Nobly to live—that is the true knight’s choice,
Or nobly end his life. I have said my say.
No man will charge thee, Ajax, with feigned words.
’Twas thy heart spoke; yet pause and put aside
These dark thoughts; let thyself be ruled by friends.
Ah, my lord Ajax, heavier lot is none
Than to lie helpless in the coils of fate.
I was the daughter of a high-born sire
Of Phrygians unsurpassed in wealth and might.
And now, I am a slave; ’twas so ordained
By Heaven, methinks, and by thy might of arm.
Since fate has willed, then, I should share thy bed,
Thy good is mine; and O by the god of the hearth,
O by the wedded bond that made us one,
Let me not fall into a stranger’s hand,
A laughing-stock! For, surely, if thou die
And leave me widowed, on that very day
I shall be seized and haled away by force,
I and thy son, prey to the Argive host,
Our portion slavery. Then shall I hear
The flouts and gibes that my new lords let fly.
“Look on her,” one will say, “the leman once
Of Ajax, mightiest of the Argive chiefs,
How has she fallen from her place of pride!”
Thus will they prate, and hard will be my lot,
But on thy race and thee how foul a slur.
Take pity and bethink thee of the sire
Thou leavest, an old man, disconsolate;
Bethink thee of thy mother bowed with years,
Think of her prayers and vows for thy return.
And, O my lord, take pity on thy son,
Orphaned, without a father’s fostering care,
The ward of loveless guardians; if thou die,
What heritage of woe is his and mine!
For I have naught to look to anywhere
Save thee. By thee my country was laid waste,
My mother and my father too were snatched
To dwell with Hades by another fate.
What home is left me then, if thou art ta’en?
What weal? my welfare is bound up in thee.
Think of me also: gratitude is due
From man for favours that a woman gives.
Kindness return of kindness e’er begets.
Who lets the memory of service pass
Him will I ne’er with noble spirits rank.
Ajax, I would that thou wert moved as I
To pity; then wouldst thou approve her rede.
Yea, and my full approval she shall win,
If only she take heart to do my hest.
Aye, my dear lord, I will obey in all.
Bring hither then my son, that I may see him.
Oh, in alarm I sent him from my charge.
When I was stricken? Or what meanest thou?
Yea, lest the poor child meeting thee should die.
That fate indeed had matched my fortunes well.
Well, I averted that calamity.
Thy forethought and the action I commend.
As the case stands, how can I do thy hest?
Let me speak to him—see him face to face.
Good; he is in our servants’ charge close by.
Then wherefore is his coming thus delayed?
My child, thy father calls thee. To the Servants. Bring him hither,
Whoever of you guides his infant steps.
Comes he, or has he failed to hear thy call?
I see one just approaching with the boy.
Lift him, O lift him to my arms; no dread,
If he be mine, his father’s true-born son,
He’ll feel in gazing on this fresh spilt blood.
He must be early trained and broken in
To the stern rule of life his father held,
And moulded to the likeness of his sire.
My boy, mayst thou prove happier than thy sire,
But like him in all else, and thou wilt prove
No weakling; nay, e’en now, in this at least
I envy thee: of woes thou wottest naught,
For ignorance is life’s extremest bliss—
The years when joy and sorrow are both unknown.
But when thou reachest manhood, then’s the time
To prove the inbred virtue of thy race,
And show thy father’s foes whose son thou art.
Meanwhile let light airs feed thee; cherish thou
Thy tender years to glad thy mother’s heart.
Thou need’st not fear that any of the Greeks
Will tease or vex thee, e’en when I am gone.
So stout a guardian will I leave in charge,
Whose watchful eye will slumber not, though now
A foray ’gainst his enemies keeps him hence.
And ye, my seamen, comrades in the fight,
(On you no less than him I lay this charge
Of love) to him convey my last behest.
Bid him from me take home this son of mine
To Eriboea and to Telamon,
That he may comfort their old age till death.
And for my arms, let no Greek arbiter
Of games (so bid him) nor my venomous foe
Set them as prize for the Achaean host.
But this, the shield from which thou took’st thy name,3
Take this, my son, this sevenfold, spear-proof targe,
Take it and wield it by the close-stitched thongs.
My other arms shall lie with me interred.
Quick, take the child, delay not; close the doors,
Nor at the tent side moan and make lament.
In sooth a woman is a tearful thing.
Quick, make all fast: ’tis not a skilful leech
Who mumbles charms o’er ills that need the knife.
I tremble as I mark this eager haste:
Thy words are sharp as swords and like me not.
O my lord Ajax, what is in thy heart?
Question not, ask not; be discreet and wise.
Ah me, I quail, I faint. O by thy child,
By heaven I implore thee, fail us not.
Thou art importunate; know’st not that I
Henceforward owe no duty to the gods?
Oh hush, blaspheme not!
Speak to ears that hear.
Wilt thou not heed?
I have heard from thee too much.
Fear, my lord, makes me speak.
Quick, close the doors.
Yield, I implore thee.
Fond simplicity
If at this hour thou think’st to mould my mood. Exit Ajax.
Strophe 1
Ah Salamis, blest isle,
Secure, serene,
Above the waves that lash thy shore,
As ocean’s queen,
Thou sittest evermore.
But I in exile drear,
Month after month, year after year,
On Ida’s meads must bivouac, all forlorn
By time outworn;
And ever
