From the Hippolytus of Euripides (by H.D.)

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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From the Iphigeneia in Aulis of Euripides (by H.D.)

From the Iphigeneia in Aulis of Euripides
by Hilda Doolittle
[from The Poets’ Translation Series, No. 3 (issued by The Egoist, London, 1916)]

I

Chorus of the Women of Chalkis

1

	I crossed sand-hills.
	I stand among the sea-drift before Aulis.
	I crossed Euripos’ strait—
	Foam hissed after my boat.

	I left Chalkis,
	My city and the rock-ledges.
	Arethusa twists among the boulders,
	Increases—cuts into the surf.

	I come to see the battle-line
	And the ships rowed here
	By these spirits—
	The Greeks are but half-man.

	Golden Menelaus
	And Agamemnon of proud birth
	Direct the thousand ships.
	They have cut pine-trees
	For their oars.
	They have gathered the ships for one purpose:
	Helen shall return.

	There are clumps of marsh-reed
	And spear-grass about the strait.
	Paris the herdsman passsed through them
	When he took Helen—Aphrodite’s gift.

	For he had judged the goddess
	More beautiful than Hera.
	Pallas was no longer radiant
	As the three stood
	Among the fresh-shallows of the strait.

2

	I crept through the woods
	Between the altars:
	Artemis haunts the place.
	Shame, scarlet, fresh-opened—a flower,
	Strikes across my face.
	And sudden—light upon shields,
	Low huts—the armed Greeks,
	Circles of horses.

	I have longed for this.
	I have seen Ajax.
	I have known Protesilaos
	And that other Ajax—Salamis’ light
	They counted ivory-discs.
	They moved them—they laughed.
	They were seated together
	On the sand-ridges.

	I have seen Palamed,
	Child of Poseidon’s child:
	Diomed, radiant discobolus:
	Divine Merion, a war-god,
	Startling to men:
	Island Odysseus from the sea-rocks:

	And Nireos, most beautiful
	Of beautiful Greeks.

3

	A flash—
	Achilles passed across the beach.
	(He is the sea-woman’s child
	Chiron instructed.)

	Achilles had strapped the wind
	About his ankles,
	He brushed rocks
	The waves had flung.
	He ran in armour.
	He led the four-yoked chariot
	He had challenged to the foot-race.
	Emelos steered
	And touched each horse with pointed goad.

	I saw the horses:
	Each beautiful head was clamped with gold.

	Silver streaked the centre horses.
	They were fastened to the pole.
	The outriders swayed to the road-stead.
	Colour spread up from ankle and steel-hoof.
	Bronze flashed.

	And Achilles, set with brass,
	Bent forward,
	Level with the chariot-rail.

4

	If a god should stand here
	He could not speak
	At the sight of ships
	Circled with ships.

	This beauty is too much
	For any woman.
	It is burnt across my eyes.
	The line is an ivory-horn.
	The Myrmidons in fifty quivering ships
	Are stationed on the right.

	These are Achilles’ ships.
	On the prow of each
	A goddess sheds gold:
	Sea-spirits are cut in tiers of gold.

5

	Next, equal-oared ships
	Were steered from the port of Argos
	By one of the Mekistians.
	Sthenelos was with him.

	Then the son of Theseus
	Led out sixty ships,
	Prow to prow from Attica.
	A great spirit keeps them—
	Pallas, graved above each ship.

6

	Wings bear her
	And horses, iron of hoof:
	The phantom and chariot
	Appear to men slashed with waves.

	Fifty Bœotian ships,
	Heavy with bright arms,
	Floated next:
	The earth-god stood at the prow
	With golden-headed serpent.

	Leitos, born of earth,
	Guided this group of ships.

	Ships had gathered
	From ports of Phokis:
	The Lokrians sent as many.
	Ajax left beautiful Thronion
	To lead both fleets.

7

	From Mykenae’s unhewn rock,
	Men, led out by Agamemnon,
	Served beyond the breakwater
	In one hundred ships.
	His brother went with him—
	Lover to lover.

	Insult was thrown upon both.
	Helen, possessed,
	Followed a stranger
	From the Greek courtyard.
	They would avenge this.

	Nestor brought ships from Pylos.
	They are stamped
	With Alpheus’ bull-hoof.

8

	There were twelve Ænian sails:
	Gouneos led the twelve ships.
	He is the tribe-king.
	Near him were Elis’ petty-chiefs—
	The common people call Epians—
	And Eurytos, their great chief.

