Admetus, you see how it is with me. I want to declare my wishes before I die. I have honored you, and at the price of my life I have caused you to look upon this light. For your sake I die, though I could have survived and married any Thessalian I wished and lived in a house happy with kingship. But I was not willing to live separated from you, with my children orphaned, and I did not begrudge my youth, which I possessed and enjoyed. And yet he that begot you and she that bore you betrayed you, though they had come to a time of life fitting for death, fitting to save their son and die glorious. You were their only child, and they had no hope of getting other children if you were dead. Then I should have lived, and you too, the rest of our time, and you would not be groaning at the loss of your wife, and would not have to bring up your children motherless. But some god has caused these things to work out this way. So be it. But do you remember to render me gratitude for these things. I do not seek an equal return. That is impossible, for nothing is so precious as life. What I ask is only fair, as you yourself will admit.
Seven against Thebes
Mighty Furies that triumphant
Ride on ruin’s baleful wings,
Crushed ye have and clean uprooted
This great race of Theban kings.
Who shall help me? Who shall give me,
Sure advice, and counsel clear?
Shall mine eyes freeze up their weeping?
Shall my feet refuse to follow
Thy loved remnant? but I fear
Much the rulers, and their mandate
Sternly sanctioned. Shall it be?
Him shall many mourners follow?
Thee, rejected by thy country,
Thee no voice of wailing nears,
All thy funeral march a sister
Weeping solitary tears?
The Oresteia Trilogy
Oh, the torment bred in the race,
the grinding scream of death
and the stroke that hits the vein,
the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,
the curse no man can bear.
But there is a cure in the house, and not outside it, no,
not from others but from them,
their bloody strife. We sing to you,
dark gods beneath the earth.
Now hear, you blissful powers underground --
answer the call, send help.
Bless the children, give them triumph now.
The truth has to be melted out of our stubborn lives by suffering. Nothing speaks the truth, nothing tells us how things really are, nothing forces us to know what we do not want to know except pain. And this is how the gods declare their love.
And now it goes as it goes
and where it ends is Fate.
And neither by singeing flesh
nor tipping cups of wine
nor shedding burning tears can you
enchant away the rigid Fury.
The man who boldly transgresses, amassing a great heap unjustly--by force, in time, he will strike his sail, when trouble seizes him as the yardarm is splintered. He calls on those who hear nothing and he struggles in the midst of the whirling waters. The god laughs at the hot-headed man, seeing him, who boasted that this would never happen, exhausted by distress without remedy and unable to surmount the cresting wave. He wrecks the happiness of his earlier life on the reef of Justice, and he perishes unwept, unseen.
Zeus! Lord and guard of suppliant hands
Look down benign on us who crave
Thine aid-whom winds and waters drave
From where, through drifting shifting sands,
Pours Nilus to the wave.
From where the green land, god-possest,
Closes and fronts the Syrian waste,
We flee as exiles, yet unbanned
By murder’s sentence from our land;
But-since Aegyptus had decreed
His sons should wed his brother’s seed,-
Ourselves we tore from bonds abhorred,
From wedlock not of heart but hand,
Nor brooked to call a kinsman lord!
And Danaus, our sire and guide,
The king of counsel, pond’ring well
The dice of fortune as they fell,
Out of two griefs the kindlier chose,
And bade us fly, with him beside,
Heedless what winds or waves arose,
And o’er the wide sea waters haste,
Until to Argos’ shore at last
Our wandering pinnace came-
Argos, the immemorial home
Of her from whom we boast to come-
Io, the ox-horned maiden, whom,
After long wandering, woe, and scathe,
Zeus with a touch, a mystic breath,
Made mother of our name.
Therefore, of all the lands of earth,
On this most gladly step we forth,
And in our hands aloft we bear-
Sole weapon for a suppliant’s wear-
The olive-shoot, with wool enwound!
City, and land, and waters wan
Of Inachus, and gods most high,
And ye who, deep beneath the ground,
Bring vengeance weird on mortal man,
Powers of the grave, on you we cry!
And unto Zeus the Saviour, guard
Of mortals’ holy purity!
Receive ye us-keep watch and ward
Above the suppliant maiden band!
Chaste be the heart of this your land
Towards the weak! but, ere the throng,
The wanton swarm, from Egypt sprung,
Leap forth upon the silted shore,
Thrust back their swift-rowed bark again,
Repel them, urge them to the main!
And there, ‘mid storm and lightning’s shine,
And scudding drift and thunder’s roar,
Deep death be theirs, in stormy brine!
Before they foully grasp and win
Us, maiden-children of their kin,
And climb the couch by law denied,
And wrong each weak reluctant bride.