AJAX.
Alas! who would have thought my name would prove
[Footnote: There is a play upon the name [Greek: Aias], the first
syllable of which is an ejaculation of sorrow unreproduceable in
English.]
So correspondent to the bearer's state?
Once and again that syllable of woe,
Being with woe o'erwhelmed, I may repeat.
My father once, from this Idaean land,
Crowned with the prize of valour by the host,
And full of glory, to his home returned;
While I, his son, coming to this same land
Of Troy with prowess no whit less than his,
After achievements not less glorious,
Meet from the Argives scorn and contumely.
And yet of this much am I well assured,
That had Achilles living been the judge
To whom his arm and valours prize should go,
Mine, and mine only, would those arms have been.
But now the Atridae to a cunning knave,
My exploits misprized, have surrendered them.
And had not strong delusion warped my sense,
And clouded o'er my vision, never more
Would they have an unrighteous sentence given.
But that stern-eyed, resistless child of Zeus,
Just as I put forth my avenging hand,
Brought madness on me, made me miss my aim,
And dye my sword with blood of slaughtered kine.
They have escaped, and they will mock at me,
Through no default of mine. When deity
Blasts the strong arm, weakness may strength defy.
What now am I to do, since of the gods
I am abhorred, of the Hellenic host
Hated, to Troy and all this land a foe?
Shall I to their own quarrel leave the Kings,
Unmoor, and homeward cross the Aegean wave?
How can I face my father Telamon?
How can he bear to look upon the son
Who comes to him disgraced, without the prize,
When glory's wreath has circled his own brow?
That may not be. Then shall I fling myself
Alone upon the Trojan battlements,
And having done some deed of valour, fall?
That might to the two Kings some joy afford.
That, too, is naught. On something I must think
Whereby I to my agéd sire may prove
That from his loins sprung no unworthy son;
For vile it is to crave for longer life,
When longer life brings no release from ill.
How can addition to the sum of days,
When all is but a respite, joy bestow?
I would not give a doit for any man
Who lets his heart be fired with idle hopes.
To live with honour, or with honour die,
Alone becomes the noble. I have done.
CHORUS.
None, Ajax, will pretend that these thy words
Are not thy own, or come not from thy heart;
But now control thyself. Discard these thoughts,
And let the counsels of thy friends prevail.
TECMESSA.
Ajax, my lord and master, man knows not
Aught sadder than a bondsman's helplessness.
I, that a freeman for my father had,
First of the Phrygian race in wealth and power,
Am now a slave. So have the gods decreed,
And thy strong arm determined. Of thy bed
Thus made the partner, I am true to thee,
And do implore thee by our household Zeus,
And by the couch which we together press,
Be not so cruel as to leave thy mate
In thraldom, and a prey to slanderous tongues.
Know, when thou diest, thy protection gone,
The Argives will that self-same day drag off
Me and thy helpless child to slavery.
Then will some slave-master speak bitter words,
Voiding his bile on us: 'Behold the mate
Of Ajax, once the hero of our host,
Fallen from her pride of place to menial toil.'
So will they say. For me, where fate may drive
I drift; but shame will be on thee and thine.
Think of thy father, in his drear old age
Bereft of thee; think of thy mother, too,
With her grey head, who puts up many a prayer
That she may welcome home her son alive.
Have pity on thy child, who will be left
In infancy, uncherished, and the ward
Of unkind guardians; lay to heart the woes
Which loss of thee would bring on him and me.
For I have nothing left to which to look
But thee; thy spear has laid my city low,
While, by another doom, my parents both
Have gone to dwell in the abodes of death.
What country can Tecmessa have but thee?
What staff of life? thou art my all in all.
Be mindful of thy mate; to taste love's joy
Is to owe something to the claim of love.
Affection still should be affection's meed;
When kindness leaves no trace upon the soul,
That soul is void of true nobility.
CHORUS.
Ajax, I would thy heart could beat with mine,
For if it could, her words would win thy praise.
AJAX.
Praise in full measure shall she have from me,
If she has sense to do what I command.