Medea of Euripides. Euripides. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Euripides
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Shall move, most deep and desolate.

      [During the last words the Leader of the Chorus has entered. Other women follow her.

      Leader.

      I heard a voice and a moan,

       A voice of the eastern seas:

       Hath she found not yet her ease?

       Speak, O agèd 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.

      Nurse.

      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.

      Voice (within).

      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?

      Chorus.

      Some Women A.

      "O Zeus, O Earth, O Light:"

       The cry of a bride forlorn

       Heard ye, and wailing born

       Of lost delight?

      B.

      Why weariest thou this day,

       Wild heart, for the bed abhorrèd,

       The cold bed in the clay?

       Death cometh though no man pray,

       Ungarlanded, un-adorèd.

       Call him not thou.

      C.

      If another's arms be now

       Where thine have been,

       On his head be the sin:

       Rend not thy brow!

      D.

      All that thou sufferest,

       God seeth: Oh, not so sore

       Waste nor weep for the breast

       That was thine of yore.

      Voice (within).

      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. …

      Nurse.

      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.

      Chorus.

      Other Women.

      A.

      Would she but come to seek

       Our faces, that love her well,

       And take to her heart the spell

       Of words that speak?

      B.

      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.

      C.

      Go: from that chamber drear

       Forth to the day

       Lead her, and say, Oh, say

       That we love her dear.

      D.

      Go, lest her hand be hard

       On the innocent: Ah, let be!

       For her grief moves hitherward,

       Like an angry sea.

      Nurse.

      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.

      [The Nurse goes into the house.

      Chorus.

      A Woman.

      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!

      Others.

      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.

      [During the last words Medea has come out from the house.

      Medea.

      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