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Complete Works of Euripides

Page 74

by Euripides


  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,

 

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