Agamemnon
Agamemnon
Headnote
Agamemnon is Seneca’s tragedy of a homecoming that is a trap: the king of kings returns in triumph from the ten-year war at Troy and is butchered, on the day of his own victory feast, by the wife who has waited for him with an axe. The story is the central panel of the house of Atreus — the curse that runs from Tantalus through Pelops to the brothers Atreus and Thyestes, and forward through this murder to Orestes’ vengeance — and Aeschylus had made it the first play of the Oresteia. Seneca writes against that model. Where Aeschylus builds an almost unbearable suspense around a Clytemnestra who dominates the stage and a chorus that senses doom without naming it, Seneca opens the gates wide from the first line: the ghost of Thyestes rises from the underworld to announce the killing before it happens, the doom is foreknown and foretold throughout, and the play’s tension is not whether but how — and at what cost to the watcher who can see it coming and cannot stop it.
The prologue sets the key. Thyestes’ ghost, sent up from Tartarus, surveys the palace of Pelops and reckons his own crimes — the children he ate, the daughter he raped to beget the avenger Aegisthus — against the torments of the damned, and finds himself the greater sinner; then he points to the returning Agamemnon and to the blood about to flow, and rouses his son to the deed. The first ode answers him with the play’s governing idea, the Senecan commonplace of Fortune: greatness is built on a precipice, the highest things fall by their own weight, and the safe life is the middling one. From there the structure is a sequence of great set-pieces rather than a tightening plot. Clytemnestra, torn between shame and fury, is talked back from repentance and into the murder by Aegisthus in a long agon of stichomythia; her motives are heaped up without apology — the sacrifice of Iphigenia, ten years’ jealousy, Agamemnon’s captives and now Cassandra brought home as a rival into her own house.
The centerpiece is not an action but a narration: Eurybates the herald reports the storm that wrecked the victorious Greek fleet on the way home. It is one of the most elaborate sea-storms in Latin, a cosmic set-piece of warring winds and collapsing sky in which the gods seem to fall and black chaos is drawn over the world; into it Seneca folds the two famous deaths of the homeward voyage — the blasphemer Ajax son of Oileus, who defies Pallas’s lightning only to be drowned when Neptune splits his rock, and the wholesale wreck on the rocks of Caphereus, where Nauplius avenges his murdered son Palamedes with a false beacon. The point is moral as much as spectacular: the victors are punished, fame is denied to men who drown ’having dared nothing noble,’ and the sea makes Trojans and Greeks pray to the same gods alike.
Cassandra is Seneca’s great enlargement of the role. The captive prophetess, the ’priestess of Phoebus,’ moves from her cold refusal of grief — her evils have conquered fear, and the gods have nothing left to harm her with — into a full possession-scene, the laurel shaken, the body convulsed, and then a prophetic vision in which she sees, and reports as it happens behind the palace doors, the murder she cannot prevent: the feast in Priam’s stolen robes, the entangling death-robe, Aegisthus’s faltering first blow, Clytemnestra’s axe, the beheading. For her the catastrophe is a triumph — Troy is avenged, the conqueror falls as Priam fell, and she walks to her own death gladly, carrying the news to her Phrygian dead. Against the Greek tradition Seneca also keeps Electra onstage to the end: she smuggles the boy Orestes to safety with Strophius of Phocis and then turns to face her mother and Aegisthus, and the play closes not on the murder but on the next link in the chain — Electra walled in a cave, Cassandra led to death prophesying that ’madness will come for you too.’ The fourth ode, in praise of Argos and the labors of Hercules, sets the city’s true hero against the false ’leader of leaders,’ and Hercules’ own earlier sack of Troy against this one.
The translation renders the verse in clear modern English lines, keeping the line structure of the Latin and the line-for-line cut of the stichomythia (including the rapid half-line exchanges of the Aegisthus debate and the Agamemnon–Cassandra duel), and imposing no English meter or rhyme. The choral odes — the ode on Fortune, the long cult-hymn to Apollo, Juno, Pallas, Diana, and Jupiter, the Trojan women’s ode on the freedom of death and the fall of Troy, and the Hercules-ode — are left to register through their syntax. Speakers and act-divisions are editorial (the manuscripts supply neither) and follow the standard tradition; the disputed attributions of the Clytemnestra–Aegisthus scene are resolved here with Clytemnestra wavering toward fidelity and Aegisthus driving her back. Section numbers approximate the line numbering by which the play is cited; because the source counts antilabe half-lines as separate physical lines, the numbering runs somewhat above the canonical Fitch lineation by the close. The gods are kept Roman (Jupiter, Juno, Phoebus, Pallas/Minerva, Diana as Trivia and Lucina, Neptune, Dis), and the dense realia — the torments of Tartarus, the rivers and winds of the storm, the metamorphosed mourning birds, the twelve labors — are preserved in the body, with named persons, places, peoples, and doctrines carried in the glossary.
Leaving the shadowed places of infernal Dis I am here, sent up from the deep cavern of Tartarus, uncertain which abode I hate the more: Thyestes flees the world below, and routs the world above. See — my spirit shudders and dread shakes my limbs: I see my father’s — no, my brother’s — household halls, this is the ancient threshold of the house of Pelops; here it is the Pelasgians’ custom to take the auspices of the royal glory upon the head; on this high couch sit those whose proud scepters are borne in their hands, here the place for holding council — here the place for the feast. I long to turn back. Is it not better even to dwell by the gloomy pools, better to dwell with the guardian of Styx who tosses his three necks with their black manes? — where that one, his body bound to the swift wheel, is whirled back upon himself; where, up the slope, in vain, the labor is mocked by the stone that rolls down again and again; where the greedy bird crops the ever-renewing liver, and one, amid the waters, burnt up with scorching thirst, snaps with cheated mouth at the fleeing streams, doomed to pay grievous penalties for the banquet of the gods —
Opaca linquens Ditis inferni loca adsum profundo Tartari emissus specu, incertus utras oderim sedes magis: fugio Thyestes inferos, superos fugo. en horret animus et pavor membra excutit: video paternos, immo fraternos lares, hoc est vetustum Pelopiae limen domus; hinc auspicari regium capiti decus mos est Pelasgis, hoc sedent alti toro quibus superba sceptra gestantur manu, locus ’hic habendae curiae— hic epulis locus, libet reverti, nonne vel tristes lacus incolere satius, nonne custodem Stygis trigemina nigris colla iactantem iubis? ubi ille celeri corpus evinctus rotae in se refertur, ubi per adversum irritus redeunte totiens luditur saxo labor, ubi tondet ales avida fecundum iecur, et inter undas fervida exustus siti aquas fugaces ore decepto appetit poenas daturus caelitum dapibus graves—
but that old man — how small a part is he of my guilt? Let me reckon up all whom, for their unspeakable hands, the Gnosian judge shakes in his urn as the accused: I, Thyestes, will outdo them all with my crimes. Shall I be outdone by my brother? — I, gorged with three children buried within me? I have eaten my own flesh. Nor did Fortune defile the father only thus far, but, daring another crime greater than the one already done, she bids me seek the unspeakable embraces of my daughter. Not in fear did I drink in her words, but I took up the horror. And so, that as a father I might pass through all my children, my daughter, forced by the fates, bears a heavy womb, a child worthy of me for father; nature is turned backward: grandfather I confounded with father — O abomination — husband with father, grandsons with sons, the day with the night.
sed ille nostrae pars quota est culpae senex? reputemus omnes quos ob infandas manus quaesitor urna Gnosius versat reos, vincam Thyestes sceleribus cunctos meis. a fratre vincar? liberis plenus tribus in me sepultis? viscera exedi mea. nec hactenus Fortuna maculavit patrem, sed maius aliud ausa commisso scelus gnatae nefandos petere concubitus iubet. non pavidus hausi dicta, sed cepi nefas. ergo ut per omnis liberos irem parens, coacta fatis gnata fert uterum gravem, me patre dignum, versa natura est retro: avo parentem, pro nefas, patri virum, gnatis nepotes miscui— nocti diem.
But late, at last, it looks back upon those worn out by evils — the pledge of a doubtful destiny, and only after deaths: that king of kings, Agamemnon, leader of leaders, whose standard a thousand ships followed and covered the Ilian seas with their sails, after the tenth circuit of Phoebus, with Ilium subdued, is here — about to give his throat to his own wife. Now, now the house will swim with answering blood: swords, axes, spears — I see the royal head split by the heavy stroke of the double-axe; now the crimes are near, now treachery, slaughter, gore — the feast is being made ready. The cause of your own birth, Aegisthus, has come. Why does shame weigh down your face? Why does your right hand falter, trembling with uncertain purpose? Why do you question yourself, torment yourself, interrogate yourself — whether this befits you? Look back to your mother: it befits. But why do the long reaches of winter suddenly draw out the turns of a summer night with their delay, or what holds back the falling stars in the sky? Do we delay Phoebus? Give the day back now to the world.
Sed sera tandem respicit fessos malis post fata demum sortis incertae fides: rex ille regum, ductor Agamemnon ducum, cuius secutae mille vexillum rates Iliaca velis maria texerunt suis, post decima Phoebi lustra devicto Ilio adest— daturus coniugi iugulum suae. iam iam natabit sanguine alterno domus: enses secures tela, divisum gravi ictu bipennis regium video caput, iam scelera prope sunt, iam dolus caedes cruor— parantur epulae, causa natalis tui, Aegisthe, venit, quid pudor vultus gravat? quid dextra dubio trepida consilio labat? quid ipse temet consulis torques rogas, an deceat hoc te? respice ad matrem: decet. Sed cur repente noctis aestivae vices hiberna longa spatia producunt mora, aut quid cadentes detinet stellas polo? Phoebum moramur? redde iam mundo diem.
O Fortune, deceitful with the great goods of kingdoms, in a perilous and doubtful place you set the too-lofty; never have scepters held a calm peace, or a day sure of itself; care upon care wearies them, and ever a new storm harries their spirits. Not so does the sea on the Libyan Syrtes rage to roll its alternate waves, not so does the wave of the Euxine swell, stirred from its lowest depths, the wave that borders the snowy pole, where, untouched by the blue waters, Bootes turns his shining wain, as Fortune wheels the headlong downfalls of kings.
O regnorum magnis fallax Fortuna bonis, in praecipiti dubioque locas nimis excelsos; numquam placidam sceptra quietem certumve sui tenuere diem; alia ex aliis cura fatigat vexatque animos nova tempestas. Non sic Libycis syrtibus aequor furit alternos volvere fluctus, non Euxini turget ab imis commota vadis unda nivali vicina polo, ubi caeruleis immunis aquis lucida versat plaustra Bootes, ut praecipites regum casus Fortuna rotat.
