Complete Works of Euripides
Page 74
In God’s name, brings you from your post
With no clear tale to speak,
To spread this turmoil through a host
That lies in harness — do ye all
Know nothing? — out against the wall
And gateways of the Greek?
Chorus (various voices confusedly). [Strophe.
To arms! To arms, Lord Hector! — Send
First where the allied armies lie,
Bid them draw sword and make an end
Of sleep. — Let someone fly
And get the horses’ armour on! —
Who goes with me to Panthoös’ son? —
Who’s for Sarpêdon and the Lycians? — None
Hath seen the priest go by? —
Ho, Captain of the Runners, ho! —
Ho, Trojans of the hornèd bow!
String, string! For need is nigh.
Hector.
Ha, silence there! . . .
First words of fear,
Then comfort. All an empty swell!
It seems the lash of trembling Pan
Hath caught you. Speak, if speak ye can.
What tidings? Not a word is clear
Of the whole tale ye tell.
[The turmoil subsides, the Leader comes forward.
Leader. [Antistr.
Great beacons in the Argive line
Have burned, my chief, through half the night.
The shipyard timbers seemed to shine.
Then, clear against the light,
Toward Agamemnon’s tent the whole
Army in tumult seemed to roll,
As stirred by some strange voice, shoal after shoal.
A night of such discord
Was never seen. And we, in dread
What such things boded, turned and sped
Hither; dost blame us, Lord?
Hector (after a moment of thought).
No! Welcome, friend, with all thy tale of fear!
It shows they mean to fly: they mean to clear
Decks in the dark and so delude my sight . . .
I like that beacon-burning in the night.
O Zeus above, who checked my conquering way,
Who baulked the hungry lion of his prey
Or ever I could sweep my country clear
Of these despoilers, dost thou hate my spear?
Had but the sun’s bright arrows failed me not,
I ne’er had rested till the ships were hot
With fire, and through the tents upon the plain
This bloody hand had passed and passed again!
Myself, I longed to try the battle-cast
By night, and use God’s vantage to the last,
But sage and prophet, learned in the way
Of seercraft, bade me wait for dawn of day,
And then — leave no Greek living in the land.
They wait not, they, for what my prophets planned
So sagely. In the dark a runaway
Beats a pursuer.
Through our whole array
Send runners! Bid them shake off sleep and wait
Ready with shield and spear. ’Tis not too late
To catch them as they climb on board, and slash
Their crouching shoulders till the gangways splash
With blood, or teach them, fettered leg and arm,
To dig the stiff clods of some Trojan farm.
Leader.
My Prince, thy words run fast. Nor thou nor I
Have knowledge yet that the Greeks mean to fly.
Hector.
What makes them light their beacons? Tell me, what?
Leader.
God knows! And, for my part, I like it not.
Hector.
God knows! And, for my part, I like it not.
Leader.
God knows! And, for my part, I like it not.
Hector.
They never fled, man, in such wild dismay.
Leader (yielding).
’Twas all thy work. — Judge thou, and we obey.
Hector.
My word is simple. Arm and face the foe.
[A sound of marching without.
Leader.
Who comes? Aeneas, and in haste, as though
Fraught with some sudden tiding of the night.
Enter Aeneas.
Aeneas.
Hector, what means it? Watchers in affright
Who gather shouting at thy doors, and then
Hold midnight council, shaking all our men?
Hector.
To arms, Aeneas! Arm from head to heel!
Aeneas.
What is it? Tidings? Doth the Argive steal
Some march, some ambush in the day’s eclipse?
Hector.
’Tis flight, man! They are marching to the ships.
Aeneas.
How know’st thou? — Have we proof that it is flight?
Hector.
They are burning beacon-fires the livelong night.
They never mean to wait till dawn. Behind
That screen of light they are climbing in the blind
Dark to their ships — unmooring from our coast.
Aeneas (looking toward the distant fires: after a pause).
God guide them! — Why then do you arm the host?
Hector.
I mean to lame them in their climbing, I
And my good spear, and break them as they fly.
Black shame it were, and folly worse than shame,
To let these spoilers go the road they came
Unpunished, when God gives them to us here.
Aeneas.
Brother, I would thy wit were like thy spear!
But Nature wills not one man should be wise
In all things; each must seek his separate prize.
And thine is battle pure. There comes this word
Of beacons, on the touch thy soul is stirred:
“They fly! Out horse and chariots!” — Out withal
Past stake and trench, while night hangs like a pall!
Say, when we cross that coiling depth of dyke,
We find the foe not fled, but turned to strike;
One check there, and all hope of good return
Is gone. How can our men, returning, learn
The tricks of the palisade? The chariots how
Keep to the bridges on the trenches’ brow,
Save with jammed wheels and broken axles? Aye,
And say thou conquer: other wars yet lie
Before thee. Peleus’ son, for all his ire,
Will never let thee touch the ships with fire
Or pounce on his Greek lambs. The man will bide
No wrong and standeth on a tower of pride.