	Meges brought white-wood oars
	From island Taphos.
	He left Echinades—
	Sailors find no entrance
	Across the narrow rocks.

	Ajax of Salamis
	Finished the great arc:
	He joined both branches
	To the far border
	With twelve ships,
	Strung of flexible planks.

9

	I have heard all this.
	I have looked too
	Upon this people of ships.
	You could never count the Greek sails
	Nor the flat keels of the foreign boats.

	I have heard—
	I myself have seen the floating ships
	And nothing will ever be the same—
	The shouts,
	The harrowing voices within the house.
	I stand apart with an army:
	My mind is graven with ships.

II

	Paris came to Ida.
	He grew to slim height
	Among the silver-hoofed beasts.
	Strange notes made his flute
	A Phrygian pipe.
	He caught all Olympus
	In his bent reeds.
	While his great beasts
	Cropped the grass,
	The goddesses held the contest
	Which sent him among the Greeks.

	He came before Helen’s house.
	He stood on the ivory steps.
	He looked upon Helen and brought
	Desire to the eyes
	That looked back—
	The Greeks have snatched up their spears.
	They have pointed the helms of their ships
	Toward the bulwarks of Troy.

III

1

	The crowd of the Greek force
	With stacked arms and with troop-ships
	Will come to Simois—
	The strait, furrowed deep with silver.

	They will enter Troy.
	The sun-god built the porticoes.
	Kassandra shakes out her hair—
	Its gold clasped
	With half-opened laurel-shoots—
	When the god strikes her
	With his breath.

	They will stand on Pergamos.
	They will crowd about the walls.

	They will lift their shields,
	Riveted with brass,
	As they enter Simois
	In their painted ships.

	Two brothers of Helen are spirits
	And dwell apart in the air,
	Yet the shieldsmen will take her,
	And men, alert with spear-shaft,
	Will carry her to the Greek coast.

2

	And Pergamos,
	City of the Phrygians,
	Ancient Troy
	Will be given up to its fate.
	They will mark the stone-battlements
	And the circle of them
	With a bright stain.
	They will cast out the dead—
	A sight for Priam’s queen to lament
	And her frightened daughters.

	And Helen, child of Zeus,
	Will cry aloud for the mate
	She has left in that Phrygian town.

	May no child of mine,
	Nor any child of my child
	Ever fashion such a tale
	As the Phrygians shall murmur,
	As they stoop at their distaffs,
	Whispering with Lydians,
	Splendid with weight of gold—

	“Helen has brought this.
	They will tarnish our bright hair.
	They will take us as captives
	For Helen—born of Zeus
	When he sought Leda with bird-wing
	And touched her with bird-throat—
	If men speak truth.

	“But still we lament our state,
	The desert of our wide courts,
	Even if there is no truth
	In the legends cut on ivory
	Nor in the poets
	Nor the songs.”

IV

1

	Burnished-head
	By burnished-head,
	Pierides sought the bride:
	They touched the flute-stops
	And the lyre-strings for the dance,

	They made the syrinx-notes
	Shrill through the reed-stalk.
	They cut gold sandal-prints
	Across Pelion
	Toward the gods’ feast.

	They called Pelios
	From steep centaur-paths,
	And Thetis
	Among forest trees:
	They chanted at the feast
	Where Phrygian Ganymede,
	Loved of Zeus,
	Caught the measure of wine
	In the circle of the golden cups.

	While fifty sea-spirits
	Moved and paused
	To mark the beat
	Of chanted words
	Where light flashed
	Below them on the sand.

2

	A centaur-herd,
	Wild-horses, crowned with grass,
	Swept among the feasting gods
	With fir-shoots
	Toward the wine-jars.

	And Chiron,
	Inspired by the rites of song,
	Cried with a loud voice:

	“From Thessaly,
	The great light
	Whom Thetis will beget,”
	(He spoke his name)
	“Will come with the Myrmidons
	Spearsmen and hosts with shields,
	Golden and metal-wrought,
	To scatter fire
	Over Priam’s beautiful land.”

	Therefore the spirits blessed
	The fair-fathered,
	The Nereid,
	And chanted at Pelios’ feast.

3

	(To Iphigeneia.)
	Your hair is scattered light:
	The Greeks will bind it with petals.

	And like a little beast,
	Dappled and without horns,
	That scampered on the hill-rocks,
	They will leave you
	With stained throat—
	Though you never cropped hill-grass
	To the reed-cry
	And the shepherd’s note.