They long to be feared, and fear to be feared; for them no kindly night offers safe retreats, no sleep, the tamer of cares, unbinds their breasts. What citadels has crime answering crime not flung to ruin? what walls do impious arms not harry? Justice and shame and the hallowed faith of marriage flee the palaces; there follows, grim, Bellona with her bloodied hand, and the Fury that scorches the proud, ever the companion of houses grown too great, which any hour at all has brought down to the level from on high. Though arms lie idle and treacheries cease, great things settle by their own weight, and Fortune gives way beneath her own load.
Metui cupiunt metuique timent, non nox illis alma recessus praebet tutos, non curarum somnus domitor pectora solvit. Quas non arces scelus alternum dedit in praeceps? impia quas non arma fatigant? iura pudorque et coniugii sacrata fides fugiunt aulas; sequitur tristis sanguinolenta Bellona manu quaeque superbos urit Erinys, nimias semper comitata domos, quas in planum quaelibet hora tulit ex alto. Licet arma vacent cessentque doli, sidunt ipso pondere magna ceditque oneri Fortuna suo.
Sails swollen with favoring south-winds have feared their own winds too much; the tower that thrusts its head into the very clouds is battered by the rainy South, the grove that spreads its thick shade sees its aged oaks broken; lightnings strike the high hills, the larger bodies lie open to disease, and while the common herds run out to their roaming pastures, it is the biggest neck that is marked for the blow. Whatever Fortune has lifted on high she raises only to let it fall; for modest fortunes the span is longer: happy is he who, content with the lot of the middling crowd, skims the safe shores with the breeze and, afraid to trust his skiff to the sea, with his oar coasts the nearer land.
vela secundis inflata notis ventos nimium timuere suos, nubibus ipsis inserta caput turris pluvio vapulat Austro, densasque nemus spargens umbras annosa videt robora frangi; feriunt celsos fulmina colles, corpora morbis maiora patent, et cum in pastus armenta vagos vilia currant, placet in vulnus maxima cervix. Quicquid in altum Fortuna tulit, ruitura levat, modicis rebus longius aevum est: felix mediae quisquis turbae sorte quietus aura stringit litora tuta timidusque mari credere cumbam remo terras propiore legit.
Why, sluggish heart, do you seek out safe counsels? Why do you waver? The better road is already closed: once you might have guarded a husband’s chaste bed and the scepter, a widow, with unsullied faith — gone are right conduct, justice, honor, duty, faith, and shame, which once it is lost knows not how to return. Give the reins, and headlong drive on every wickedness: through crimes the safe road is always made by more crimes. Unroll now within yourself the wiles of women, whatever any faithless wife, no longer her own mistress, in blind love, whatever a stepmother’s hands have dared, whatever the impious maiden ablaze with the torch, fleeing the realm of Phasis in the Thessalian ship — the steel, the poisons; or, joined to an accomplice, flee, like her, the houses of Mycenae, stolen away by ship — why do you speak, faint-hearted, of stealth and exile and flight? Your sister did that; a greater outrage befits you.
Quid, segnis anime, tuta consilia expetis? quid fluctuaris? clausa iam melior via est: licuit pudicos coniugis quondam toros et sceptra casta vidua tutari fide— periere mores ius decus pietas fides et qui redire cum perit nescit pudor; da frena et omnem prona nequitiam incita: per scelera semper sceleribus tutum est iter. tecum ipsa nunc evolve femineos dolos, quod ulla coniunx perfida atque impos sui amore caeco, quod novercales manus ausae, quod ardens impia virgo face, Phasiaca fugiens regna Thessalica trabe: ferrum, venena; vel Mycenaeas domos coniuncta socio profuge furtiva rate— quid timida loqueris furta et exilium et fugas? soror ista fecit; te decet maius nefas.
Queen of the Danaans and famed offspring of Leda, what do you turn over in silence, what, helpless of counsel, what fierce assaults do you nurse in your swollen heart? Though you keep silent, your whole grief is in your face. So, whatever it is, give yourself time and room: what reason cannot mend, delay has often healed.
Regina Danaum et inclitum Ledae genus, quid tacita versas quidve consilii impotens tumido feroces impetus animo geris? licet ipsa sileas, totus in vultu est dolor. proin quicquid est, da tempus ac spatium tibi: quod ratio non quit saepe sanavit mora.
Greater torments rack me than that I could endure delay; flames burn up my marrow and my heart, fear, mingled with grief, has set its goads beneath, jealousy beats at my breast; here base desire presses my spirit under the yoke and forbids it to be conquered: and amid these torches of a besieged mind, weary indeed, and bound, and beaten down, shame fights back. I am driven by shifting waves, as when on one side the wind, on the other the tide, sweeps the deep, and the uncertain wave wavers, to which evil to yield. And so I have let the rudder fall from my hands: wherever anger, where grief, where hope shall carry me, there I will go; I have given my ship to the waves: when the mind goes astray, it is best to follow chance.
Maiora cruciant quam ut moras possim pati; flammae medullas et cor exurunt meum, mixtus dolori subdidit stimulos timor, invidia pulsat pectus; hinc animum iugo premit cupido turpis et vinci vetat: et inter istas mentis obsessae faces, fessus quidem et devinctus et pessumdatus, pudor rebellat. fluctibus variis agor, ut cum hinc profundum ventus, hinc aestus rapit, incerta dubitat unda cui cedat malo. proinde omisi regimen e manibus meis: quocumque me ira, qua dolor, quo spes feret, hoc ire pergam; fluctibus dedimus ratem: ubi animus errat, optimum est casum sequi.
Blind is the rashness that takes chance for its guide.
Caeca est temeritas quae petit casum ducem.
One whose fortune is at its last — why fear a doubtful one?
Cui ultima est fortuna, quid dubiam timet?
Your guilt is safe and lies hidden, if you let it.
Tuta est latetque culpa, si pateris, tua.
Every vice of a royal house shines through.
Perlucet omne regiae vitium domus.
You repent the former crime, and contrive a new one?
Piget prioris et novum crimen struis?
Moderation in wickedness is surely a foolish thing.
Res est profecto stulta nequitiae modus.
He swells what he fears who heaps crime upon crime.
Quod metuit auget qui scelus scelere obruit.
Both steel and fire often serve in the place of medicine.
Et ferrum et ignis saepe medicinae loco est
No one tries the last remedy first.
Extrema primo nemo temptavit loco.
In evil straits the headlong road must be seized.
Rapienda rebus in malis praeceps via est.
But let the sacred name of husband turn you back.
At te reflectat coniugi nomen sacrum.
For ten years a widow — shall I look to a husband?
Decem per annos vidua respiciam virum?
You ought to remember your children by him.
Meminisse debes sobolis ex illo tuae.
Indeed I remember too my daughter’s wedding torches and Achilles for a son-in-law: he kept faith with her mother. She paid the ransom for the becalmed fleet’s delays and drove on the seas fixed in sluggish languor. Shame and grief — I, daughter of Tyndareus, born of heaven, bore a victim’s head to purify the Dorian fleet! My mind unrolls again my maiden daughter’s bridal, which he made worthy of the house of Pelops, when the father stood at the altars with a sacrificing face — what a wedding! Calchas shuddered at the answer of his own voice, and the hearths shrinking back. O house forever outdoing crime with crime, with blood we bought the winds, with slaughter the war! “But a thousand ships made sail together?” The fleet was not loosed with a god’s blessing: Aulis cast the impious ships out of her harbor. Begun so, the war he wages is no better. Captured by love of a captive, unmoved by prayer, he held the Sminthean spoils of Phoebus’ old priest, even then raging with passion for the sacred maiden. Achilles, unconquerable, did not bend him with threats, nor he who alone sees the fates of the world, an augur loyal to us, but fickle toward the captives, nor the sick people and the glaring pyres: amid the last slaughter of a collapsing Greece he wastes, conquered without an enemy, and idles for Venus, and renews his loves; and lest the bed should ever stand bereft, unwed, of its barbarian mistress, he dotes on the girl of Lyrnessus, torn from Achilles, nor was he ashamed to snatch her, ripped from a husband’s arms — behold the foe of Paris, now bearing a fresh wound, raging, inflamed with love of the Phrygian prophetess, and after Trojan trophies and Ilium overthrown he returns the husband of a captive and the son-in-law of Priam. Gird yourself, my heart: it is no light war you make ready. The crime must be seized first. Sluggish one, what day do you wait for? Until Phrygian brides hold the scepters of Pelops? Or do the unwed maidens at home hold you back, and Orestes, the image of his father? It is the evils coming upon these that should move you, the storm that hangs over their fate: why, wretched woman, do you hold off? See — there comes for your children a raging stepmother; through your own side, if it cannot be otherwise, let the sword be driven, and let it slay the two together. Mingle the blood, destroy your husband by dying with him: death is no misery, to die together with one you would.
Equidem et iugales filiae memini faces et generum Achillem: praestitit matri fidem. Redemit illa classis immotae moras et maria pigro fixa languore impulit. Pudet doletque— Tyndaris, caeli genus. lustrale classi Doricae peperi caput! revolvit animus virginis thalamos meae quos ille dignos Pelopia fecit domo, cum stetit ad aras ore sacrifico pater quam nuptialis! horruit Calchas suae responsa vocis et recedentes focos. o scelera semper sceleribus vincens domus, cruore ventos emimus, bellum nece! sed vela pariter mille fecerunt rates? non est soluta prospero classis deo: eiecit Aulis impias portu rates. sic auspicatus bella non melius gerit. amore captae captus, immotus prece Zminthea tenuit spolia Phoebei senis, ardore sacrae virginis iam tum furens. non illum Achilles flexit indomitus minis, non ille solus fata qui mundi videt, in nos fidelis augur, in captas levis, non populus aeger et relucentes rogi: inter ruentis Graeciae stragem ultimam sine hoste victus marcet ac Veneri vacat reparatque amores; neve desertus foret a paelice umquam barbara caelebs torus, ablatam Achilli diligit Lyrnesida, nec rapere puduit e sinu avulsam viri— en Paridis hostem, nunc novum vulnus gerens amore Phrygiae vatis incensus furit, et post tropaea Troica ac versum Ilium captae maritus remeat et Priami gener. Accingere, anime: bella non levia apparas. scelus occupandum est. pigra, quem expectas diem? Pelopia Phrygiae sceptra dum teneant nurus? an te morantur virgines viduae domi patrique Orestes similis? horum te mala ventura moveant, turbo quis rerum imminet: quid, misera, cessas? en adest gnatis tuis furens noverca, per tuum, si aliter nequit, latus exigatur ensis et perimat duos. misce cruorem, perde pereundo virum: mors misera non est commori cum quo velis.
Queen, rein yourself in and halt this onset, and weigh how great a thing you attempt: there comes the conqueror of fierce Asia, the avenger of Europe; he drags captive Pergamum and the long-conquered Phrygians; him you now try to assail by fraud and stealth, whom Achilles did not wound with his fierce sword, though grim he had armed his insolent hand, nor the better Ajax, raging with death resolved, nor Hector, the Greeks’ one bar against the war, nor the sure shafts of Paris, nor swarthy Memnon, nor Xanthus, heaping up bodies tangled with weapons, and Simois driving its waves purple with slaughter, nor Cycnus, the snow-white offspring of the sea-god, nor the Thracian phalanx with warlike Rhesus, nor the Amazon, with painted quivers and axe-bearing hand, shielded with the crescent? — him, come home again, do you make ready to butcher, and to stain the altars with impious slaughter? Will victorious Greece bear this deed unavenged? Set before your eyes the horses and the arms, the strait bristling with fleets, and the ground flooding with deep blood, and the whole doom of the captured Dardanian house rolled back upon the Greeks; curb your savage passions, and of yourself make peace with your own mind.
Regina, frena temet et siste impetus et quanta temptes cogita: victor venit Asiae ferocis, ultor Europae, trahit captiva Pergama et diu victos Phrygas; hunc fraude nunc conaris et furto aggredi, quem non Achilles ense violavit fero, quamvis procacem torvus armasset manum, non melior Aiax morte decreta furens, non sola Danais Hector et bello mora, non tela Paridis certa, non Memnon niger, non Xanthus armis corpora immixta aggerens fluctusque Simois caede purpureos agens, non nivea proles Cycnus aequorei dei, non bellicoso Thressa cum Rheso phalanx, non picta pharetras et securigera manu peltata Amazon? hunc domi reducem paras mactare et aras caede maculare impia? victrix inultum Graecia hoc facinus feret? equos et arma classibusque horrens fretum propone et alto sanguine exundans solum et tota captae fata Dardaniae domus regesta Danais, comprime affectus truces mentemque tibimet ipsa pacifica tuam.
The time that I have always dreaded in heart and mind is surely here — the end of all my affairs. Why turn your back, my heart? why at the first assault lay down your arms? Believe that ruin and grim dooms are being framed for you by savage gods: set your worthless head against all torments, take steel and fire on a breast that faces them, Aegisthus: to one born as you were, it is no penalty so to die. You, my partner in the peril, you, daughter of Leda, only come with me: that cowardly captain and valiant father will pay you back his blood — but why does a pallor circle her trembling cheeks, and her gaze, sunk in a listless face, stand stunned?
Quod tempus animo semper ac mente horrui adest profecto, rebus extremum meis. quid terga vertis, anime? quid primo impetu deponis arma? crede perniciem tibi et dira saevos fata moliri deos: oppono cunctis vile suppliciis caput, ferrumque et ignes pectore adverso excipe, Aegisthe: non est poena sic nato mori. tu nos pericli socia, tu, Leda sata, comitare tantum: sanguinem reddet tibi ignavus iste ductor ac fortis pater, sed quid trementes circuit pallor genas iacensque vultu languido optutus stupet?
Wedded love conquers, and bends me back: let me be carried back there, whence it was not right to depart at all; but now let chaste faith be sought again, for the road to good conduct is never too late: he who repents of having sinned is almost innocent.
Amor iugalis vincit ac flectit retro: referamur illuc, unde non decuit prius abire; sed nunc casta repetatur fides, nam sera numquam est ad bonos mores via: quem paenitet peccasse paene est innocens.
Where are you swept, mad woman? do you believe or hope that Agamemnon’s marriage to you is faithful? Even if nothing lay beneath in his mind to make for grave alarms, still proud Fortune, ungoverned, with too great a gust would give him swollen, overweening spirits. He was harsh to his allies while Troy still stood: what do you think Troy has added to a temper savage of its own nature? He was king of Mycenae; he will come a tyrant: prosperity lifts up the spirit. With what great display the crowd of concubines comes streaming about him! But one stands out from the throng and holds the king — the handmaid of the truth-telling god: will you, conquered, endure a sharer in your marriage-bed? But she will refuse — the last evil for a wife is a mistress openly possessing her husband’s house. Neither thrones nor wedding-torches know how to bear a partner.
Quo raperis amens? credis aut speras tibi Agamemnonis fidele coniugium? ut nihil subesset animo quod graves faceret metus: tamen superba et impotens flatu nimis Fortuna magno spiritus tumidos daret. gravis ille sociis stante adhuc Troia fuit: quid rere ad animum suapte natura trucem Troiam addidisse? rex Mycenarum fuit, veniet tyrannus: prospera animos efferant. effusa circa paelicum quanto venit turba apparatu! sola sed turba eminet tenetque regem famula veridici dei: feresne thalami victa consortem tui? at illa nolet, ultimum est nuptae malum palam mariti possidens paelex domum. nec regna socium ferre nec taedae sciunt.
Aegisthus, why do you drive me again to the brink and stir up the anger now sinking into its flames? The victor allowed himself something with a captive: it ill befits a wife or a mistress to mark it. One law is for the throne, another for a private bed. And what of this — that my own heart, ashamed, mindful of a base deed of mine, will not let me bear strict laws against my husband? He readily grants pardon who himself has need of pardon.
Aegistbe, quid me rursus in praeceps agis iramque flammis iam residentem incitas? permisit aliquid victor in captam sibi: nec coniugem hoc respicere nec dominam decet. lex alia solio est, alia privato in toro. quid quod severas ferre me leges viro non patitur animus turpis admissi memor? dat ille veniam facile cui venia est opus.
Is it so? May one bargain for mutual pardon? Are the laws of kingdoms unknown to you, or new? To us they are grudging judges, to themselves fair; they reckon this the greatest pledge of sovereignty — that whatever is not allowed to others is allowed to them alone.
Itane est? pacisci mutuam veniam licet? ignota tibi sunt iura regnorum aut nova? nobis maligni iudices, aequi sibi id esse regni maximum pignus putant, si quicquid aliis non licet solis licet.
He pardoned Helen: she returns joined to Menelaus, she who afflicted Europe and Asia with equal evils.
Ignovit Helenae: iuncta Menelao redit quae Europam et Asiam paribus afflixit malis.
But no woman drew the son of Atreus away by stolen love, nor caught a heart bound fast to his own wife. Already he is seeking a charge and getting his pretexts ready. Believe you have committed nothing base: what good is an honorable life, free of disgrace? Where the master hates, one is made guilty — there is no inquiry. Will you, spurned, make again for Sparta and your own Eurotas and your father’s home, a fugitive? The divorces of kings give no way out; with false hope you ease your fear.
Sed nulla Atriden Venere furtiva abstulit nec cepit animum coniugi obstrictum suae. iam crimen ille quaerit et causas parat. nil esse crede turpe commissum tibi: quid honesta prodest vita, flagitio vacans? ubi dominus odit fit nocens, non quaeritur. Spartamne repetes spreta et Eurotan tuum patriasque sedes profuga? non dant exitum repudia regum, spe metus falsa levas.
No one knows my sins but a faithful friend.
Delicta novit nemo nisi fidus mea.
Faith never crosses a royal threshold.
Non intrat umquam regium limen fides.
I will earn it with wealth, to bind faith with a price.
Opibus merebor, ut fidem pretio obligem.
Faith bought with a price is outbid by a price.
Pretio parata vincitur pretio fides.
The lingering shame of my former mind rises up — why do you cry me down? why with flattering voice do you dictate evil counsels? Of course she will marry you, leaving the king of kings — the high-born woman — marry an exile!
Surgit residuus pristinae mentis pudor— quid obstrepis? quid voce blandiloqua mala consilia dictas? scilicet nubet tibi, regum relicto rege, generosa exuli?
And why do I seem to you lower than the son of Atreus — I, the son of Thyestes?
Et cur Atrida videor inferior tibi, gnatus Thyestae?
If that is too little, add: and grandson too.
Si parum est, adde et nepos.
I am begotten with Phoebus for author: I am not ashamed of my line.
Auctore Phoebo gignor: haud generis pudet.
You call Phoebus the author of your unspeakable stock — Phoebus whom, as he turned his reins back in sudden night, you drove from the sky? Why drag the gods into the disgrace? You, schooled to steal the marriage-bed by fraud, whom we know for a man only in forbidden love — get out, and quickly, and carry the disgrace of our house away from my eyes: this house lies open for a king and a husband.
Phoebum nefandae stirpis auctorem vocas, quem nocte subita frena revocantem sua caelo expulistis? quid deos probro addimus? subripere doctus fraude genialis toros, quem Venere tantum scimus inlicita virum, facesse propere ac dedecus nostrae domus asporta ab oculis: haec vacat regi ac viro.
Exile is nothing new to me; I am inured to evils. If you command, queen, I quit not only the house, not only Argos: at your command I do not hesitate to lay open with the sword this breast heavy with troubles.
Exilia mihi sunt haud nova, assuevi malis. si tu imperas, regina, non tantum domo Argisve cedo: nil moror iussu tuo aperire ferro pectus aerumnis grave.
As if I, the bloody daughter of Tyndareus, would let that happen. She who sins in partnership owes loyalty to the guilt as well. Withdraw with me, rather, so that, our counsels joined, we may unravel the doubtful and threatening state of things.
Siquidem hoc cruenta Tyndaris fieri sinam. quae iuncta peccat debet et culpae fidem. secede mecum potius, ut rerum statum dubium ac minacem iuncta consilia explicent.
Sing, O glorious youth, of Phoebus! For you the festal throng wreathes its head; for you its maiden hair, shaking the laurel, after the custom the unwed daughters of Inachus have let stream loose; you too, Thespian guest, join our dancing-troops, and you who drink the cold springs of Erasinus, and you of the Eurotas, and you who, on its green bank, drink the silent Ismenos: the gods whom Manto, foreknowing the fates, daughter of Tiresias, bade you honor with rites — the children of Latona. Your bow, victor, now peace is brought back, Phoebus, unstring, and from your shoulder lay down the quivers heavy with light arrows, and let the tortoise-shell lyre, struck by your swift hand, ring out its voice: I would have it thunder nothing harsh or great in lofty strains, but such a song as you are wont to coax from the lighter lyre, a simple one, when the learned Muse reviews your sports; you may sound too on a graver string, such as you sang when the gods saw the Titans conquered by the thunderbolt, or when the mountains, piled on lofty mountains, built stairways for the savage monsters, and Pelion stood set upon Ossa, and pine-bearing Olympus pressed down on both.