Nay, brother, let the army, head on shield,
Sleep off its long day’s labour in the field:
Then, send a spy; find someone who will dare
Creep to yon Argive camp. Then, if ’tis clear
They mean flight, on and smite them as they fly.
Else, if the beacons hide some strategy,
The spy will read it out, and we can call
A council. — Thus speak I, my general.
Chorus. [Strophe.
’Tis good! ’Tis wisdom! Prince, give heed
And change the word thy passion gave.
No soldier loveth, in his need,
The glory of a chief too brave.
A spy is best: a spy, to learn
For what strange work those beacons burn
All night beside the guarded wave.
Hector.
Ye all so wish it? — Well, ye conquer me.
(To Aeneas) Go thou and calm the allies. There will be
Some stir among them, hearing of these high
And midnight councils. — I will seek the spy
To send to the Greek camp. If there we learn
Of some plot hatching, on the man’s return
I straight will call thee a
nd share counsels. So.
But wait attentive. If he says they go
Shipward and plan to escape, one trumpet call
Shall warn thee, and I wait no more, but fall
On camp and hulls, or ever dawn can rise.
Aeneas.
Aye, haste and send him. Now thy plans are wise,
And when need comes I am with thee, sword by sword.
[Exit Aeneas.
Hector (turning to the Guards and other soldiers).
Ye gathered Trojans, sharers of my word,
Who dares to creep through the Greek lines alone?
Who will so help his fatherland?
Doth none
Offer? Must I do everything, one hand
Alone, to save our allies and our land?
[A lean dark man pushes forward from the back.
Dolon.
I, Prince! — I offer for our City’s sake
To go disguised to the Greek ships, to make
Their counsels mine, and here bring word to thee.
If that be thy full service, I agree.
Hector.
Dolon the Wolf! A wise wolf and a true!
Thy father’s house was praised when first I knew
Troy: this shall raise it twofold in our eyes.
Dolon.
’Tis wise to do good work, but also wise
To pay the worker. Aye, and fair reward
Makes twofold pleasure, though the work be hard.
Hector.
So be it: an honest rule. Do thou lay down
What guerdon likes thee best — short of my crown.
Dolon.
I care not for thy crowned and care-fraught life.
Hector.
Wouldst have a daughter of the King to wife?
Dolon.
I seek no mate that might look down on me.
Hector.
Good gold is ready, if that tempteth thee.
Dolon.
We live at ease and have no care for gold.
Hector.
Well, Troy hath other treasures manifold.
Dolon.
Pay me not now, but when the Greeks are ta’en.
Hector.
The Greeks! . . . Choose any save the Atridae twain.
Dolon.
Kill both, an it please thee. I make prayer for none.
Hector.
Thou wilt not ask for Ajax, Îleus’ son?
Dolon.
A princely hand is skilless at the plough.
Hector.
’Tis ransom, then? . . . What prisoner cravest thou?
Dolon.
I said before, of gold we have our fill.
Hector.
For spoils and armour . . . thou shalt choose at will.
Dolon.
Nail them for trophies on some temple wall.
Hector.
What seeks the man? What prize more rich than all?
Dolon.
Achilles’ horses! [Murmurs of surprise.
Yes, I need a great
Prize. I am dicing for my life with Fate.
Hector.
‘Fore God, I am thy rival, if thy love
Lies there. Undying was the breed thereof,
And these shall never die, who bear to war
Great Peleus’ son, swift gleaming like a star.
Poseidon, rider of the wild sea-drift,
Tamed them, men say, and gave them for his gift
To Peleus. — None the less, since I have stirred
Hopes, I will baulk them not. I pledge my word,
Achilles’ steeds, a rare prize, shall be thine.
Dolon.
I thank thee.— ’Tis indeed a prize more fine
Than all in Troy. — Grudge me not that; there be
Guerdons abundant for a Prince like thee.
[Exit Hector.
Chorus. [Antistr.
O peril strange, O fearful prize!
Yet win it and thy life hath wings:
A deed of glory in men’s eyes,
And greatness, to be wooed of kings.
If God but hearken to the right,
Thou drinkest to the full this night
The cup of man’s imaginings.
Dolon.
[He stands waiting a moment looking out into the dark.
There lies the way. — But first I must go find
At home some body-shelter to my mind;
Then, forward to the ships of Argolis!
Leader.
What other raiment wilt thou need than this?
Dolon.
A garb for work, for night; a thieving guise.
Leader.
’Tis good to learn the wisdoms of the wise.
What will thy wrapping be?
Dolon.
