She was my mother. And am I, thus born
Nobly of parents both of noblest birth,
Am I to shame my kindred overthrown,
Now helpless, whelmed in utter misery,
Whom thou wouldst spurn and rob of burial rites,
Nor art ashamed to promulgate this ban?
Know this full well, where’er ye cast this man,
We three, three corpses, ye will cast beside.
For me ’twere nobler before all men’s eyes
To fall in his behalf than for a wife
Of thine—or of thy brother, should I say?
Therefore bethink thee—’tis thine interest
No less than mine—if on me thou dar’st lay
A finger, thou wilt surely wish full soon
Rather to bear the brand of cowardice
Than prove thy reckless bravery on me.
My lord Odysseus, thou art come in time,
If thou art here to mediate, not embroil.
What is it, sirs? Far off I heard loud words
Of the Atridae o’er the hero’s corpse.
True, lord Odysseus; were we not provoked
By the most shameful taunts from yonder man?
What taunts? For my part I can pardon one
Who when reviled retorts in angry words.
I did abuse him as his acts deserved.
Say by what action gave he just offence?
He vows he will not leave unsepultured
The corpse, but bury it in my despite.
May I be candid with thee as a friend
Without suspicion of my loyalty?
Surely. I am not senseless, and I count
Thee among all the Greeks my chiefest friend.
Then hear me. O for pity’s sake forbear,
Repent, and let not violence and hate
Blind thee to trample justice under foot.
I also counted him my deadliest foe
In all the army, ever since the day
When by award I won Achilles’ arms;
Yet for all that, foe as he was to me,
I would not so requite his wrong with wrong
As not to own that, save Achilles, he
In all the host of Argives had no peer.
Unjustly thou wouldst thus dishonour him;
For not to him, but to the laws of heaven
Wouldst thou do wrong; and wrong it is to insult
A brave man dead, e’en if he be thy foe.
Wilt thou, Odysseus, take his part against me?
Yea, yet I hated him so long as hate
Was honourable.
Why not hate him still,
And set thy heel on his dead body too?
Delight not, son of Atreus, in ill gains.
’Tis hard for monarchs to show piety.
But not respect for friends who counsel well.
A true man ever heeds authority.
Forbear: thou conquerest, yielding unto friends.
Think to what kind of man thou showest grace.
My foe he was, but still a noble foe.
What wouldst thou? Honour a dead foeman’s corpse?
With me his worth outweighs his enmity.
Such sudden change of mind we call caprice.
Common enough the change from friend to foe.
Dost thou commend such fickle friends as these?
A stubborn temper I would ne’er commend.
Thou mind’st this day to make us seem as cowards.
Nay, as just rulers in the eyes of Greece.
Thou bidst me then permit the burial?
Yes, for I too shall come to need the same.
How true the saw, each labours for himself.
And who deserves my labour more than I?
Well, let it seem thy doing, friend, not mine.
Howe’er ’tis done, ’twill prove thee good and kind.
To thee, my friend, of this be well assured,
I’d grant a favour greater e’en than this.
But that man, as in living so in death,
Shall have my hate. So do as pleaseth thee. Exit Agamemnon.
Whoe’er, Odysseus, having proof like this,
Denies thy wisdom is himself a fool.
And now to Teucer, once my foe, henceforth
I proffer friendship staunch and true as was
Mine enmity; and I would ask to share
With you in obsequies and ritual
To grace his grave; no service would I stint
That man can render to the mighty dead.
Noblest Odysseus, I have naught but praise
For thy good words that all belie my fears.
Of all the Greeks thou wast his deadliest foe,
Yet thou alone didst dare espouse his cause,
And hadst no heart to insult this dumb cold clay,
Like yonder crack-brained chief of the host who came,
He and his brother general, with intent
To cast him forth defamed without a grave.
For that may he who rules in heaven supreme,
And the Erinys who forgetteth not,
And Justice who accomplisheth the end,
Curse those accursed sinners and confound them,
E’en as they would have wronged the innocent dead.
But for thine aid in these our funeral rites,
Son of Laertes, old and honoured chief,
I must reject the service, though full loath,
Lest I should do displeasure to the dead.
In all the rest be one of us, and if
Thou wouldst invite some comrade from the camp
To join the mourning, we shall welcome him
All else I will provide. Rest well assured,
We reckon thee a true great-hearted friend.
Well I was fain to assist, but if your will
Consents not, I will acquiesce and go.
Enough: too long have we delayed.
Go some with mattock armed and spade,
Dig the grave pit speedily;
Lustral waters to supply,
Others set the cauldron high,
Piling around it faggots dry,
Let another band be sent
To fetch his harness from his tent.
Thou too, child, draw near and lay
Thy little hands on this cold clay;
Though thy help may not be much,
Thy sire shall feel thy loving touch.
Help to raise this prostrate form.
These limbs are cold, yet still the warm
Veins from the heart and wounded side
Jet forth their dark ensanguined tide.
Haste, each who claims the name of friend,
Haste one and all the dead to tend
With service due. Since time began
There lived on earth no nobler man.
Wisdom still by seeing grows,
But no man the unseen knows.
Shall he fare or ill or well
Who of mortals can foretell?
Endnotes
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Odysseus, reputed son of Sisyphus, not Laertes. ↩
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Like Shakespeare’s “Gaunt” (Richard II, II i) he plays on his