Canite, o pubes inclita, Phoebum! tibi festa caput turba coronat, tibi virgineas, laurum quatiens, de more comas innuba fudit stirps Inachia; tu quoque nostros, Thespias hospes, comitare choros, quaeque Erasini gelidos fontes, quaeque Eurotan, quaeque virenti tacitum ripa bibis Ismenon: quam fatorum praescia Manto, sata Tiresia, Latonigenas monuit sacris celebrare deos. arcus, victor, pace relata, Phoebe, relaxa umeroque graves levibus telis pone pharetras resonetque manu pulsa citata vocale chelys: nil acre velim magnumque modis intonet altis, sed quale soles leviore lyra flectere carmen simplex, lusus cum docta tuos Musa recenset; licet et chorda graviore sones, quale canebas cum Titanas fulmine victos videre dei, vel cum montes montibus altis super impositi struxere gradus trucibus monstris, stetit imposita Pelion Ossa, pinifer ambos pressit Olympus,
Be here, O sister and consort of the great god, partner of his scepter, royal Juno: we, your throng at Mycenae, worship you; you alone guard Argos, anxious and suppliant of your godhead; you rule with your hand both war and peace; do you now, victorious, receive the laurels of Agamemnon; for you the boxwood pipe with its many holes sounds its solemn strain, for you skilled girls move the strings with a soft song, for you the Greek mothers cast the votive torch: at your shrines the bull’s white mate shall fall, a heifer that knows no plow, her neck marked by no yoke.
ades, o magni, soror et coniunx, consors sceptri, regia Iuno: tua te colimus turba Mycenae, tu sollicitum supplexque tui numinis Argos sola tueris, tu bella manu pacemque regis; tu nunc laurus Agamemnonias accipe victrix, tibi multifora tibia buxo solemne canit, tibi fila movent docta puellae. carmine molli, tibi votivam matres Graiae lampada iactant: ad tua coniunx candida tauri delubra cadet, nescia aratri, nullo collum signata iugo.
And you, O daughter of the great Thunderer, renowned Pallas, who often with your spear-point assailed the Dardanian towers, you the matron, younger and older, worships in a mingled dance, and at the goddess’s coming the priestess unbars the temples: for you the throng comes garlanded with woven crowns, for you the aged and weary old men, their vow fulfilled, render thanks and pour libation with a trembling hand.
tuque, o magni gnata Tonantis, incluta Pallas, quae Dardanias cuspide turres saepe petisti, te permixto matrona minor maiorque choro colit et reserat veniente dea templa sacerdos: tibi nexilibus turba coronis redimita venit, tibi grandaevi lassique senes compote voto reddunt grates libantque manu vina trementi.
And you, Trivia, mindful, we entreat with the familiar voice: you, Lucina, bid your mother’s Delos stand still, that once wandered this way and that, a Cyclad driven by the winds; now at last, fixed and steady, it holds the lands by its root, spurns the gales and moors the ships it once was wont to follow; you, victorious, count up the deaths of the Tantalid mother: now on the highest peak of Sipylus stands a weeping stone, and still the ancient marble pours out fresh tears, and lavishly both woman and man worship the twin godhead.
et te Triviam nota memores voce precamur: tu maternam sistere Delon, Lucina, iubes, huc atque illuc prius errantem Cyclada ventis; nunc iam stabilis fixa terras radice tenet, respuit auras religatque rates assueta sequi, tu Tantalidos funera matris victrix numeras: stat nunc Sipyli vertice summo flebile saxum, et adhuc lacrimas marmora fundunt antiqua novas, colit impense femina virque numen geminum,
And you before all, father and ruler, mighty with the thunderbolt, at whose nod at once the farthest poles tremble, founder of our race, Jupiter, receive our gifts gladly, and as forefather look with favor on your undegenerate offspring.
tuque ante omnis, pater ac rector fulmine pollens, cuius nutu simul extremi tremuere poli, generis nostri, Iuppiter, auctor, cape dona libens abavusque tuam non degenerem respice prolem.
But see — a soldier, hurrying with huge strides, comes on bearing the clear signs of joy (for his spear carries laurel on its iron tip), and Eurybates, ever faithful to the king, is here.
Sed ecce, vasto concitus miles gradu manifesta properat signa laetitiae ferens (namque hasta summo lauream ferro gerit) fidusque regi semper Eurybates adest.
Shrines and altars of the gods and ancestral hearths, weary after the long stretches, scarcely believing myself, I adore as a suppliant. Pay your vows to the gods on high: the high glory of the Argive land returns at last to his own household gods — the victor Agamemnon.
Delubra et aras caelitum et patrios lares post longa fessus spatia, vix credens mihi, supplex adoro. vota superis solvite: telluris altum remeat Argolicae decus tandem ad penates victor Agamemnon suos,
A happy message has come to my ears. Where does the husband I have sought through ten years linger? Does he hold the sea, or the land?
Felix ad aures nuntius venit meas. ubinam petitus per decem coniunx mihi annos moratur? pelagus an terras premit?
Unharmed, enlarged in glory, renowned in praise, he has set his returning foot on the longed-for shore.
Incolumis, auctus gloria, laude inclitus reducem expetito litori impressit pedem.
Let us honor with rites this day at last so prosperous, and the gods who, if favorable, were yet slow. Tell me — does my husband’s brother live, and tell what abode my sister holds.
Sacris colamus prosperum tandem diem et si propitios attamen lentos deos. tu pande vivat coniugis frater mei et pande teneat quas soror sedes mea.
I pray for better than that, and adjure the gods: for the lot of an uncertain sea forbids me to speak for sure. When the scattered fleet met the swelling sea, ship could not see its companion ship. Indeed the son of Atreus himself, wandering the boundless deep, bore from the sea heavier losses than from the war, and returns like one defeated, dragging a few and shattered ships, a victor, out of so great a fleet.
Meliora votis posco et obtestor deos: nam certa fari sors maris dubii vetat. ut sparsa tumidum classis excepit mare, ratis videre socia non potuit ratem. quin ipse Atrides aequore immenso vagus graviora pelago damna quam bello tulit remeatque victo similis, exiguas trahens lacerasque victor classe de tanta rates.
Tell out — what mischance swallowed my ships? or what fortune of the sea scattered the leaders.
Effare casus quis rates hausit meas? aut quae maris fortuna dispulerit duces.
Bitter things to tell you ask; you bid me mingle an ill-omened message with a glad one; my sick mind shrinks from speech and shudders at such great evils.
Acerba fatu poscis, infaustum iubes miscere laeto nuntium, refugit loqui mens aegra tantis atque inhorrescit malis.
Speak out: he who shrinks from knowing his own disasters burdens his fear the more; doubtful evils torment more.
Exprome: clades scire qui refugit suas gravat timorem; dubia plus torquent mala.
When all Pergamum had fallen to the Dorian torch, the spoil was shared out, and in haste they make for the seas. And now the soldier unburdens his side, weary of the sword, the shields, cast aside, lie about the high sterns; the oar is fitted to soldiers’ hands, and to the man in haste every delay is too long. When the signal for return flashed from the royal ship and the clear trumpet roused the gladdened oarsmen, the gilded prow marks out the first paths and opens the courses for a thousand keels to cut. Here a gentle breeze at first drives the ships, gliding into the sails; the calm wave, scarcely stirred by the soft Zephyr’s breath, trembles a little. The sea shines with the fleet, and at once is hidden by it. It is a joy to see the bared shores of Troy, a joy to see the lonely places of forsaken Sigeum.
Vt Pergamum omne Dorica cecidit face, divisa praeda est, maria properantes petunt. iamque ense fessum miles exonerat latus, neglecta summas scuta per puppes iacent; ad militares remus aptatur manus omnisque nimium longa properanti mora est. signum recursus regia ut fulsit rate et clara laetum remigem monuit tuba, aurata primas prora designat vias aperitque cursus, mille quos puppes secent. hinc aura primo lenis impellit rates adlapsa velis; unda vix actu levi tranquilla Zephyri mollis afflatu tremit. splendetque classe polagus et pariter latet. iuvat videro nuda Troiae litora,. iuvat rolicti sola Sigei loca.
All the young men hurry to strain the drawn oars together; with the hand they help the winds and ply their strong arms with alternate effort. The furrowed waters quiver and the sides resound, and white foam parts the blue sea. When a stronger breeze stretches the full sails, they laid down the oars, the ship is given to the wind, and the soldier, idle at the benches, marks the lands far off as the sails draw away, watches them flee from sight, or tells of the wars: the threats of brave Hector, and the chariot, and the body given back for a ransomed pyre, Hercean Jupiter spattered with a king’s blood. Then the Tyrrhenian fish, that plays to and fro in the lulled sea and leaps the swelling water with arching back, the dolphin frolics over all the strait and wheels in circles and swims as a comrade at the side, glad to go before the ships and again to follow; now the troop sports, touching the foremost beaks, now circles and ranges round the thousandth ship.
proporat iuventus omnis adductos simul lentare remos, adiuvat ventos manu et valida nisu bracchia alterno movet. sulcata, vibrant aequora et latera increpant dirimuntque canae caerulum spumae mare. ut aura plenos fortior tendit sinus, posuere tonsas, credita, est vento ratis ususque transtris miles aut terras procul, quantum recedunt vela, fugientes notat, aut bella narrat: Hectoris fortis minas currusque et empto redditum corpus rogo, sparsum cruore rogis Herceum Iovem. tunc qui iacente reciprocus ludit salo tumidumque pando transilit dorso mare Tyrrhenus omni piscis exultat freto agitatque gyros et comes lateri adnatat, anteire naves laetus et rursus sequi; nunc prima tangens rostra lascivit chorus, millosimam nunc ambit et lustrat ratem.
Now all the shore is covered, the plains are hidden, and dimly appear the ridges of Mount Ida; and now — the one thing the straining eye can see — the Ilian smoke shows as a dark smudge. Now Titan was easing his weary neck from the yoke, now the light bends toward the stars, now the day is headlong. A little cloud, swelling into a grimy ball, stains the bright ray of the setting Phoebus; the sunset, mottled, made the straits look ominous. Early night had strewn the sky with stars; the sails lie idle, abandoned by the wind. Then a heavy murmur, threatening worse, falls from the hilltops, and over a long stretch the shore and the rocks groan: the wave, stirred by the coming winds, swells: when suddenly the moon is buried, the stars hide,
iam litus omne tegitur et campi latent et dubia parent montis Idaei iuga; et iam, quod unum pervicax acies videt, Iliacus atra fumus apparot nota. iam lassa Titan colla relevabat iugo, in astra iam lux prona, iam praeceps dios. exigua nubes sordido crescens globo nitidum cadentis inquinat Phoebi iubar; suspecta rarius occideris fecit freta. nox prima caelum sparserat stellis, iacent deserta vento vela. tum murmur grave, maiora minitans, collibus summis cadit tractuque longo litus ac petrae gemunt: agitata ventis unda Venturis tumet: cum subito luna conditur, stellae latent,
the sea is lifted to the stars, the sky is lost, and there is not one night only: a thick fog drowns the darkness, and all light withdrawn it mingles sea and sky together; from every side at once they press, and tear up the sea, overturned from its lowest floor, Zephyr against Eurus and Notus against Boreas: each hurls his own weapons, and in their enmity they heave up the strait; the whirlwind rolls the sea together: the Strymonian North-wind whirls up deep snows, and the Libyan South drives the sands and the Syrtes; nor does it stay at South: Notus grows heavy with storm-clouds, swells the waves with rain; Eurus stirs the East, shaking the Nabataean realms and the eastern gulfs. What of raging Corus, lifting his face from the ocean? You would have believed the whole world torn from its seat, and the very gods, the sky burst open, falling, and black chaos drawn over all things. Tide resists wind, and wind rolls the tide back again; the sea cannot contain itself, and rain and billow mingle their waters.
in astra pontus tollitur, caelum perit nec una nox est: densa tenebras obruit caligo et omni luce subducta fretum caelumque miscet, undique incumbunt simul rapiuntque pelagus infimo eversum solo adversus Euro Zephyros et Boreae Notus: sua quisque mittit tela et infesti fretum emoliuntur, turbo convolvit mare: Strymonius altas Aquilo contorquet nives Libycusque harenas Auster ac Syrtes agit; nec manet in Austro: fit gravis nimbis Notus imbre auget undas, Eurus orientem movet Nabataea quatiens regna et Eoos sinus. quid rabidus ora Corus oceano exerens? mundum revelli sedibus totum suis ipsosque rupto crederes caelo deos decidere et atrum rebus induci chaos. vento resistit aestus et ventus retro aestum revolvit; non capit sese mare undasque miscent imber et fluctus suas.
