Iphigenia in Tauris [14]
thy tongue Persuasive words: a woman hath the power To melt the heart to pity: thus perchance All things may to our warmest wish succeed. IPHIGENIA Ye train of females, to my soul most dear, On you mine eyes are turn'd, on you depends My fate; with prosperous fortune to be bless'd, Or to be nothing, to my country lost, Of a dear kinsman and a much-loved brother Deprived. This plea I first would urge, that we Are women, and have hearts by nature form'd To love each other, of our mutual trusts Most firm preservers. Touching our design, Be silent, and assist our flight: naught claims More honour than the faithful tongue. You see How the same fortune links us three, most dear Each to the other, to revisit safe Our country, or to die. If I am saved, That thou mayst share my fortune, I to Greece Will bring thee safe: but thee by this right hand, Thee I conjure, and thee; by this loved cheek Thee, by thy knees, by all that in your house Is dearest to you, father, mother, child, If you have children. What do you reply? Which of you speaks assent? Or which dissents? But be you all assenting: for my plea If you approve not, ruin falls on me, And my unhappy brother too must die. LEADER Be confident, loved lady and consult Only thy safety: all thou givest in charge, Be witness, mighty Jove, I will conceal. IPHIGENIA O, for this generous promise be you bless'd. (To ORESTES and PYLADES) To enter now the temple be thy part, And thine: for soon the monarch of the land Will come, inquiring if the strangers yet Have bow'd their necks as victims at the shrine. Goddess revered, who in the dreadful bay Of Aulis from my father's slaughtering hand Didst save me; save me now, and these: through thee, Else will the voice of Phoebus be no more Held true by mortals. From this barbarous land To Athens go propitious: here to dwell Beseems thee not; thine be a polish'd state! (ORESTES, PYLADES, and IPHIGENIA enter the temple.) CHORUS (singing)
strophe 1
O bird, that round each craggy height Projecting o'er the sea below, Wheelest thy melancholy flight, Thy song attuned to notes of woe; The wise thy tender sorrows own, Which thy lost lord unceasing moan; Like thine, sad halcyon, be my strain, A bird, that have no wings to fly: With fond desire for Greece I sigh, And for my much-loved social train; Sigh for Diana, pitying maid, Who joys to rove o'er Cynthus' heights. Or in the branching laurel's shade, Or in the soft-hair'd palm delights, Or the hoar olive's sacred boughs, Lenient of sad Latona's woes; Or in the lake, that rolls its wave Where swans their plumage love to lave; Then, to the Muses soaring high, The homage pay of melody.
antistrophe 1
Ye tears, what frequent-falling showers Roll'd down these cheeks in streams of woe, When in the dust my country's towers Lay levell'd by the conquering foe; And, to their spears a prey, their oars Brought me to these barbaric shores! For gold exchanged, a traffic base, No vulgar slave, the task is mine, Here at Diana's awful shrine, Who loves the woodland hind to chase, The virgin priestess to attend, Daughter of rich Mycenae's lord; At other shrines her wish to bend, Where bleeds the victim less abhorr'd: No respite to her griefs she knows; Not so the heart inured to woes, As train'd to sorrow's rigid lore: Now comes a change; it mourns no more: But lo long bliss when ill succeeds, The anguish'd heart for ever bleeds.
strophe 2
Thee, loved virgin, freed from fear Home the Argive bark shall bear:
strophe 1
O bird, that round each craggy height Projecting o'er the sea below, Wheelest thy melancholy flight, Thy song attuned to notes of woe; The wise thy tender sorrows own, Which thy lost lord unceasing moan; Like thine, sad halcyon, be my strain, A bird, that have no wings to fly: With fond desire for Greece I sigh, And for my much-loved social train; Sigh for Diana, pitying maid, Who joys to rove o'er Cynthus' heights. Or in the branching laurel's shade, Or in the soft-hair'd palm delights, Or the hoar olive's sacred boughs, Lenient of sad Latona's woes; Or in the lake, that rolls its wave Where swans their plumage love to lave; Then, to the Muses soaring high, The homage pay of melody.
antistrophe 1
Ye tears, what frequent-falling showers Roll'd down these cheeks in streams of woe, When in the dust my country's towers Lay levell'd by the conquering foe; And, to their spears a prey, their oars Brought me to these barbaric shores! For gold exchanged, a traffic base, No vulgar slave, the task is mine, Here at Diana's awful shrine, Who loves the woodland hind to chase, The virgin priestess to attend, Daughter of rich Mycenae's lord; At other shrines her wish to bend, Where bleeds the victim less abhorr'd: No respite to her griefs she knows; Not so the heart inured to woes, As train'd to sorrow's rigid lore: Now comes a change; it mourns no more: But lo long bliss when ill succeeds, The anguish'd heart for ever bleeds.
strophe 2
Thee, loved virgin, freed from fear Home the Argive bark shall bear: