS THE JOY OF JOYS. Happy the sailor in port, he whose race is o'er: hopes hover over thousands, but

Happiness alone is hisThat happy is to-day. {928}

Pentheus appears from the palace of Cadmus in disguise as a Maenad. Infatuation has become a phrensy: he sees double, Dionysus seems a bull, his eyes penetrate into distance and perceive his mother and her comrades. Unconscious of the laughter of Dionysus he adjusts his feminine dress and practices the Maenad step. Irony is added:

Dio.Follow me! thy preserver goes before thee; Another takes thee hence.Pen.Mean'st thou my mother?Dio.Aloft shalt thou be borne—Pen.O the soft carriage!Dio.In thy mother's hands.Pen.Wilt make me thus luxurious?Dio.Strange luxury, indeed!Pen.'Tis my desert.

Exclaiming in ambiguous phrase as to the awful end to which he is destined, Dionysus leads the king out towards Cithaeron. {986}

The crisis is come! Ho, to the mountains; where the Chorus picture the scene already being enacted, the hunter of the Bacchanals caught in the inexorable net of death. VENGEANCE ON THE LAWLESS SON OF ECHION is the recurrent burden of the ode. Its prayer is to hold fast the pious mind, the smooth painless life at peace with heaven and earth, instead of fighting with the invincible, aweless outcast from all law. {1036}

AMessenger's Speechdescribes the catastrophe. How Pentheus, arrived within sight of the orderly Maenads, was not satisfied, but desired a higher station from which to view their unseemly life. Then a wonder: the stranger bent down an ash tree, and seating Pentheus in a fork of it let the tree return to its position, holding the wretched king aloft, seen of all.

The stranger from our view had vanished quite.Then from the heavens a voice, as it should seem,Dionysus, shouted loud, "Behold, I bring,O maidens, him that you and me, our rites,Our orgies laughed to scorn; now take your vengeance."And as he spake, a light of holy fireStood up, and blazed from earth straight up to heaven.Silent the air, silent the verdant groveHeld its still leaves; no sound of living thing.They, as their ears just caught the half-heard voice,Stood up erect, and rolled their wandering eyes,Again he shouted. But when Cadmus' daughtersHeard manifest the god's awakening voice,Forth rushed they, fleeter than the winged dove,Their nimble feet quick coursing up and down.

How then the Maenads set upon him and tore him to pieces, his own mother leading them on: in triumph dance they are bringing his head to the city. Adore the gods, is the moral. {1164}

A short outburst of triumph from the Chorus: then the {1180}

begins with the approach of the Maenads, Agave bearing her son's head on a thyrsus. In a brieflyric concertobetween her and the mocking Chorus her phrensied triumph is brought out, and how she takes the bleeding object to be head of a young lion. At that moment the trumpet sounds, and the army that had been summoned appears at the Electran gate. Agave turns to them, and (in blank verse) calls all Thebans to behold the quarry she has taken without the useless weapons of the hunter; it shall be nailed up a trophy before her father's house.Shortly after enters on the right a melancholy procession of Cadmus and his servants bearing the fragments of Pentheus' body, with difficulty discovered and pieced together. In extended parallel dialogue between Cadmus and Evadne the phrensy gradually passes away from her and she recognizes the deed she has done. Cadmus sums up the final situation: all the house enwrapped in one dread doom. The Chorus sympathize with Cadmus, but have no pity for Agave. She then follows with a rhesis of woe, interrupted by {1365}

Dionysus appears aloft, in divine form. The MSS. are defective here: from what we have the god appears to be painting the future of Cadmus: life in a dragon form, victories at the head of barbarian hosts, finally the Isles of the Blest. Agave as stained with blood is banished the land, vainly imploring the god's mercy. With lamentations at the thought of exile, which is the lot of both, the play ends.

[1] The quotations are from Milman's translation in Routledge's Universal Library.

