From the Hippolytus of Euripides
by Hilda Doolittle
[from The Poets’ Translation Series (issued by The Egoist, London, 1919)]
I
THERAPONTES.
Daemon initiate, spirit | |
of the god-race, Artemis, | |
Latona’s daughter, | |
child of Zeus, | |
of all maids loveliest, | |
we greet you, mistress: | |
you dwell in your father’s house, | |
the gold-wrought porches of Zeus, | |
apart in the depth of space. |
HIPPOLYTUS.
Of all maids, loveliest, | |
I greet you, Artemis, | |
loveliest upon Olympus: | |
dearest, to you this gift, | |
flower set by flower and leaf, | |
broken by uncut grass, | |
where neither scythe has dipped | |
nor does the shepherd yet | |
venture to lead his sheep; | |
there it is white and fragrant, | |
the wild-bee swirls across; | |
as a slow rivulet, | |
mystic peace broods and drifts: |
Ah! but my own, my dearest, | |
take for your gold-wrought locks | |
from my hands these flowers, | |
as from a spirit. |
II
CHORUS OF TROIZENIAN WOMEN.
At high-tide, | |
the sea—they say— | |
left a deep pool | |
below the rock-shelf: | |
in that clear place | |
where the women dip | |
their water-jars, | |
my friend steeped her veils | |
and spread the scarlet stuff | |
across the hot ridge | |
of sun-baked rocks: | |
she first brought word | |
of my mistress: |
“She lies sick, | |
faint on her couch | |
within the palace; | |
her thin veils | |
cast a shadow | |
across her bright locks. | |
I count three days | |
since her beautiful lips | |
touched the fine wheat— | |
her frail body | |
disdains nourishment: | |
she suffers— | |
some secret hurt | |
hastens her death.” |
Surely, O young queen, | |
you are possessed | |
by Pan, by Hecate, | |
by some spirit | |
of the Corybantic rites, | |
or by Cybele | |
from the hill-rocks! | |
or have you sinned | |
that you suffer thus, | |
against Artemis? | |
Have you offered | |
no sacrificial cakes | |
to the huntress? | |
For she walks above earth, | |
along the sea-coast, | |
and across the salt trail | |
of the sea-drift. |
Or is it that your lord, | |
born of Erechtheus, | |
the king most noble in descent, | |
neglects you in the palace | |
and your bride-couch | |
for another in secret? | |
Or has some sea-man, | |
landing at our port, | |
friendly to ships, | |
brought sad news from Crete? | |
For some great hurt | |
binds you to your couch, | |
broken in spirit. |
III
PHAEDRA.
Lift my head, help me up, | |
I am bruised, bone and flesh; | |
chafe my white hands, my servants: | |
this weight about my forehead? | |
Ah, my veil—loose it— | |
spread my hair across my breast. |
TROPHOS.
There, do not start, | |
child, nor toss about; | |
only calm and high pride | |
can help your hurt: | |
fate tries all alike. |
PHAEDRA.
Ai, ai! to drink deep | |
of spring water | |
from its white source; | |
ai, ai! for rest—black poplars— | |
t hick grass—sleep. |
TROPHOS.
What is this you ask, | |
wild words, mad speech— | |
hide your hurt, my heart, | |
hide your hurt | |
before these servants. |
PHAEDRA.
Take me to the mountains! | |
O for woods, pine tracts, | |
where hounds athirst for death, | |
leap on the bright stags! | |
God, how I would shout to the beasts | |
with my gold hair torn loose; | |
I would shake the Thessalian dart, | |
I would hurl the barbed arrow from my grasp. |
TROPHOS.
Why, so distraught, | |
child, child, why the chase | |
and this cold water you would ask: | |
but we may get you that | |
from deep rills that cut the slopes | |
before the gate. |
PHAEDRA.