And not even this relief, at the last, is granted their woes — at least to see and know by what evil they perish: darkness weighs on their eyes, and the infernal night of grim Styx is upon them. Yet fires break out, and from the riven cloud the dread lightning flashes, and to the wretched the evil light is so sweet: this light they long for. The fleet crushes itself, prow harms prow and side harms side, one the gaping sea snatches headlong down and swallows, and vomits it back, restored to the deep; this one sinks under its load, that one submits its torn side to the waves; the tenth billow covers another; this one, mangled, light, its every adornment plundered, drifts, and no sails, no oars are left to it, nor an upright mast bearing the high yardarms, but the maimed hull floats over all the Icarian sea. Reason and skill dare nothing: art has yielded to the evils; horror grips their limbs, every sailor stands numb, his duty abandoned, the oar slips from his hands. Their last fear forces the wretched into prayers, and Trojans and Greeks beg the same gods alike.
nec hoc levamen denique aerumnis datur, videre saltem et nosse quo pereant malo: premunt tenebrae lumina et dirae Stygis inferna nox est. excidunt ignes tamen et nube dirum fulmen elisa micat, miserisque lucis tanta dulcedo est malae: hoc lumen optant. ipsa se classis premit et prora prorae nocuit et lateri latus, illam dehiscens pontus in praeceps rapit hauritque et alto redditam revomit mari; haec onere sidit, illa convulsum latus submittit undis, fluctus hanc decimus tegit; haec lacera et omni decore populato levis fluitat nec illi vela nec tonsae manent nec rectus altas malus antemnas ferens, sed trunca toto puppis Icario natat, nil ratio et usus audet: ars cessit malis; tenet horror artus, omnis officio stupet navita relicto, remus effugit manus, in vota miseros ultimus cogit timor eademque superos Troes et Danai rogant.
What can the fates do! Pyrrhus envies his father, Ulysses Ajax, the lesser son of Atreus envies Hector, Agamemnon Priam; whoever lies at Troy is called happy — he who earned to fall at his post, whom fame preserves, whom the conquered earth covers. “Shall the sea and the waves carry off men who dared nothing noble? Shall an inglorious fate consume brave men? Must our death be thrown away? Whoever you are among the gods, not yet sated with our so-great evils, at last make your power serene: at our disasters even Troy would give tears. If your hatred lasts and it pleases you to send the Dorian race to ruin, why let these die together with us — the very ones through whom you destroy us? Still the hostile sea: this fleet carries Danaans — and it carries Trojans too.” They can say no more: the sea seizes their voice.
i quid fata possunt! invidet Pyrrhus patri, Aiaci Vlixes, Hectori Atrides minor, Agamemno Priamo; quisquis ad Troiam iacet felix vocatur, cadere qui meruit gradu, quem fama servat, victa quem tellus tegit, nil nobile ausos pontus atque undae ferunt? ignava fortes fata consument viros? perdenda mors est? quisquis es nondum malis satiate tantis caelitum, tandem tuum numen serena: cladibus nostris daret vel Troia lacrimas, odia si durant tua placetque mitti Doricum exitio genus, quid hos simul perire nobiscum iuvat, quibus perimas? sistito infestum mare: vehit ista Danaos classis, et Troas venit. nec plura possunt: occupat vocem mare.
Behold another disaster: Pallas, armed with the lightning of angry Jupiter — whatever she can do, not with her threatening spear, not with the aegis, not with the Gorgon-frenzy, but with her father’s fire she attempts; and from the sky new storms breathe forth; alone, unconquered by the evils, Ajax struggles on. As he was furling his sails the falling flame grazed him along the taut rope, another bolt is poised: this one, with all her force, sure-aimed, Pallas hurled with drawn-back hand, in her father’s likeness; it passes through Ajax and the ship, and carried off a part of the ship with it — and Ajax. Unshaken, like a steep crag, scorched he stands out from the brine, parts the maddened sea and breasts the breakers, and grasping the ship by hand he drew the fires along, and over the blind sea Ajax blazes, all the strait shines back.
Ecce alia clades, fulmine irati Iovis armata Pallas quicquid haut hasta minax, haut aegide, haut furore Gorgoneo potest, at igne patrio temptat, et caelo novae spirant procellae, solus invictus malis luctatur Aiax. vela cogentem hunc sua tento rudente flamma praestrinxit cadens, libratur aliud fulmen: hoc toto impetu certum reducta Pallas excussit manu, imitata patrem, transit Aiacem et ratem ratisque partem secum et Aiacem tulit, nil ille motus, ardua ut cautes, salo ambustus extat, dirimit insanum mare fluctusque rumpit pectore et navem manu complexus ignes traxit et caeco mari conlucet Aiax, omne resplendet fretum,
At last, gaining a rock, raging he thunders out: “It is a joy to have overcome all — the sea and the fires, to have conquered the sky, Pallas, the bolt, the sea. The terror of the war-god did not put me to flight, and alone I withstood at once both Hector and Mars, nor did the shafts of Phoebus drive me from my ground: these too, with the Phrygians, I conquered — am I to dread you? Do you hurl another’s weapons with a slack hand? What if he himself should hurl them?” As he dared yet more in his fury, Father Neptune, lifting his head from the lowest waves, undermined the rock with his trident, struck it, and loosed the crag; falling, it carried him with it, and, conquered by earth and fire and sea, he lies.
tandem occupata rupe furibundum intonat: superasse cuncta, pelagus atque ignes iuvat, vicisse caelum Palladem fulmen mare. non me fugavit bellici terror dei et Hectorem una solus et Martem tuli Phoebea nec me tela pepulerunt gradu: cum Phrygibus istos vicimus— tene horream? aliena inerti tela mittis dextera, quid si ipse mittat?’ plura cum auderet furens, tridente rupem subruit pulsam pater Neptunus imis exerens undis caput solvitque montem; quem cadens secum tulit terraque et igne victus et pelago iacet.
Another, greater ruin calls us castaways on. There is a low water, treacherous with its rocky shoals, where deceitful Caphereus hides the rocks, shut in by swift eddies; the strait seethes among the crags and the surge boils forever in alternate turn. A sheer citadel overhangs, looking on a sea twofold on either hand: on this side the shores of your Pelops and the Isthmus, which, bent back on its narrow ground, forbids the Ionian seas to join the Phrixean; on that side Lemnos famed for crime, and Chalcedon, and Aulis, slow to release the ships: this citadel seizes that father of Palamedes, and raising in his hand a bright beacon from the topmost peak, unspeakable, he leads the fleet onto the rocks with a treacherous flame. The ships cling fast, fixed on the sharp crags; the shallows of a meager water break some to pieces, part of one is borne on, part sits on the reef; another, backing water, strikes this one and, broken, breaks it. Now the ships fear the land and prefer the seas. The frenzy sank as light returned: after atonement was paid to Ilium, Phoebus comes back and the mournful day shows the losses of the night.
Nos alia maior naufragos pestis vocat, est humilis, unda, scrupeis mendax vadis, ubi saxa rapidis clausa verticibus tegit fallax Caphereus; aestuat scopulis fretum fervetque semper fluctus alterna vice. arx imminet praerupta quae spectat mare utrimque geminum: Pelopis hinc oras tui et Isthmon, arto qui recurvatus solo Ionia iungi maria Phrixeis vetat, hinc scelere Lemnon nobilem et Calchedona tardamque ratibus Aulida: hanc arcem occupat Palamedis ille genitor et clarum manu lumen nefanda vertice e summo efferens in saxa ducit perfida classem face. haerent acutis rupibus fixae rates; has inopis undae brevia comminuunt vada, pars vehitur huius prima, pars scopulo sedet; hanc alia retro spatia relegentem ferit et fracta frangit, iam timent terram rates et maria malunt. cecidit in lucem furor: postquam litatum est Ilio, Phoebus redit et damna noctis tristis ostendit dies.
Shall I grieve, or rejoice that my husband is returned? I am glad he is back, yet I am forced to mourn the heavy wound to the realm. Give back now to the Greeks, father who shake the high-thundering realms, the gods appeased. Now let every head be veiled with glad foliage, let the sacrificial pipe pour out its sweet strains and a snow-white victim fall before the great altars. But see — a mournful throng, the women of Ilium with disordered hair are here, over whom, with lofty step, the frenzied priestess of Phoebus shakes her inspired laurel.
Vtrumne doleam laeter an reducem virum? remeasse laetor vulnus et regni grave lugere cogor, redde iam Grais, pater altisona quatiens regna, placatos deos. nunc omne laeta fronde veletur caput, sacrifiea dulces tibia effundat modos et nivea magnas victima ante aras cadat Sed ecce. turba tristis in comptae comas Iliades adsunt, quas super celso gradu effrena Phoebas entheas laurus quatit.
Alas, what a sweet evil is given to mortals, the dread love of life, when there lies open to the wretched an escape, and free death calls the unhappy, a calm harbor of eternal rest — no terror moves this place, no violence of Fortune’s storm, nor the flame of the unjust Thunderer. He will break through all slavery, the scorner of the fickle gods, who looks on the face of black Acheron, who, untroubled, sees the gloomy Styx and dares to set a term to life. A deep peace, fearing no gatherings of citizens, no threatening wrath of a victor; no seas maddened by harsh north-winds, no savage battle-lines, nor a cloud of dust raised by barbarian squadrons of horse; no peoples falling with a whole city, no enemy flame laying the walls waste, nor untamable war: he shall be the peer of a king, the peer of the gods. O how wretched it is not to know how to die!