Evolution of human life

Prometheus.List rather to the deedsI did for mortals: how, being fools beforeI made them wise and true in aim of soul,And let me tell you—not as taunting men,But teaching you the intention of my gifts—How, first beholding, they beheld in vain,And hearing, heard not, but like shapes in dreamsMixed all things wildly down the tedious time;Nor knew to build a house against the sunWith wicketed sides, nor any woodcraft knew,But lived, like silly ants, beneath the ground,In hollow caves unsunned. There came to themNo steadfast sign of winter nor of spring,Flower perfumed, nor summer full of fruit;But blindly and lawlessly they did all things,Until I taught them how the stars do riseAnd set in mystery, and devised for themNumber, the inducer of philosophies,The synthesis of letters, and, beside,The artificer of all things, Memory,That sweet Muse-Mother. I was first to yokeThe servile beasts in couples, carryingAn heirdom of man's burdens on their backs.I joined to chariots steeds that love the bitThey clamp at—the chief pomp of golden ease.And none but I originated ships,The seaman's chariots wandering on the brine,With linen wings. And I—oh miserable!—Who did devise for mortals all these arts,Have no device left now to save myselfFrom the woe I suffer.

Chorus.Most unseemly woeThou sufferest, and dost stagger from the senseBewildered! like a bad leech falling sick,Thou art faint at soul, and canst not find the drugsRequired to save thyself.

Prometheus.Hearken the rest,And marvel further, what more arts and meansI did invent, this greatest: if a manFell sick there was no cure, nor esculent,Nor chrism, nor liquid, but for lack of drugsMen pined and wasted, till I showed them allThose mixtures of emollient remedies,Whereby they might be rescued from disease,I fixed the various rules of mantic art,Discerned the vision from the common dream,Instructed them in vocal auguries,Hard to interpret, and defined as plainThe wayside omens—flights of crook-clawed birds—Showed which are, by their nature, fortunate,And which not so, and what the food of each,And what the hates, affections, social needs,Of all to one another,—taught what signOf visceral lightness, colored to a shade,May charm the genial gods, and what fair spotsCommend the lung and liver. Burning soThe limbs encased in fat, and the long chine,I led my mortals on to an art abstruse,And cleared their eyes to the image in the fire,Erst filmed in dark. Enough said now of this:For the other helps of man hid underground,The iron and the brass, silver and gold,Can any dare affirm he found them outBefore me? None, I know, unless he chooseTo lie in his vaunt. In one word learn the whole:That all arts come to mortals from Prometheus.Aeschylus:Prometheus. [Mrs. Browning'stranslation.]

(For comparison with the preceding)

Warmly this argument with others oftHave I disputed, who assert that illTo mortal man assign'd outweighs the good.Far otherwise I deem, that good is dealtTo man in larger portions: were it not,We could not bear the light of life. That Power,Whatever god he be, that called us forthFrom foul and savage life, hath my best thanks.Inspiring reason first, he gave the tongueArticulate sounds, the intercourse of language:The fruits of earth he gave, and to that growthThe heaven-descending rain, that from the earth,Cheer'd by its kindly dews, they might arise,And bear their life-sustaining food mature: to thisThe warm defense against th' inclement stormHe taught to raise, and the umbrageous roofThe fiery sun excluding: the tall barkHe gave to bound o'er the wide sea, and bearFrom realm to realm in grateful interchangeThe fruits each wants. Is aught obscure, aught hid?Doubts darkening on the mind the mounting blazeRemoves; or from the entrail's panting fibresThe seer divines, or from the flight of birds.Are we not then fastidious to repineAt such a life so furnish'd by the gods?Euripides:Suppliants214. [Potter.]

Specimen of Accelerated Rhythm in the exact metre

How thy word and act shall issue thou shalt shortly understand.CHORUS

Up to action, O my comrades! for the fight is hard at hand,Swift, your right hands to the sword hilt! bare the weapon as for strife.

AEGISTHUSLo! I too am standing ready, hilt to hilt, for death, or life!

CHORUS'Twas thy word and we accept it! onward to the chance of war!