A grey wolf’s hide
Shall wrap my body close on either side;
My head shall be the mask of gleaming teeth,
My arms fit in the forepaws, like a sheath,
My thighs in the hinder parts. No Greek shall tell
’Tis not a wolf that walks, half visible,
On four feet by the trenches and around
The ship-screen. When it comes to empty ground
It stands on two. — That is the plan, my friend!
Leader.
Now Maian Hermes guide thee to thy end
And home safe! Well he loves all counterfeit . . .
Good work is there; may good luck go with it!
Dolon (to himself gazing out toward the Greek camp).
There, and then back! . . . And on this belt shall bleed
Odysseus’ head — or why not Diomede? —
To prove my truth. Ere dawn can touch the land
I shall be here, and blood upon my hand.
[Exit Dolon.
Chorus.
Thymbraean, Delian, Birth divine,
That walkest Lycia’s inmost shrine,
Come, strong to guard, to guide, to follow,
Come, bow in hand and girt with night,
To help thy Dardans as of old,
When stone by stone thy music rolled —
O conquering Strength, O Sire Apollo! —
Young Ilion into towers of light.
Grant that he reach the shipyard, creep
Keen-eyed through all that host asleep,
Then back to home and hearth, yet living,
Where now his father prays alone:
Yea, grant that, when the Greeks are slain,
Our wolf shall mount with scourge and rein
Those coursers of the sea-god’s giving,
Whom Peleus drove in days foregone.
Alone in those Greek ships to stake
His life, for home and country’s sake:
’Tis wondrous! Few be hearts so true
When seas across the bulwark break,
And sunlight sickens o’er the crew.
Ah, Phrygia still hath hearts of rock!
The Phrygian spear flies fast and far!
Where shall ye find the fool to mock
Our works in war?
Whom will he stab a-sleeping, whom,
The quick grey wolf, the crawling doom?
Grant that he slay the Spartan! Nay,
Or Agamemnon’s head and plume
To Helen bear at dawn of day!
A lightsome dawn to hear her wail
Her brother sworn, her King who came
To Ilion with his thousand sail,
And swords, and flame!
[As the song ends Dolon reappears, in the disguise of a wolf. The Guards gather round him, bidding him godspeed as he crawls off in the dark towards the Greek camp. Meantime from the direction of Mount Ida has entered a Shepherd who goes to Hector’s door and calls. The Guards seeing him return to their places.
Shepherd.
Ho, Master!
[Enter Hector from tent.
I would it ofttimes were my luck to share
As goodly news with thee as no
w I bear.
Hector.
What dulness hangs about these shepherds! Block,
Com’st thou to us with tidings of thy flock
Here in the field in arms? Who wants thee here?
Thou know’st my house; thou know’st my father’s.
There
Tell all about thy lucky lambs. — Now go.
Shepherd.
Dull wits, we shepherds! Aye, ’twas alway so.
Yet still, there is some good news to be told.
Hector.
A truce there to thy gossip of the fold!
Our dealings are of war, of sword and spear.
[He turns to go.
Shepherd.
Aye; so were mine. That is what brought me here.
[Hector’s manner changes.
A chief comes yonder, leading a great band
Of spears, with help to thee and all the land.
Hector.
From whence? How do his name and lineage run?
Shepherd.
He comes from Thrace, the River Strymon’s son.
Hector.
Rhesus! Not Rhesus, here on Trojan soil?
Shepherd.
Thou hast guessed. That eases me of half my toil.
Hector.
What makes he there towards Ida? All astray
Thus from the plain and the broad waggon-way!
Shepherd.
I know not rightly, though one well may guess.
’Tis hard to land at night, with such a press
Of spears, on a strange coast, where rumours tell
Of foes through all the plain-land. We that dwell
On Ida, in the rock, Troy’s ancient root
And hearth-stone, were well frighted, through the mute
And wolfish thickets thus to hear him break.
A great and rushing noise those Thracians make,
Marching. We, all astonied, ran to drive
Our sheep to the upmost heights. ’Twas some Argive,
We thought, who came to sweep the mountain clear
And waste thy folds; till suddenly our ear
Caught at their speech, and knew ’twas nothing Greek.
Then all our terror fled. I ran to seek
Some scout or pioneer who led the van
And called in Thracian: “Ho, what child of man
Doth lead you? From what nation do ye bring
This host with aid to Ilion and her king?”
He told me what I sought, and there I stood
Watching; and saw one gleaming like a God,
Tall in the darkness on a Thracian car.
A plate of red gold mated, like a bar,
His coursers’ necks, white, white as fallen snow.
A carven targe, with golden shapes aglow,
Hung o’er his back. Before each courser’s head
A Gorgon, to the frontlet riveted,
With bells set round — like stories that they tell
Of Pallas’ shield — made music terrible.
The numbers of that host no pen could write
Nor reckon; ’tis a multitudinous sight,