Heu quam dulce malum mortalibus additum vitae diras amor, cum pateat malis effugium et miseros libera mors vocet portus aeterna placidus quiete, nullus hunc terror nec impotentia procella Fortunae movet aut iniqui flamma Tonantis. Perrumpet omne servitium contemptor levium deorum, qui vultus Acherontis atri, qui Styga tristem non tristis videt audetque vitae ponere finem. Alta pax nullos civium coetus timet aut minaces victoris iras, non maria asperis insana coris, non acies feras pulvereamve nubem motam barbaricis equitum catervis; non urbe cum tota populos cadentes, hostica muros populari te flamma, indoinitumve bellum: par ille regi, par superis erit. o quam miserum est nescire mori!
We saw our fatherland falling on that deadly night, when the Dorian fires were seizing the Dardanian roofs. She was not conquered by war, not by arms, as once she fell to the quiver of Hercules. She whom neither the son of Peleus and Thetis, nor the one too dear to the over-fierce son of Peleus, conquered, when he shone in the arms he had received and routed the Trojans, the false Achilles, nor when the son of Peleus himself put off his fierce spirit through grief, and, swift in his bounding, the Trojan women feared him from the high walls — she lost, amid her evils, her last glory: to be bravely conquered: she stood firm for twice five years, doomed to perish by the trick of a single night.
Vidimus patriam ruentem nocte funesta, cum Dardana tecta Dorici raperetis ignes, non illa bello victa, non armis, ut quondam, Herculea cecidit pharetra. quam non Pelei Thetidisquo natus carosque Pelidae nimium feroci vicit, acceptis cum fulsit armis fuditque Troas falsus Achilles, aut cum ipso Pelides animos feroces sustulit luctu celeremque saltu Troades summis timuere muris, perdidit in malis extremum decus fortiter vinci: restitit quinis bis annis unius noctis peritura furto.
We saw the counterfeit gifts of enormous bulk, and we drew the Danaans’ fatal offering with our own credulous hand, and often the war-horse shuddered on the very threshold, carrying in its caverns the hidden kings and the war it bore; and we might have turned the trick back, so that the Pelasgians would fall by their own deceit. Often the jostled shields rang out, and a low murmur struck our ears, as Pyrrhus grumbled, ill-resigned to the crafty Ulysses.
Vidimus simulata dona molis immensae Danaumque fatale munus duximus nostra creduli dextra tremuitque saepe limine in primo sonipes, cavernis conditos reges bellumque gestans; et licuit dolos versare ut ipsi fraude sua caderent Pelasgi. saepe commotae sonuere parmae tacitumque murmur percussit aures, ut fremuit male subdolo parens Pyrrhus Vlixi.
Free of fear, the Trojan youth rejoice to lay hands on the sacred ropes, here Astyanax of the band of equals, here she betrothed to the Haemonian pyre lead the troops on — she the women’s, he the men’s. The festal mothers bear votive gifts to the gods: the festal fathers approach the altars, one look is on the whole city; and — what we never saw after Hector’s funeral fires — Hecuba is glad. What now first, unhappy grief, or what last do you make ready to weep? the walls, built by the hands of the gods, torn down by our own? or the temples burnt over their own gods? There is no time to weep these evils: you, great father, the women of Ilium bewail. I saw, I saw the sword of Pyrrhus in the old man’s throat, scarcely stained with his scant blood.
Secura metus Troica pubes sacros gaudet tangere funes, hinc aequaevi gregis Astyanax, hinc Haemonio desponsa rogo ducunt turmas, haec femineas, ille viriles. festae matres votiva ferunt munera divis: festi patres adeunt aras, unus tota est vultus in urbe; et, quod numquam post Hectoreos vidimus ignes, laeta est Hecuba. quid nunc primum, dolor infelix, quidve extremum deflere paras? moenia, divum fabricata manu, diruta nostra? an templa deos super usta suos? non vacat istis lacrimare malis: te, magne parens, flent Iliades. vidi, vidi senis in iugulo telum Pyrrhi vix exiguo sanguine tingui.
Hold back the tears that every time to come will claim, you women of Troy, and mourn your own dead with your own piteous moaning: my troubles refuse a companion; take your laments away from my disasters; I alone will suffice for my own evils.
Cohibete lacrimas omne quas tempus petet, Troades, et ipsae vestra lamentabili lugete gemitu funera: aerumnae meae socium recusant, cladibus questus meis removete, nostris ipsa sufficiam malis.
It is a comfort to mingle tears with tears: more fiercely do hidden cares burn those they tear; it is a comfort to weep one’s own dead in the open; nor could you, though a hard war-maiden, patient of suffering, be able to weep ruins so great. Not the mournful nightingale, that on the spring branch sings her shifting song, trilling of Itys in changing notes, not the Bistonian bird that, perched on the high rooftops, chatters out the impious thefts of her dread husband, could worthily mourn your house, though he himself should wish it — the swan, bright among the snow-white swans, haunting the Hister and the Tanais — to utter his last song; though the halcyons should sound their Ceyx, while the wave beats lightly, when, on the calm sea ill-trusting, they entrust themselves again, bold, to the deep, and warm their brood, afraid, in the trembling nest; not though the throng that attends the soft men should rend its arms with you in grief — the throng that, for its tower-crowned parent, stirred by the hoarse boxwood pipe, beats its breast to mourn Phrygian Attis — there is no measure to the tears, Cassandra, because what we suffer has outgone all measure.
Lacrimas lacrimis miscere iuvat: magis exurunt quos secretae lacerant curae, iuvat in medium deflere suos; nec tu, quamvis dura virago patiensque mali, poteris tantas flere ruinas, non quae verno mobile carmen ramo cantat tristis aedon Ityn in varios modulata sonos, non quae tectis Bistonis ales residens summis impia diri furta mariti garrula narrat, lugere tuam poterit digne conquesta domum, licet ipse velit clarus niveos inter olores Histrum cycnus Tanainque colens extrema loqui, licet alcyones Ceyca suum fluctu leviter plangente sonent, cum tranquillo male confisae credunt iterum pelago audaces fetusque suos nido pavidae titubante fovent; non si molles comitata viros tristis Iaceret bracchia tecum quae turritae turba parenti pectora, rauco concita buxo, ferit ut Phrygium lugeat Attin, non est lacrimis, Cassandra, modus, quia quae patimur vicere modum.
But why do you tear the sacred fillets from your head? The wretched, I should think, ought most to worship the gods.
Sed cur sacratas deripis capiti infulas? miseris colendos maxime superos putem.
My evils have now conquered all fear. I, for my part, placate no gods with prayer, nor, if they wished to rage, have they anything to harm me with. Fortune has spent her own strength upon me. What fatherland is left, what father, what sister now? Tombs and altars have drunk my blood. What of that happy throng of my brothers’ band? Drained away, of course: in the empty palace the wretched old men are left, and through so many chambers they see all the daughters-in-law widowed, save the Spartan woman. She, the mother of so many kings and the rule of the Phrygians, Hecuba, fruitful only for the fires, learned new laws of fate and put on a beast’s face: rabid, she barked about her own ruins, outliving Troy, Hector, Priam, herself.
CASS, Vicere nostra iam metus omnis mala. equidem nec ulla caelites placo prece nec, si velint saevire, quo noceant habent. Fortuna vires ipsa consumpsit suas. quae patria restat, quis pater, quae iam soror? bibere tumuli sanguinem atque arae meum. quid illa felix turba fraterni gregis? exhausta nempe: regia miseri senes vacua relicti, totque per thalamos vident praeter Lacaenam ceteras viduas nurus, tot illa regum mater et regimen Phrygum, fecunda in ignes Hecuba fatorum novas experta leges induit vultus feros: circa ruinas rabida latravit suas, Troiae superstes, Hectori, Priamo, sibi.
Suddenly the priestess of Phoebus falls silent, and pallor and a thick trembling seizes all her body; her fillets stood on end, her soft hair bristles, her panting heart roars with a pent-up murmur, her wavering eyes roll, and turned backward are wrenched about, then again stiffen, unmoving. Now she lifts her head higher than her wont into the air and walks tall; now she makes to force open her resisting throat; now she barely keeps the words in with shut mouth, a maenad impatient of the god.
Silet repente Phoebas et pallor genas creberque totum possidet corpus tremor; stetere vittae, mollis horrescit coma, anhela corda murmure incluso fremunt, incerta nutant lumina et versi retro torquentur oculi, rursus immoti rigent. nunc levat in auras altior solito caput graditurque celsa, nunc reluctantis parat reserare fauces, verba nunc clauso male custodit ore maenaa impatiens dei.
Why do you whirl me, goaded by the spurs of a new frenzy, why do you snatch me, witless, O sacred ridges of Parnassus? Withdraw, Phoebus, I am no longer yours, quench the flames fixed deep in my breast. For whom do I now rove, mad? for whom rave in frenzy? Troy has already fallen — why do I play the false prophet? Where am I? The kindly light has fled, and deep night darkens my eyes, and the sky lies hidden in shadow. But see — the day blazes with a twin sun and a double Argos lifts up its twofold houses. I see the groves of Ida: the fatal shepherd sits as judge among the mighty goddesses. Fear, you kings, I warn you, the stolen offspring: that rustic fosterling will overthrow the house.
Quid me furoris incitam stimulis novi quid mentis inopem, sacra Parnasi iuga, rapitis? recede, Phoebe, iam non sum tua, extingue flammas pectori infixas meo. cui nunc vagor vaesana? cui bacchor furens? iam Troia cecidit— falsa quid vates ago? Vbi sum? fugit lux alma et obscurat genas nox alta et aether abditus tenebris latet, sed ecce gemino sole praefulget dies geminumque duplices Argos attollit domus. Idaea cerno nemora: fatalis sedet inter potentes arbiter pastor deas. timete reges, moneo, furtivum genus: agrestis iste alumnus evertet domum,
What is that frantic woman, brandishing a sword drawn in her woman’s hand? what man does her right hand seek, in Spartan dress, bearing an Amazon’s steel? What other shape now turns my eyes about? The lord of beasts lies low, his proud neck under an ignoble tooth — the Marmaric lion, having suffered the bloody bites of a bold lioness. Why do you call me, the sole survivor of my own, you shades of my kin? I follow you, my father, witness of buried Troy; brother, the help of the Phrygians and the terror of the Danaans — I do not see your ancient glory, nor your hands hot from the burning of the ships, but mangled limbs and those arms wounded by the heavy thong; I follow you, Troilus, who met Achilles all too soon; you wear an uncertain face, Deiphobus — the gift of your new wife. It is a joy to walk through the very pools of Styx, a joy to see the savage hound of Tartarus and the realms of greedy Dis! This day the skiff of black Phlegethon will carry royal souls, the conquered and the conqueress alike. You shades, I pray, and you, wave by which the gods swear, I pray alike: unbar a little the doors of the blackening sky, that the light throng of Phrygians may look out upon Mycenae. Look, you wretched: the fates turn themselves backward.
quid ista vaecors tela feminea manu destricta praefert? quem petit dextra virum Lacaena cultu, ferrum Amazonium gerens? quae versat oculos alia nunc facies meos? victor ferarum colla sublimis iacet ignobili sub dente Marmaricus leo, morsus cruentos passus audacis leae. quid me vocatis sospitem solam e meis, umbrae meorum? te sequor testis, pater, Troiae sepultae; frater, auxilium Phrygum terrorque Danaum, non ego antiquum decus video aut calentes ratibus exustis manus, sed lacera membra et saucios vinclo gravi illos lacertos; te sequor, nimium cito congresse Achilli Troile; incertos geris, Deiphobe, vultus, coniugis munus novae, iuvat per ipsos ingredi Stygios lacus, iuvat videre Tartari saevum canem avidique regna Ditis! haec hodie ratis Phlegethontis atri regias animas vehet, victamqne victricemqne. vos. umbrae, precor. iurata superis unda. te pariter precor: reserate paulum terga nigrantis poli, levis ut Mycenas turba prospiciat Phrygum. spectate. miseri: fata se vertunt retro.
