‘Seek victory, my son’ (so warned the sire),
‘But seek it ever with the help of heaven.’
He in his wilful arrogance, replied,
‘Father, with gods to aid, a man of naught
Might well prevail, but I without their help.’
Such was his haughty boast. A second time,
To Queen Athena, as she spurred him on
To turn his reeking hand upon his foes,
He spake a blasphemous, outrageous word,
‘Queen, stand beside the other Greeks; where I
Am posted, fear not that our ranks will break.’
Such vaunting words drew on him the dire wrath
Of the goddess—pride too high for mortal man.
But if he can survive this day, perchance
With God’s good aid we may avail to save him.”
So spake the seer, and Teucer straightway rose
And sent me with these mandates. Have I failed,
Ajax is doomed, or Calchas is no seer.
Ill-starred Tecmessa, born to woe, come forth,
And hearken to this messenger, whose words
That touch us to the quick brook no delay.
Why break my rest and trouble me again,
Relieved awhile from woes that have no end?
List to this man—the tidings he has brought
Of Ajax’ fortunes, filling me with grief.
What is thy news, man? Say, are we undone?
I know not of thy fortunes, only this—
If Ajax is abroad, I augur ill.
Alas! he is. How thy words chill my soul!
Teucer’s injunction is to keep him close
Indoors, nor let him go abroad alone.
And where is Teucer? Wherefore speaks he thus?
He hath returned but lately and forbodes
Grave jeopardy, if Ajax goes abroad.
Ah woe is me! Who warned him of this peril?
The prophet, son of Thestor, but to-day,
When in the scales for him hang life and death.
Help, friends, protect me from the impending doom!
Speed, some to hasten Teucer on his way,
Some to the western creeks and some to those
That front the morn; pursue his ill-starred track.
I see too well my lord hath cheated me,
Withdrawn the favour that long time was mine.
Ah me! What shall I do, my child? No time
To sit with folded hands; I too will go,
So far as this weak frame allows, in search.
Up, quick, to work! no moment must be lost,
If we would save a man who hastes to death.
Ready am I; not words alone shall prove,
But speed of act and foot, my readiness. Exeunt Ajax alone on the sea-shore, planting his sword in the ground.
The slayer standeth where his stroke is sure—
If I have time to muse thus curiously—
The gift of Hector erst my foeman-friend,
The man most hateful to my soul and sight,
Now fixed in foemen’s land, the land of Troy;
Fresh edged upon the iron-fretting stone,
Here have I planted it and set it fast,
A friend to help me to a speedy death.
My part is done; for what remains, O Zeus,
First I invoke thine aid; and claim my due;
’Tis no excessive boon I shall demand.
I pray thee send some messenger to bear
To Teucer the sad tale, that he may come
To lift me where I lie a bleeding corpse,
Fallen on this gory sword, lest I be first
Discovered by some enemy and cast forth,
A prey to dogs and birds. Thus much, O Zeus,
I crave of thee; and Hermes I invoke,
Born guide of spirits to the nether world,
To lay me soft to rest at one swift gasp,
Without a struggle, when into my side
I plunge this sword. Ye too I call to aid,
Maidens immortal, with immortal eyes
Beholding all the many woes of man,
Swift-footed hounds of vengeance, mark ye well
How by the Atridae I am all undone.
Swoop on them, Furies, blight and blast them both
In utter ruin, as they see me now!
On, ye Avengers, glut your maw, spare not,
Let ruin seize the whole Achaean host!
And thou whose chariot climbs the steep of heaven,
When in thy course thou see’st my father-land,
Draw in thy gold-bedizened rein and tell
My aged sire and mother of their son,
His sorrows and his end. Poor mother! when
She hears the tale, her piercing wail will ring
Through all the city. But how profitless
These idle lamentations and delay!
With such despatch as may be let’s to work.
O Death, Death, Death, draw nigh and look on me—
Yet there below I shall have time enow
To converse face to face with Death. But thee,
O bright effulgence of this radiant day,
On thee, the Sun-god charioteer, I call
For the last time and never more again.
O light! O sacred soil of mine own land,
My Salamis! my home, my ancestral hearth!
O far-famed Athens, race akin to mine,
Ye Trojan springs and streams, ye plains of Troy,
Farewell, ye nurses of my fame, farewell!
This is the last word Ajax speaks to you.
Henceforth he talks in Hades with the dead. He falls upon his sword.
Toil, toil, and toil on toil!
Where have my steps not roamed, and yet,
No place that hath a secret for my ear.4
Hist! hist! what sound was that?
’Tis we, thy mates.
What cheer, mates?
All westward of the fleet we’ve ranged and found
Found, say you!
Of moil enow, of what we sought no trace.
No better luck to the eastward; on the road
That fronts the sunrise not a trace of him.
Strophe
O that some toiling fisher by the bay,
Dragging his nets all night,
Some Oread from Olympus’ height,
Or nymph who haunts the tides of Bosporus,
Might spy the wanderer on his wayward way
And bring the tale to us.
Hard lot is ours who tack
To east, to west, and find no track,
Ne’er in our luckless course descry
The derelict nor come anigh.
Woe, woe is me!
Whose was that cry from out the covert’s fringe?
Me miserable:
My hapless mistress, Ajax’ spear-won bride,
Teemessa, whelmed in anguish I behold.
I’m lost, undone, of all bereft, my friends.
What aileth thee?
Here lies our Ajax, newly slain, impaled
Upon his sword, new planted in the ground.
O
