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