The squalid sisters press on, they brandish their bloody scourges, the left hand carries half-burnt torches, and their pallid cheeks are swollen, and the robe of black mourning girds their wasted flanks, and the terrors of the night clamor, and the bones of a vast body, rotted with long decay, lie in a miry marsh. And behold, a weary old man lets the waters that play at his lips go uncaught, forgetting his thirst, sorrowful at the funeral to come: Father Dardanus exults and steps with stately tread.
Instant sorores squalidae sanguinea iactant verbera. fert laeva semustas faces turgentque pallentes genae et vestis atri funeris exesa cingit ilia, strepuntque nocturni metus et ossa vasti corporis corrupta longinquo situ palude limosa iacent. et ecce, defessus senex ad ora ludentes aquas non captat oblitus sitim, maestus futuro funere: exultat et ponit gradus pater decoros Dardanus.
Now the frenzy, having ranged itself out, has broken, and she falls, as before the altars a bull falls with bent knee, his neck carrying an ill-aimed wound. Let us raise her limbs. See — at last, crowned with victorious laurel, Agamemnon comes to his own gods, and his wife, in festal dress, came to meet him and returns at his side with harmonious step.
Iam pervagatus ipse se fregit furor, caditque flexo qualis ante aras genu cervice taurus vulnus incertum gerens, relevemus artus, en deos tandem suos victrice lauru cinctus Agamemnon adit, et festa coniunx obvios illi tulit gressus reditque iuncta concordi gradu.
At last I return safe to my ancestral home; hail, dear land! to you so many barbarian nations gave their spoils; to you Troy, long happy, queen of mighty Asia, has lowered her hands. Why does that prophetess, her body sprawled and trembling, sag with a wavering neck? Servants, lift her up, revive her with cold water. Now she takes in the day with failing sight. Rouse your senses: that longed-for harbor for our troubles is here, it is a day of feasting.
Tandem reverter sospes ad patrios lares; o cara salve terra, tibi tot barbarae dedere gentes spolia, tibi felix diu potentis Asiae Troia summisit manus, quid ista vates corpus effusa ac tremens dubia labat cervice? famuli, attollite, refovete gelido latice. iam recipit diem marcente visu. suscita sensus tuos: optatus ille portus aerumnis adest, festus dies est.
For Troy too it was a day of feasting.
Festus et Troiae fuit.
Let us worship the altars.
Veneremur aras.
Before the altars my father fell.
Cecidit ante aras pater.
Let us pray to Jupiter together.
Iovem precemur pariter.
Hercean Jupiter?
Herceum Iovem?
Do you think you see Ilium?
Credis videre te Ilium?
And Priam with it.
Et Priamum simul.
This is not Troy.
Hic Troia non est.
Where Helen is, I count it Troy.
Helena ubi est Troiam puto.
Do not fear your mistress, slave.
Ne metue dominam famula,
Freedom is at hand.
Libertas adest.
Live free of care.
Secura vive.
For me, to die is my freedom from care.
Mihi mori est securitas.
There is no danger to you.
Nullum est periclum tibimet.
But great danger to you.
At magnum tibi.
What can a victor fear?
Victor timere quid potest?
What he does not fear.
Quod non timet.
Faithful band of servants, hold her until she shakes off the god, lest her uncontrolled frenzy do some harm. But you, father, who hurl the savage lightnings, and drive the clouds, who rule the stars and the lands, to whom victors bring the spoils of triumph, and you, sister of the all-powerful lord, Argive Juno — gladly with a votive herd and the gifts of Arabia and a suppliant offering will I worship you.
Hanc fida famuli turba, dum excutiat deum, retinete ne quid impotens peccet furor. at te, pater, qui saeva torques fulmina pellisque nubes, sidera et terras regis, ad quem triumphi spolia victores ferunt, et te sororem cuncta pollentis viri, Argolica limo, pecore votivo libens Arabumque donis supplice et fibra colam.
Argos, noble for your noble citizens, Argos, dear to the angry stepmother, you always rear up mighty fosterlings; you have evened the odd number of the gods: that great Alcides of yours, by his twice-six labors, earned to be enrolled in heaven, the great Alcides, for whom Jupiter, breaking the law of the world, doubled the hours of the dewy night and bade Phoebus drive his swift chariot more slowly, and bade your team return slowly, pale Phoebe; the star that changes its name by turns drew back its foot, and wondered to be called the Evening Star; Aurora roused her head to the accustomed turns, and sinking back laid her neck upon her aged husband. The dawn felt it, the sunset felt it, that Hercules was being born: that violent one could not be made in a single night. For you the hurrying world stood still, O boy who would one day mount the sky.
Argos nobilibus nobile civibus, Argos iratae carum novercae, semper ingentes alumnos educas, numerum deorum imparem aequasti: tuus ille bis seno meruit labore adlegi caelo magnus Alcides, cui lege mundi Iuppiter rupta geminavit horas roscidae noctis iussitque Phoebum tardius celeres agitare currus et tuas lente remeare bigas, pallida Phoebe; rettulit pedem nomen alternis stella quae mutat seque mirata est Hesperum dici; Aurora movit ad solitas vices caput et relabens imposuit seni collum marito. sensit ortus, sensit occasus Herculem nasci: violentus ille nocte non una poterat creari. tibi concitatus substitit mundus, o puer subiture caelum.
You the Nemean lion felt, the lightning-beast, crushed in your tight grip, and the Parrhasian hind, the ravager of the Arcadian fields felt you, and the bull groaned, bristling, leaving the Dictaean fields. He mastered the serpent fertile in death and forbade it to be reborn from a perishing neck, and the twin brothers, the three monsters born from one breast, he broke, leaping on them, with his battering club, and led to the east the Hesperian herd, the spoil of three-formed Geryon. He drove off the Thracian herd, which the tyrant pastured on no grass of the Strymon nor on the banks of the Hebrus: the savage one gave his guests’ blood to his cruel stalls, and last the blood of the charioteer stained those raw jaws. Fierce Hippolyta saw the spoil torn from her very breast, and the Stymphalian bird, struck by the cloud of arrows, fell from the high sky; and the tree fertile with golden apples dreaded the hands unused to being plucked and fled into the air with its lightened bough. The cold guardian, who knew no sleep, heard the sound of the clashing metal-plate, when now Alcides was leaving the whole grove emptied of its tawny metal, his arms full. Dragged up to the sky, the hound of the underworld fell silent in his triple chain, and with no mouth did he bark, fearing the color of the unknown light.
te sensit Nemeaeus arto pressus lacerto fulmineus leo cervaque Parrhasis, sensit Arcadii populator agri, gemuitque taurus Dictaea linquens horridus arva. morte fecundum domuit draconem vetuitque collo pereunte nasci, geminosque fratres pectore ex uno tria monstra natos stipite incusso fregit insultans, duxitque ad ortus Hesperium pecus, Geryonae spolium triformis. egit Threicium gregem, quem non Strymonii gramine fluminis Hebrive ripis pavit tyrannus: hospitum dirus stabulis cruorem praebuit saevis tinxitque crudos ultimus rictus sanguis aurigae, vidit Hippolyto ferox pectore e medio rapi spolium, et sagittis nube percussa Stymphalis alto decidit caelo; arborque pomis fertilis aureis extimuit manus insueta carpi fugitque in auras leviore ramo. audivit sonitum crepitante lamna frigidus custos nescius somni, linqueret cum iam nemus omne fulvo plenus Alcides vacuum metallo. tractus ad caelum canis inferorum triplici catena tacuit nec ullo latravit ore, lucis ignotae metuens colorem.
Under your leadership fell the lying house of the son of Dardanus and felt your bow, to be dreaded a second time; under your leadership Troy fell in as many days as it later took years.
te duce succidit mendax Dardanidae domus et sensit arcus iterum timendos; te duce concidit totidem diebus Troia quot annis.
A great thing is being done within, the match of ten years. Alas, what is this? My soul, rise up and take the reward of your frenzy: we, conquered Phrygians, have conquered. It is well, Troy rises again; lying low you have dragged Mycenae down, my father; your conqueror turns to flee! Never has the frenzy of my foreseeing mind shown so clear to my eyes: I see, I am present, I have my joy: no doubtful image cheats my sight: let us watch. A feast is spread in the royal house, such as was the last banquet for the Phrygians, it is being held: the couch gleams with Ilian purple and they draw the wine in the gold of ancient Assaracus. See — he himself reclines on high in embroidered robes, wearing on his body the proud spoils of Priam.
Res agitur intus magna, par annis decem. eheu quid hoc est? anime, consurge et cape pretium furoris: vicimus victi Phryges. bene est, resurgit Troia; traxisti iacens, parens, Mycenas, terga dat victor tuus! tam clara numquam providae mentis furor ostendit oculis: video et intersum et fruor: imago visus dubia non fallit meos: spectemus. epulae regia instructae domo, quales fuerunt ultimae Phrygibus dapes, celebrantur: ostro lectus Iliaco nitet merumque in auro veteris Assaraci trahunt. en ipse picta veste sublimis iacet, Priami superbas corpore exuvias gerens. detrahere cultus uxor hostiles iubet,
His wife bids him take off the enemy’s garb, and put on rather the robes woven by a faithful wife’s hand — I shudder and tremble in my soul: shall an exile and adulterer slay a king, a husband? The fates have come. The last course will see the master’s blood, and the gore will fall into the wine. The death-dealing robe, put on, treacherously gives him, bound, over to slaughter: the loose and pathless folds deny an exit to his hands and shut in his head. The half-man drains his side with a trembling hand, but does not drive it home: in mid-wound he stands stunned. But he, like a bristling boar in the deep woods, bound in the net, yet tries for his escape and tightens the toils by his struggling, and rages in vain, longs to tear apart the folds, blind and flowing on every side, and, entangled, gropes for his foe.
induere potius coniugis fidae manu textos amictus— horreo atque animo tremo: regemne perimet exul et adulter virum? venere fata. sanguinem extremae dapes domini videbunt et cruor Baccho incidet. mortifera vinctum perfide tradit neci induta vestis: exitum manibus negant caputque laxi et invii claudunt sinus. haurit trementi semivir dextra latus, nec penitus egit: vulnere in medio stupet. at ille, ut altis hispidus silvis aper cum casse vinctus temptat egressus tamen artatque motu vincla et in cassum furit, cupit fluentes undique et caecos sinus dissicere et hostem quaerit implicitus suum.
