Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу  Ancient Greek Tragedies. Classic collection. Illustrated

авторы Aeschylus, Euripides, Sophocles

Would God no Argo e'er had winged the seas

To Colchis through the blue Symplegades:

No shaft of riven pine in Pelion's glen

Shaped that first oar-blade in the hands of men

Valiant, who won, to save King Pelias' vow,

The fleece All-golden! Never then, I trow,

Mine own princess, her spirit wounded sore

With love of Jason, to the encastled shore

Had sailed of old Iolcos: never wrought

The daughters of King Pelias, knowing not,

To spill their father's life: nor fled in fear,

Hunted for that fierce sin, to Corinth here

With Jason and her babes. This folk at need

Stood friend to her, and she in word and deed

Served alway Jason. Surely this doth bind,

Through all ill days, the hurts of humankind,

When man and woman in one music move.

But now, the world is angry, and true love

Sick as with poison. Jason doth forsake

My mistress and his own two sons, to make

His couch in a king's chamber. He must wed:

Wed with this Creon's child, who now is head

And chief of Corinth. Wherefore sore betrayed

Medea calleth up the oath they made,

They two, and wakes the clasped hands again,

The troth surpassing speech, and cries amain

On God in heaven to mark the end, and how

Jason hath paid his debt.

All fasting now

And cold, her body yielded up to pain,

Her days a waste of weeping, she hath lain,

Since first she knew that he was false. Her eyes

Are lifted not; and all her visage lies

In the dust. If friends will speak, she hears no more

Than some dead rock or wave that beats the shore:

Only the white throat in a sudden shame

May writhe, and all alone she moans the name

Of father, and land, and home, forsook that day

For this man's sake, who casteth her away.

Not to be quite shut out from home… alas,

She knoweth now how rare a thing that was!

Methinks she hath a dread, not joy, to see

Her children near. 'Tis this that maketh me

Most tremble, lest she do I know not what.

Her heart is no light thing, and useth not

To brook much wrong. I know that woman, aye,

And dread her! Will she creep alone to die

Bleeding in that old room, where still is laid

Lord Jason's bed? She hath for that a blade

Made keen. Or slay the bridegroom and the king,

And win herself God knows what direr thing?

'Tis a fell spirit. Few, I ween, shall stir

Her hate unscathed, or lightly humble her.

Ha! 'Tis the children from their games again,

Rested and gay; and all their mother's pain

Forgotten! Young lives ever turn from gloom!

Thou ancient treasure of my lady's room,

What mak'st thou here before the gates alone,

And alway turning on thy lips some moan

Of old mischances? Will our mistress be

Content, this long time to be left by thee?

Grey guard of Jason's children, a good thrall

Hath his own grief, if any hurt befall

His masters. Aye, it holds one's heart!…

Meseems

I have strayed out so deep in evil dreams,

I longed to rest me here alone, and cry

Medea's wrongs to this still Earth and Sky.

How? Are the tears yet running in her eyes?

'Twere good to be like thee!… Her sorrow lies

Scarce wakened yet, not half its perils wrought.

Mad spirit!.. if a man may speak his thought

Of masters mad. – And nothing in her ears

Hath sounded yet of her last cause for tears!

What cause, old man?… Nay, grudge me not one word.

'Tis nothing. Best forget what thou hast heard.

Nay, housemate, by thy beard! Hold it not hid

From me… I will keep silence if thou bid.

I heard an old man talking, where he sate

At draughts in the sun, beside the fountain gate,

And never thought of me, there standing still

Beside him. And he said, 'Twas Creon's will,

Being lord of all this land, that she be sent,

And with her her two sons, to banishment.

Maybe 'tis all false. For myself, I know

No further, and I would it were not so.

Jason will never bear it-his own sons

Banished, – however hot his anger runs

Against their mother!

Old love burneth low

When new love wakes, men say. He is not now

Husband nor father here, nor any kin.

But this is ruin! New waves breaking in

To wreck us, ere we are righted from the old!

Well, hold thy peace. Our mistress will be told

All in good time. Speak thou no word hereof.

My babes! What think ye of your father's love?

God curse him not, he is my master still:

But, oh, to them that loved him, 'tis an ill

Friend…

And what man on earth is different? How?

Hast thou lived all these years, and learned but now

That every man more loveth his own head

Than other men's? He dreameth of the bed

Of this new bride, and thinks not of his sons.

Go: run into the house, my little ones:

All will end happily!.. Keep them apart:

Let not their mother meet them while her heart

Is darkened. Yester night I saw a flame

Stand in her eye, as though she hated them,

And would I know not what. For sure her wrath

Will never turn nor slumber, till she hath…

Go: and if some must suffer, may it be

Not we who love her, but some enemy!

Oh shame and pain: O woe is me!

Would I could die in my misery!

Ah, children, hark! She moves again

Her frozen heart, her sleeping wrath.

In, quick! And never cross her path,

Nor rouse that dark eye in its pain;

That fell sea-spirit, and the dire

Spring of a will untaught, unbowed.

Quick, now! – Methinks this weeping cloud

Hath in its heart some thunder-fire,

Slow gathering, that must flash ere long.