	Some Greek hero is cheated
	And your mother’s court
	Of its bride.

	And we ask this—where truth is,
	Of what use is valour and is worth?
	For evil has conquered the race,
	There is no power but in base men,
	Nor any man whom the gods do not hate.

V

IPH.

	It is not for me, the day,
	Nor this light of sun.
	Ah, mother, mother,
	The same terror is cast on us both.

	Alas for that Phrygian cleft,
	Beaten by snow,
	The mountain-hill, Ida,
	Where Priam left the young prince,
	Brought far from his mother
	To perish on the rocks:
	Paris who is called
	Idaeos, Idaeos
	In the Phrygian court.

	Would that he had never thrived,
	Would that he had not kept the flocks
	O that he had not dwelt
	At that white place of the water-gods:
	In meadows,
	Thick with yellow flower-sprays
	And flowers, tint of rose,
	And the hyacinth we break for gods.

	For Pallas came there,
	And Kypris, crafty-heart,
	And Hera and Hermes, legate of god
	(Beautiful Kypris,
	Pallas with spear-hilt,
	Hera, queen, wed with Zeus.)
	It was a hated judgment, O slender-girls.
	The contest of beautiful-face by beautiful-face
	Has brought this:
	I am sent to death
	To bring honour to the Greeks.

CH.

	For Ilium, for Ilium
	Artemis exacts sacrifice.

IPH.

	O wretched, wretched,—
	I know you, Helen, sharp to do hurt.
	I am slaughtered for your deceit.

	O I am miserable:
	You cherished me, my mother,
	But even you desert me.
	I am sent to an empty place.

	O that Aulis had not harboured
	These beaked ships,
	Nor sheltered their brazen prows
	As they floated toward Troy:
	O that Zeus had not turned them
	Nor wafted their splendour
	Through the straits:
	For Zeus strikes different winds
	To each ship,
	So that some men laugh
	With the light flap of the sails,
	Some bend with anger
	At their work:

	Some haul up the sheets,
	Some knot the great ropes,
	Some dash through the spray
	To quick death.

	And each man is marked for toil,
	Much labour is his fate,
	Nor is there any new hurt
	That may be added to the race.

VI

IPH.

	Now sing, O slight girls,
	Without change of note,
	My death-paeon and Artemis’ chant.

	Stand silent, you Greeks.
	The fire kindles.
	They step to do sacrifice
	With reed-basket of salt-cakes:
	I come—I free Hellas.
	My father, as priest awaits me
	At the right altar-step.

	Hail me now.
	I destroy Phrygia and all Troy.
	Clasp on the flower-circlet.
	Wind it through the locks just caught with it.
	Bear water in a deep bowl.
	Stand around the temple-front
	And the altar of heaped earth.
	For I come to do sacrifice,
	To break the might of the curse,
	To honour the queen, if she permit,
	The great one, with my death.

CH.

	O, mother, high-born,
	Of proud birth,
	Will you not weep for us?
	For we may not cry out
	In the splendour of this holy place.

IPH.

	Slight girls, stand forth,
	Chant Artemis—Artemis:
	She fronts the coast,
	She stands opposite Chalkis—
	For spears will clash in the contest
	My fame has brought
	In the shelter of these narrow straits.

	Hail, land of my birth.
	Hail Mykenae, where I once dwelt—

CH.

	(She calls upon the city of Perseos,
	Built of unchiselled rock.)

IPH.

	—you brought me to the Greek light
	And I will not hold you guilty
	For my death.

CH.

	Your name will never be forgotten,
	Your honour will always last.

IPH.

	Alas, day, you brought light,
	You trailed splendour
	You showed us god:
	I salute you, most precious one,
	But I go to a new place,
	Another life.

CH.

	Alas, she steps forward
	To destroy Ilium and the Phrygians.
	A wreath is about her head,
	She takes water in a dish.

	She comes to meet death,
	To stain the altar of the goddess,
	To hold her girl-throat
	Toward the knife-thrust.

	The land-springs await
	And the sacred bowls,
	And the Greek host, eager to depart.
	But let us not forget
	With our past happiness,
	Artemis, daughter of god,
	Queen among the great,
	But cry out:
	Artemis, rejoicer in blood-sacrifice,
	Send the force of the Greeks
	To Troy and the Phrygian court.

	And grant that Agamemnon may clasp
	Fame, never to be forgot
	Upon his brow—encircled
	By Greek spear-shafts,
	May he gain honour for all the Greeks.

* * *

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