The daughter of Tyndareus, raging, arms her hand with the axe, and as, at the altars, the sacrificer marks with his eye the bulls’ necks before he strikes with the steel, so this way and that she poises her impious hand. She has him, it is done. The head, half severed, hangs by a scant strip, and here from the trunk the blood gushes out, there the face lies with a groan. Not yet do they draw back: he keeps stabbing the lifeless thing and mangles the body, she helps him as he digs. Each answers, by so great a crime, to their kin: this one is Thyestes’ son, this one Helen’s sister. See — Titan stands doubtful, his day’s course run, whether to run his own road or that of Thyestes.
armat bipenni Tyndaris dextram furens, qualisque ad aras colla taurorum popa designat oculis antequam ferro petat, sic huc et illuc impiam librat manum. habet, peractum est. pendet exigua male caput amputatum parte et hinc trunco cruor exundat, illic ora cum fremitu iacent. nondum recedunt: ille iam exanimem petit laceratque corpus, illa fodientem adiuvat. uterque tanto scelere respondet suis: est hic Thy este gnatus, haec Helenae soror. stat ecce Titan dubius emerito die, suane currat an Thyestea via.
Flee, O only help of our father’s death, flee and shun the criminal hands of the enemy, the house is overthrown to its roots, the kingdom falls. Who is that stranger driving the hurrying chariot? Brother, I will hide your face with a garment. Why, mad soul, do you shrink back? do you fear strangers? It is the house that must be feared. Lay aside now your trembling fears, Orestes: I behold the faithful safeguard of a friend.
Fuge, o paternae mortis auxilium unicum, fuge et scelestas hostium vita manus, eversa domus est funditus, regna occidunt, hospes quis iste concitos currus agit? germane, vultus veste furabor tuos. quid, anime demens, refugis? externos times? domus timenda est. pone iam trepidos metus, Oresta: amici fida praesidia intuor.
I, Strophius, leaving Phocis, renowned with the Elean palm, return. The reason for my coming was to congratulate my friend, by the thrust of whose hand Ilium fell, shaken by ten years’ war. Who is this that wets her mournful face with tears and is sad and afraid? I recognize the royal line.
Phocide relicta Strophius Elea inclutus palma revertor. causa veniendi fuit gratari amico, cuius impulsum manu cecidit decenni Marte concussum Ilium, quaenam ista lacrimis lugubrem vultum rigat pavetque maesta? regium agnosco genus.
My father lies slain by my mother’s crime, they seek the son to join him in his father’s death, Aegisthus holds the citadel won by lust.
Electra, fletus causa quae laeta in domo est? Pater peremptus scelere materno iacet, comes paternae quaeritur natus neci, Aegisthus arces Venere quaesitas tenet.
O happiness of no long duration!
O nulla longi temporis felicitas!
By the memory of my father I implore you, by the scepter known to the lands, by the uncertain gods: take this Orestes and hide the pious theft.
Per te parentis memoriam obtestor mei, per sceptra terris nota, per dubios deos: recipe hunc Oresten ac pium furtum occule.
Though slain Agamemnon teaches that there is cause for fear, I will undertake it and gladly steal you away, Orestes. Prosperity asks for loyalty; adversity demands it. Take this ornament of the festive contest, the badge of the brow; and let your left hand, holding the victor’s frond, shield your head with its green branch, and let this palm, the gift of Pisaean Jupiter, be at once your covering and your omen. And you, O comrade sitting beside him at his father’s reins, learn well, Pylades, faith by your father’s example. You, swift horses, with Greece now your witness, flee these treacherous places in headlong course.
Etsi timendum caesus Agamemnon docet, aggrediar et te, Oresta, furabor libens, fidem secunda poscunt, adversa exigunt cape hoc decorum ludicri certaminis, insigne frontis; laeva victricem tenens frondem virenti protegat ramo caput, et ista donum palma Pisaei Iovis velamen eadem praestet atque omen tibi. tuque o paternis assidens frenis comes, condisce, Pylade, patris exemplo fidem, vos Graecia nunc teste veloces equi infida cursu fugite praecipiti loca.
He has gone, departed; the chariot with unbridled rush has fled my sight. Safe now I will await my enemies and of my own will offer my head to the wound. Here she comes, the bloody conqueress of her own husband, and bears the marks of slaughter on her stained robe. Her hands are still wet with fresh blood, and her savage face carries its crimes before it. I will withdraw to the altars. Let me join your fillets, Cassandra, fearing the same as you.
Excessit, abiit, currus effreno impetu cffugit aciem, tuta iam cpperiar meos hostes et ultro vulneri opponam caput. Adest cruenta coniugis victrix sui et signa caedis veste maculata gerit. manus recenti sanguine etiamnunc madent vultusque prae se scelera truculenti ferunt. concedam ad aras. patere me vittis tuis, Cassandra, iungi paria metuentem tibi.
Enemy of your mother, impious and bold creature, by what custom does a virgin seek public gatherings?
Hostis parentis, impium atque audax caput, quo more coetus publicos virgo petis?
As a virgin I have left the house of adulteresses.
Adulterarum virgo deserui domum.
Who would believe you a virgin?
Quis esse credat virginem?
Your daughter, you mean?
Natam, tuam?
Show some modesty, with your mother by.
Modestiae cum matre.
You — teaching family love?
Pietatem doces?
You carry a man’s spirit in a swollen heart; but, tamed by suffering, you will learn to play the woman.
Animos viriles corde tumefacto geris; sed agere domita feminam disces malo.
Unless perhaps I am wrong, the sword befits women.
Nisi forte fallor, feminas ferrum decet.
And do you, mad girl, think yourself our equal?
Et esse demens te parem nobis putas?
Yours? Who is this other Agamemnon of yours? Speak as a widow: your husband is bereft of life.
Vobis? quis iste est alter Agamemnon tuus? ut vidua loquere: vir caret vita tuus.
Hereafter, as queen, I will break the unbridled words of this impious girl; but first, quickly, tell me where your son is — where your brother.
Indomita posthac virginis verba impiae regina frangam; citius interea mihi edissere ubi sit natus, ubi frater tuus.
Outside Mycenae.
Extra Mycenas.
Now give me back my son.
Redde nunc natum mihi.
And you give back my father.
Et tu parentem redde.
In what place does he hide?
Quo latitat loco?
At peace and safe, fearing no new reign: enough for a just parent.
Tuto quietus, regna non metuens nova: iustae parenti satis.
But too little for an angry one. You will die today.
At iratae parum. morieris hodie.
So long as I die by this hand of yours. I withdraw from the altars. If it pleases you to bury the sword in my throat, I offer you my throat; or if you would have my neck cut like cattle’s, my outstretched neck awaits your blow. The crime is ready: wash the hand spattered with a husband’s slaughter, and stained with this blood.
Dummodo hac moriar manu. recedo ab aris. sive te iugulo iuvat mersisse ferrum, praebeo iugulum tibi; seu more pecudum colla resecari placet, intenta cervix vulnus expectat tuum. scelus paratum est: caede respersam viri atque obsoletam sanguine hoc dextram ablue.
Partner of my peril and equally of my kingdom, Aegisthus, come. The daughter impiously attacks her mother with insults, and hides her brother in concealment.
Consors pericli pariter ac regni mei, Aegisthe, gradere, gnata genetricem impie probris lacessit, occulit fratrem abditum.
Raving girl, suppress the sound of your unspeakable voice and words unworthy of a mother’s ear.
Furibunda virgo, vocis infandae sonum et aure verba indigna materna opprime.
Will he too admonish me — the contriver of unspeakable crime, a son got through crimes, a name ambiguous to his own kin, at once his sister’s son and his father’s grandson?
Etiam monebit sceleris infandi artifex, per scelera gnatus, nomen ambiguum suis, idem sororis gnatus et patris nepos?
Aegisthus, do you delay to cut off her impious head with the sword? Let her give up her brother, or her life, at once.
Aegisthe, cessas impium ferro caput demetere? fratrem reddat aut animam statim.
Let her, shut away in a blind prison and rock, spend her life, and, tortured through every kind of punishment, perhaps she will be willing to give back the one she now hides — needy, destitute, shut in, buried in filth, widowed before marriage, exiled, hateful to all, the open air denied her, late she will yield to her evils.
Abstrusa caeco carcere et saxo exigat aevum, et per omnes torta poenarum modos referre quem nunc occulit forsan volet inops egens inclusa, paedore obruta, vidua ante thalamos, exul, invisa omnibus aethere negate sero subcumbet malis.
Grant me death.
Concede mortem,
If you refused it, I would give it. Unskilled is the tyrant who exacts his penalty by death.
Si recusares, darem, rudis est tyrannus morte qui poenam exigit.
Is there anything beyond death?
Mortem aliquid ultra est?
Life — if you long to die. Drag off this monster, servants, and carried far beyond Mycenae, in the kingdom’s farthest corner bind her, walled in the night of a dark cave, that prison may tame the restless girl.
Vita, si cupias mori. abripite, famuli, monstrum et avectam procul ultra Mycenas ultimo in regni angulo vincite saeptam nocte tenebrosi specus, ut inquietam virginem carcer domet.
But that one shall pay the penalty with her own head, the captive wife, the concubine of the royal bed. Drag her off, that she may follow the husband torn from me.
At ista poenas capite persolvet suo captiva coniunx, regii paelex tori. trahite, ut sequatur coniugem ereptum milli.
Do not drag me. I will go before your steps myself. I hasten to carry the news first to my Phrygians: the sea filled with overturned ships, Mycenae taken, the leader of a thousand leaders — to pay a fate equal to the evils of Troy — fallen by a woman’s gift: by adultery, by guile. We delay no longer. Seize me — indeed, I give thanks. Now, now it is a joy to have lived after Troy, a joy.
Ne trahite. vestros ipsa praecedam gradus. perferre prima nuntium Phrygibus meis propero: repletum ratibus eversis mare, captas Mycenas, mille ductorem ducum, ut paria fata Troicis lueret malis, perisse dono feminae: stupro, dolo. nihil moramur, rapite, quin grates ago. iam, iam iuvat vixisse post Troiam, iuvat.
Madwoman, die.
Furiosa, morere.
Madness will come for you too. —
Veniet et vobis furor.—