I know not how, for ill or well,

It turns, this uncontrollable

Tempestuous spirit, blind with wrong.

Have I not suffered? Doth it call

No tears?.. Ha, ye beside the wall

Unfathered children, God hate you

As I am hated, and him, too,

That gat you, and this house and all!

For pity! What have they to do,

Babes, with their father's sin? Why call

Thy curse on these?… Ah, children, all

These days my bosom bleeds for you.

Rude are the wills of princes: yea,

Prevailing alway, seldom crossed,

On fitful winds their moods are tossed:

'Tis best men tread the equal way.

Aye, not with glory but with peace

May the long summers find me crowned:

For gentleness-her very sound

Is magic, and her usages.

All wholesome: but the fiercely great

Hath little music on his road,

And falleth, when the hand of God

Shall move, most deep and desolate.

I heard a voice and a moan,

A voice of the eastern seas:

Hath she found not yet her ease?

Speak, O aged one.

For I stood afar at the gate,

And there came from within a cry,

And wailing desolate.

Ah, no more joy have I,

For the griefs this house doth see,

And the love it hath wrought in me.

There is no house! 'Tis gone. The lord

Seeketh a prouder bed: and she

Wastes in her chamber, not one word

Will hear of care or charity.

O Zeus, O Earth, O Light,

Will the fire not stab my brain?

What profiteth living? Oh,

Shall I not lift the slow

Yoke, and let Life go,

As a beast out in the night,

To lie, and be rid of pain?

"O Zeus, O Earth, O Light:"

The cry of a bride forlorn

Heard ye, and wailing born

Of lost delight?

Why weariest thou this day,

Wild heart, for the bed abhorred,

The cold bed in the clay?

Death cometh though no man pray,

Ungarlanded, un-adored.

Call him not thou.

If another's arms be now

Where thine have been,

On his head be the sin:

Rend not thy brow!

All that thou sufferest,

God seeth: Oh, not so sore

Waste nor weep for the breast

That was thine of yore.

Virgin of Righteousness,

Virgin of hallowed Troth,

Ye marked me when with an oath

I bound him; mark no less

That oath's end. Give me to see

Him and his bride, who sought

My grief when I wronged her not,

Broken in misery,

And all her house… O God,

My mother's home, and the dim

Shore that I left for him,

And the voice of my brother's blood.

Oh, wild words! Did ye hear her cry

To them that guard man's faith forsworn,

Themis and Zeus?… This wrath new-born

Shall make mad workings ere it die.

Would she but come to seek

Our faces, that love her well,

And take to her heart the spell

Of words that speak?

Alas for the heavy hate

And anger that burneth ever!

Would it but now abate,

Ah God, I love her yet.

And surely my love's endeavour

Shall fail not here.

Go: from that chamber drear

Forth to the day

Lead her, and say, Oh, say

That we love her dear.

Go, lest her hand be hard

On the innocent: Ah, let be!

For her grief moves hitherward,

Like an angry sea.

That will I: though what words of mine

Or love shall move her? Let them lie

With the old lost labours!… Yet her eye-

Know ye the eyes of the wild kine,

The lion flash that guards their brood?

So looks she now if any thrall

Speak comfort, or draw near at all

My mistress in her evil mood.

Alas, the bold blithe bards of old

That all for joy their music made,

For feasts and dancing manifold,

That Life might listen and be glad.

But all the darkness and the wrong,

Quick deaths and dim heart-aching things,

Would no man ease them with a song

Or music of a thousand strings?

Then song had served us in our need.

What profit, o'er the banquet's swell

That lingering cry that none may heed?

The feast hath filled them: all is well!

I heard a song, but it comes no more.

Where the tears ran over:

A keen cry but tired, tired:

A woman's cry for her heart's desired,

For a traitor's kiss and a lost lover.

But a prayer, methinks, yet riseth sore

To God, to Faith, God's ancient daughter-

The Faith that over sundering seas

Drew her to Hellas, and the breeze

Of midnight shivered, and the door

Closed of the salt unsounded water.

Women of Corinth, I am come to show

My face, lest ye despise me. For I know

Some heads stand high and fail not, even at night

Alone-far less like this, in all men's sight:

And we, who study not our wayfarings

But feel and cry-Oh we are drifting things,

And evil! For what truth is in men's eyes,

Which search no heart, but in a flash despise

A strange face, shuddering back from one that ne'er

Hath wronged them?… Sure, far-comers anywhere,

I know, must bow them and be gentle. Nay,

A Greek himself men praise not, who alway

Should seek his own will recking not… But I-

This thing undreamed of, sudden from on high,

Hath sapped my soul: I dazzle where I stand,

The cup of all life shattered in my hand,

Longing to die-O friends! He, even he,

Whom to know well was all the world to me,

The man I loved, hath proved most evil. – Oh,

Of all things upon earth that bleed and grow,

A herb most bruised is woman. We must pay

Our store of gold, hoarded for that one day,

To buy us some man's love; and lo, they bring

A master of our flesh! There comes the sting

Of the whole shame. And then the jeopardy,