« ForrigeFortsett »
His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May,
"There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, who,
Rejoicing in their wind-outspeeding wings, Their heads with flour snowed over white and new, Sit in a vale round which Parnassus flings
Its circling skirts-from these I have learned true
My father cared not. Whilst they search out dooms, They sit apart and feed on honeycombs.
"They, having eaten the fresh honey, grow
Drunk with divine enthusiasm, and utter
I give ;-if you inquire, they will not stutter;
"Take these and the fierce oxen, Maia's childO'er many a horse and toil-enduring mule, O'er jagged-jawed lions, and the wild
White-tusked boars, o'er all, by field or pool, Of cattle which the mighty Mother mild
Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt ruleThou dost alone the veil of death upliftThou givest not-yet this is a great gift,"
Thus King Apollo loved the child of May
In truth, and Jove covered them with love and joy.
Hermes with Gods and men even from that day
Mingled, and wrought the latter much annoy,
And little profit, going far astray
Through the dun night. Farewell, delightful Boy, Of Jove and Maia sprung,-never by me,
Nor thou, nor other songs, shall unremembered be.
A SATYRIC DRAMA.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPEDES.
CHORUS OF SATYRS.
Silenus. O BACCHUS, what a world of toil, both now And ere these limbs were overworn with age, Have I endured for thee! First, when thou filed'st The mountain-nymphs who nurst thee, driven afar By the strange madness Juno sent upon thee; Then in the battle of the sons of Earth,
When I stood foot by foot close to thy side,
No unpropitious fellow combatant,
And, driving through his shield my winged spear,
Slew vast Enceladus. Consider now,
Is it a dream of which I speak to thee?
By Jove it is not, for you have the trophies!
With all my children quaint in search of you,
Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody,
We keep this lawless giant's wandering flocks.
Young things themselves, tend on the youngling sheep, But I remain to fill the water casks,
Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering
To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it!
CHORUS OF SATYRS.
Where has he of race divine
In the trough beside the cave,
Wild, seditious, rambling!
An Iacchic melody
In these wretched goat-skins clad,
The Antistrophe is omitted.
Sil. Be silent, sons; command the slaves to drive
The gathered flocks into the rock-roofed cave.
Chorus. Go But what needs this serious haste, O fa
Sil. I see a Greek ship's boat upon the coast,
My master is, approaching in ill hour
The inhospitable roof of Polypheme,
And the Cyclopian jaw-bone, man-destroying?
Be silent, Satyrs, while I ask and hear,
Whence coming, they arrive the Etnean hill.
Ulys. Friends, can you show me some clear water spring, The remedy of our thirst? Will any one
Furnish with food seamen in want of it?
Ulys. I am the same, but do not rail upon me.-
Ulys. Where you then driven here by stress of wea