CLYTEMNESTRANay, enough, enough, my champion! we will smite and slay no more.Already we have heaped enough the harvest-field of guilt,Enough of wrong and murder, let no other blood be spilt!Peace, old men! and pass away into the homes by fate decreed,Lest ill valor meet our vengeance—'twas a necessary deed.But enough of toils and troubles—be the end, if ever, now,Ere the wrath of the Avenger deal another deadly blow.'Tis a woman's word of warning, and let who will list thereto.

AEGISTHUSBut that these should loose and lavish reckless blossoms of the tongue,And in hazard of their fortune cast upon me words of wrong,And forget the law of subjects, and to heed their ruler's word—

CHORUSRuler? but 'tis not for Argives, thus to own a dastard lord!

AEGISTHUSI will follow to chastise thee in my coming days of sway.

CHORUSNot if Fortune guide Orestes safely on his homeward way.

AEGISTHUSAh, well I know how exiles feed on hopes of their return!

CHORUSFeed and batten on pollution of the right, while 'tis thy turn!

AEGISTHUSThou shalt pay, be well assured, heavy quittance for thy pride.

CHORUSCrow and strut, with her beside thee, like a cock, his mate beside!

CLYTEMNESTRAHeed not thou too highly of them—let the cur-pack growl and yell—I and thou will rule the palace and will order all things well?Conclusion ofAgamemnon. (Morshead.)

Scene from the 'Hercules Mad' of Euripides

Translated by Robert Browning

Horror!Are we come to the self-same passion of fear,Old friends?—such a phantasm fronts me hereVisible over the palace-roof!In flight, in flight, the laggard limbBestir, and haste aloofFrom that on the roof there—grand and grim!O Paian, king!Be thou my safeguard from the woeful thing!

IRISCourage, old men! beholding here—Night's birth—Madness, and me the handmaid of the gods,Iris: since to your town we come no plague—Wage war against the house of but one manFrom Zeus and from Alkmene sprung, they say.Now, till he made an end of bitter toilsFate kept him safe, nor did his father ZeusLet us once hurt him, Heré nor myself.But since he has toiled through Eurustheus' taskHeré desires to fix fresh blood on him—Slaying his children; I desire it too.

Up then, collecting the unsoftened heart,Unwedded virgin of black Night! Drive, drag,Frenzy upon the man here—whirls of brainBig with child-murder, while his feet leap gay.Let go the bloody cable its whole length!So that,—when o'er the Acherousian fordHe has sent floating, by self-homicide,His beautiful boy-garland,—he may knowFirst, Heré's anger, what it is to him,And then learn mine. The gods are vile indeedAnd mortal matters vast if he 'scape free.

MADNESSCertes, from well-born sire and mother tooHad I my birth, whose blood is Night's and Heaven's;But here's my glory,—not to grudge the good!Nor love I raids against the friends of man.I wish, then, to persuade, before I seeYou stumbling, you and Heré: trust my words!This man, the house of whom ye hound me to,Is not unfamed on earth, nor gods among;Since, having quelled waste land and savage sea,He alone raised again the falling rightsOf gods—gone ruinous through impious men.Desire no mighty mischief, I advise!

IRISGive thou no thought to Heré's faulty schemes!

MADNESSChanging her step from faulty to fault-free!

IRISNot to be wise, did Zeus' wife send thee here!

MADNESSSun, thee I cite to witness—doing what I loath to do!But since indeed to Heré and thyself I must subserve,And follow you quick, with a whizz,as the hounds a-hunt with the huntsman,—Go I will! and neither the sea, as it groanswith its waves so furiously,Nor earthquake, no, nor the bolt of thundergasping out heaven's labor-throe,Shall cover the ground as I, at a bound,rush into the bosom of Herakles!And home I scatter and house I batter,Having first of all made the children fall,—And he who felled them is never to knowHe gave birth to each child that received the blow,Till the Madness I am have let him go!