Artemis of the salt beach | |
and of the sea-coast, | |
mistress of the race-course, | |
trodden of swift feet, | |
O for your flat sands | |
where I might mount | |
with goad and whip | |
the horses of Enetas. |
IV
O Spirit, | |
spark by spark, | |
you instil fire | |
through the sight: | |
to hearts you attack | |
you grant rare happiness! | |
Do not front me with grief, | |
yourself discord manifest! |
For neither lightning-shaft | |
nor yet stars shot | |
from a distant place | |
can equal the love-dart, | |
sped from your hands, | |
child of God, Eros. |
In vain along Alpheos, | |
in vain (if we defy Eros) | |
are the Greek altars | |
bright with blood, | |
and the Pythian rocks | |
with beasts slain | |
for Helios: | |
Aphrodite’s child | |
is man’s chief absolute: | |
he protects love’s portal | |
and love’s rite, | |
or ruthlessly betrays men, | |
destroying them | |
in his flight. |
So at Oechalie, | |
that girl, chaste— | |
a wild colt, | |
mateless, uncaught— | |
was betrayed by Kupris: | |
Heracles dragged her, | |
a bacchante, hell-loosed, | |
from her palace | |
to his ship: | |
there was flame and blood spilt | |
for the bride-chant, | |
for rapture, unhappiness. |
O Thebes, | |
high-built and chaste, | |
O Dirke’s river-bank, | |
you can tell how Kupris strikes: | |
for with thunder-bolt, | |
alight at both points, | |
she slew the mother of Bacchus, | |
child of Zeus! | |
Ah evil wedlock! Ah fate! | |
she incites all to evil, | |
she flutters over all things, | |
like a bee in flight. |
V
O for wings, | |
swift, a bird, | |
set of God | |
among the bird-flocks! | |
I would dart | |
from some Adriatic precipice, | |
across its wave-shallows and crests, | |
to Eradanus’ river-source; | |
to the place | |
where his daughters weep, | |
thrice-hurt for Phaeton’s sake, | |
tears of amber and gold which dart | |
their fire through the purple surface. |
I would seek | |
the song-haunted Hesperides | |
and the apple-trees | |
set above the sand drift: | |
there the god | |
of the purple marsh | |
lets no ships pass; | |
he marks the sky-space | |
which Atlas keeps— | |
that holy place | |
where streams, | |
fragrant as honey, | |
pass to the couches spread | |
in the palace of Zeus: | |
there the earth-spirit, | |
source of bliss, | |
grants the gods happiness. |
O ship | |
white-sailed of Crete, | |
you brought my mistress | |
from her quiet palace | |
through breaker and crash of surf | |
to love-rite of unhappiness! | |
Though the boat swept | |
toward great Athens, | |
though she was made fast | |
with ship-cable and ship-rope | |
at Munychia the sea-port, | |
though her men stood | |
on the main-land, | |
(whether unfriended by all alike | |
or only by the gods of Crete) | |
it was evil—the auspice. |
On this account | |
my mistress, | |
most sick at heart, | |
is stricken of Kupris | |
with unchaste thought: | |
helpless and overwrought, | |
she would fasten | |
the rope-noose about the beam | |
above her bride-couch | |
and tie it to her white throat: | |
she would placate the daemon’s wrath, | |
still the love-fever in her breast, | |
and keep her spirit inviolate. |
VI
No more, O my spirit, | |
are we flawless, | |
we have seen evil undreamt | |
I myself saw it: | |
the Greek, the most luminous, | |
the Athenian, the star-like, | |
banished through his father’s hate | |
to a country far distant. |
O sand dunes and sand-stretches | |
of the Athenian coast, | |
O mountain-thickets | |
where you climbed, | |
following the wild beasts, | |
with hounds, delicate of feet, | |
bunting with the daemon, Artemis! |
No more | |
will you mount your chariot, | |
yoked with horses of Enetas, | |
nor spur forward your steed | |
toward the stadium at Limnas, | |
and your chant, ever rapturous, | |
and the answering lyre-note, | |
shall cease in the king’s house: | |
far in the forest depth | |
in the glades where she loves to rest, | |
Latona’s child shall be crownless: | |
at your flight | |
the contest of the maidens will cease, | |
and their love-longing, comfortless. |
And because of your fate, | |
I accept bitter hurt, | |
and weep: | |
ai, ai, poor mother, | |
your birth-pangs were fruitless: | |
I am wroth with these spirits: | |
alas, Karites, never-separate, | |
why, why have you sent him forth, | |
the unfortunate, blameless, | |
from his palace, | |
from his own gates? |
VII
Men you strike
and the gods’
dauntless spirits alike,
and Eros helps you, O Kupris,
with wings’ swift
interplay of light:
now he flies above earth,
now above sea-crash
and whirl of salt:
he enchants beasts
who dwell in the hills
and shoals in the sea-depth:
he darts gold wings
maddening their spirits:
he charms all born of earth,
(all whom Helios visits,
fiery with light)
and men’s hearts:
you alone, Kupris,
creator of all life,
reign absolute.
* * *
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