Hippolytus/The Bacchae | Page 7

there from thy father's blood Thy little soul a11 lonely? Or the god That rules thee, is he other than our gods? Nay, yield thee to men's ways, and kiss their rods! How many, deem'st thou, of men good and wise Know their own home's blot, and avert their eyes? How many fathers, when a son has strayed And toiled beneath the Cyprian, bring him aid, Not chiding? And man's wisdom e'er hath been To keep what is not good to see, unseen! A straight and perfect life is not for man; Nay, in a shut house, let him, if he can, 'Mid sheltered rooms, make all lines true. But here, Out in the wide sea fallen, and full of fear, Hopest thou so easily to swim to land? Canst thou but set thine ill days on one hand And more good days on the other, verily, O child of woman, life is well with thee!
[_She pauses, and then draws nearer to_ PHAEDRA.]
Nay, dear my daughter, cease thine evil mind, Cease thy fierce pride! For pride it is, and blind, To seek to outpass gods!--Love on and dare: A god hath willed it! And, since pain is there, Make the pain sleep! Songs are there to bring calm, And magic words. And I shall find the balm, Be sure, to heal thee. Else in sore dismay Were men, could not we women find our way!
LEADER OF THE CHORUS Help is there, Queen, in all this woman says, To ease thy suffering. But 'tis thee I praise; Albeit that praise is harder to thine ear Than all her chiding was, and bitterer!
PHAEDRA Oh, this it is hath flung to dogs and birds Men's lives and homes and cities-fair false word! Oh, why speak things to please our ears? We crave Not that. Tis honour, honour, we must save!
NURSE Why prate so proud! 'Tis no words, brave nor base Thou cravest; 'tis a man's arms!
[PHAEDRA moves indignantly.]
Up and face The truth of what thou art, and name it straight! Were not thy life thrown open here for Fate To beat on; hadst thou been a woman pure Or wise or strong; never had I for lure Of joy nor heartache led thee on to this! But when a whole life one great battle is, To win or lose--no man can blame me then.
PHAEDRA Shame on thee! Lock those lips, and ne'er again Let word nor thought so foul have harbour there!
NURSE Foul, if thou wilt: but better than the fair For thee and me. And better, too, the deed Behind them, if it save thee in thy need, Than that word Honour thou wilt die to win!
PHAEDRA Nay, in God's name,--such wisdom and such sin Are all about thy lips!--urge me no more. For all the soul within me is wrought o'er By Love; and if thou speak and speak, I may Be spent, and drift where now I shrink away.
NURSE Well, if thou wilt!--'Twere best never to err, But, having erred, to take a counsellor Is second.--Mark me now. I have within love-philtres, to make peace where storm hath been, That, with no shame, no scathe of mind, shall save Thy life from anguish; wilt but thou be brave! [_To herself, rejecting_.] Ah, but from him, the well-beloved, some sign We need, or word, or raiment's hem, to twine Amid the charm, and one spell knit from twain.
PHAEDRA Is it a potion or a salve? Be plain.
NURSE Who knows? Seek to be helped, Child, not to know.
PHAEDRA Why art thou ever subtle? I dread thee, so.
NURSE Thou wouldst dread everything!--What dost thou dread?
PHAEDRA Least to his ear some word be whispered.
NURSE Let be, Child! I will make all well with thee! --Only do thou, O Cyprian of the Sea, Be with me! And mine own heart, come what may, Shall know what ear to seek, what word to say!
[The NURSE, having spoken these last words in prayer apart to the Statue of CYPRIS, turns back and goes into the house. PHAEDRA _sits pensive again on her couch till towards the end of the following Song, when she rises and bends close to the door_.]
CHORUS
Er?s, Er?s, who blindest, tear by tear, Men's eyes with hunger; thou swift Foe that pliest Deep in our hearts joy like an edg��d spear; Come not to me with Evil haunting near, Wrath on the wind, nor jarring of the clear Wing's music as thou fliest! There is no shaft that burneth, not in fire, Not in wild stars, far off and flinging fear, As in thine hands the shaft of All Desire, Er?s, Child of the Highest!
In vain, in vain, by old Alphe��s' shore The blood of many bulls doth stain the river And all Greece bows on Phoebus' Pythian floor; Yet bring we to the