Ha, behold, already he rocks his head—he is offfrom the starting place!Not a word, as he rolls his frightful orbs,from their sockets wrenched in the ghastly race!And the breathings of him he tempers and times no morethan a bull in act to toss,And hideously he bellows invoking the Keres, daughters of Tartaros.Ay and I soon will dance thee madder, and pipe theequite out of thy mind with fear!So, up with the famous foot, thou Iris,march to Olu[y?]mpus, leave me here!Me and mine, who now combine, in the dreadful shape no mortal sees,And now are about to pass, from without,inside of the home of Herakles!

Otototoi,—groan: Away is mownThy flower, Zeus' offspring, City!Unhappy Hellas, who dost cast (the pity!)Who worked thee all the good,Away from thee,—destroyest in a moodOf Madness him, to death whom pipings dance!There goes she, in her chariot,—groans, her broodAnd gives her team the goad, as though adriftFor doom, Night's Gorgon, Madness, she whose glanceTurns man to marble! with what hissings liftTheir hundred heads the snakes, her head's inheritance!Quick has the God changed fortune: through their sireQuick will the children, that he saved, expire!O miserable me! O Zeus! thy child—Childless himself—soon vengeance, hunger-wild,Craving for punishment, will lay how low—Loaded with many a woe!O palace-roofs! your courts about,A measure begins all unrejoicedBy the tympanies and the thyrsos hoistOf the Bromian revel-rout,O ye domes! and the measure proceedsFor blood, not such as the cluster bleedsOf the Dionusian pouring-out!Break forth! fly, children! fatal this—Fatal the lay that is piped, I wis!Ay, for he hunts a children-chase—Never shall madness lead her revelAnd leave no trace in the dwelling-place!Ai, ai, because of the evil!Ai, ai, the old man—how I groanFor the father, and not the father alone!She who was nurse of his children small,—smallHer gain that they never were born at all!See! see!A whirlwind shakes hither and thitherThe house—the roof falls in together!Ha, ha, what dost thou, son of Zeus?A trouble of Tartaros broke loose,Such as once Pallas on the Titan thundered,Thou sendest on thy domes, roof-shattered and wall-sundered.

Ideas of Deity

None of mortal menEscape unhurt by fortune, nor the gods,Unless the stories of the bards be false.Have they not formed connubial ties to whichNo law assents? Have they not gall'd with chainsTheir fathers through ambition? Yet they holdTheir mansions on Olympus, and their wrongsWith patience bear.Euripides:Hercules1414.

These are your works, ye gods! these changes fraughtWith horrible confusion, mingled thusThat we through ignorance might worship you.Euripides:Hecuba943.

O supreme of heav'n,What shall we say? that thy firm providenceRegards mankind? or vain the thoughts, which deemThat the just gods are rulers in the sky,Since tyrant fortune lords it o'er the world?Do. 470.

Mortal as I amIn virtue I exceed thee, though a godOf mighty pow'r; for I have not betray'dThe sons of Hercules: well did'st thou knowTo come by stealth unto my couch, t' invadeA bed not thine, nor leave obtain'd; to saveThy friends thou dost not know; thou art a godIn wisdom or in justice little vers'd.Euripides:Hercules385.

I deem not of the gods, as having form'dConnubial ties to which no law assents,Nor as oppressed with chains: disgraceful thisI hold, nor ever will believe that oneLords it o'er others: of no foreign aidThe god, who is indeed a god, hath need:These are the wretched fables of the bards.Euripides:Hercules1444.

O Jove, who rulest the rolling of the earth,And o'er it hast thy throne, whoe'er thou art,The ruling mind, or the necessityOf nature, I adore thee: dark thy ways,And silent are thy steps; to mortal manYet thou with justice all things dost ordain.Euripides:Daughters of Troy955.

Was this then human, or divine?Did it a middle nature share?What mortal shall declare?Who shall the secret bounds define?When the gods work we see their pow'r;We see on their high bidding waitThe prosperous gales, the storms of fate:But who their awful councils shall explore?Euripides:Helena1235.

And those, the Ever-Virgin ones, I call,Erinnyes dread that see all human deeds,Swift-footed, that they mark how I am slainBy you Atreidae; may they seize on them.Doers of evil, with all evil plaguesAnd uttermost destruction.Sophocles:Ajax937 [Plumptre].

Passing bits of Nature-Painting

Thou firmament of God, and swift-wing'd winds,Ye springs of rivers, and of ocean wavesThat smile innumerous! Mother of us all,O Earth, and Sun's all-seeing eye, behold,I pray, what I a God from Gods endure.Aeschylus:Prometheus88 [Plumptre].

A Sacred Spot

This spot is holy, one may clearly tell,Full as it is of laurel, olive, vine.And many a nightingale within sings sweetly.Rest my limbs here upon this rough-hewn rock.Sophocles:Oedipus at Colonus16.

A Grove of the Furies

Rush not onThrough voiceless, grass-grown grove,Where blends with rivulet of honey'd streamThe cup of water clear.Do. 156.

A Meadow of Artemis

Thee, goddess, to adorn I bring this crownInwoven with the various flowers that deckThe unshorn mead, where never shepherd daredTo feed his flock, and the scythe never came,But o'er its vernal sweets unshorn the beeRanges at will, and hush'd in reverence glidesTh' irriguous streamlet: garish art hath thereNo place; of these the modest still may cullAt pleasure, interdicted to th' impure.Euripides:Hippolytus81.

The Nile

These are the streams of Nile, the joy of nymphs,Glowing with beauty's radiance; he his floodsSwell'd with the melted snow o'er Egypt's plainIrriguous pours, to fertilize her fields,Th' ethereal rain supplying.Euripides:Helena1.

The Nightingale

On thee, high-nested in the museful shadeBy close-inwoven branches made,Thee, sweetest bird, most musicalOf all that warble their melodious songThe charmed woods among,Thee, tearful nightingale, I call:O come, and from thy dark-plumed throatSwell sadly-sweet thy melancholy note.Euripides:Helena1191.

Flight of Cranes

O might we through the liquid skyWing'd like the birds of Lybia fly;Birds, which the change of seasons know,And, left the wintry storms and snow,Their leader's well-known call obey.O'er many a desert dry and cultured plainHe guides the marshall'd train,And cheers with jocund notes their way.Ye birds that through th' aerial heightYour course with clouds light-sailing share,Your flight amidst the Pleiads hold,And where Orion nightly flames in gold;Then on Eurota's banks alight,And this glad message bear:"Your king from Troy shall reach once more,With conquest crown'd, his native shore."Euripides:Helena1603.

A Storm

So is it as a waveOf ocean's billowing surge(Where Thrakian storm-winds rave,And floods of darkness from the depths emerge,)Rolls the black sand from out the lowest deep,And shores re-echoing wail, as rough blasts o'er them sweep.Sophocles:Antigone586 [Plumptre].

Steering their rough course o'er this boisterous main,Form'd in a ring beneath whose wavesThe Nereid train in high-arch'd cavesWeave the light dance, and raise the sprightly song,Whilst whisp'ring in their swelling sailsSoft Zephyrs breathe, or southern galesPiping amidst their tackling play,As their bark ploughs its wat'ry wayThose hoary cliffs, the haunts of birds, among,To that wild strand, the rapid raceWhere once Achilles deigned to grace.Euripides:Iphigenia among the Tauri492.

(Specimens of Gnomic Verses)

Amongst barbarians all are slaves, save one.Helena311.

He is no lover who not always loves.Daughters of Troy1148.

What our necessities demand, becomesOf greater moment than to conquer Troy.Andromache427.

'Tis not the counsel, but the speaker's worth,That gives persuasion to his eloquence.Hecuba266.

Skilful leechMutters no spell o'er sore that needs the knife.Ajax581.

It is through God that man or laughs or mourns.Ajax385.

No mortal manMay therefore be call'd happy, till you seeThe last of all his days, and how, that pass'd,He to the realms of Pluto shall descend.Andromache114.

All human thingsA day lays low, a day lifts up again;But still the gods love those of order'd soul.Ajax130.

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