English

Now this is my first counsel:
That thou with thy kin
Be guiltless, guileless ever;
Nor hasty of wrath
Despite of wrong done,--
Unto the Dead good that doeth.
--Lo! the second counsel:
That oath thou swearest never
But trusty oath and true;
Grim tormenting
Gripes troth-breakers,
Cursed wretch is the wolf of vows.
--This is my third rede:
That thou at the Thing
Deal not with the fools of folk;
For unwise man
From mouth lets fall
Worser word than well he wotteth.
Yet hard it is

Helgi wedded Sigrun, and they begat sons together, but Helgi lived not to be old; for Dag, the son of Hogni, sacrificed to Odin, praying that he might avenge his father. So Odin lent Dag his spear, and Dag met Helgi, his brother-in-law, at a place called Fetter-grove, and thrust him through with that spear, and there fell Helgi dead; but Dag rode to Sevafell, and told Sigrun of the news.
Loth am I, sister,
Of sorrow to tell thee,
For by hard need driven
Have I drawn on thee greeting;
This morning fell
In Fetter-grove
The king well deemed

1.

Say, Lord, why thus thy aiding pow'r
Deserts us in the needful hour,
Why clouds impervious, round thee roll'd,
Thy presence from our sight withhold.

2.

Shall impious men escape thy view,
While thus the guiltless they pursue?
O let them, by themselves chastis'd,
The ills sustain for Him devis'd, —

3.

No longer boast their mad desires,
And acts which headlong rage inspires,
Or joyous grasp their lawless gain,
And Thee, the soul's best wealth, disdain.

4.

Her. Haste, haste with all your speed unto the barque.
Chor. Tearing of hair, yea, tearing now will come,
And print of nails in flesh,
And smiting off of heads,
With murderous stream of blood.
Her. Haste, haste ye, to that barque that yonder lies,
Ye wretches, curse on you.

Strophe I

Chor. Would thou had'st met thy death
Where the salt waves wildly surge,

Strophe I

Half-Chor. A. Now, now, at last, ye Gods of Zeus begotten,
Hear, as I pour my prayers upon their race,
That ne'er may this Pelasgic city raise
From out its flames the joyless cry of War,
War, that in other fields
Reapeth his human crop:
For they have mercy shown,
And passed their kind decree,
Pitying this piteous flock, the suppliants of great Zeus.

A NTISTROPHE I

Strophe I

Chor. Take heed to it, and be
Friend to the stranger wholly faithful found;
Desert not thou the poor,
Driven from afar by godless violence.

A NTISTROPHE I

See me not dragged away,
O thou that rul'st the land! from seat of Gods:
Know thou men's wanton pride,
And guard thyself against the wrath of Zeus.

Strophe II

Endure not thou to see thy suppliant,

King. Whence comes this crowd, this non-Hellenic band,
In robes and raiment of barbaric fashion
So gorgeously attired, whom now we speak to?
This woman's dress is not of Argive mode,
Nor from the climes of Hellas. How ye dared,
Without a herald even or protector,
Yea, and devoid of guides too, to come hither
Thus boldly, is to me most wonderful.
And yet these boughs, as is the suppliant's wont,
Are set by you before the Gods of conflicts:
By this alone will Hellas guess aright.

Zeus, the God of Suppliants, kindly
Look on this our band of wanderers,
That from banks at mouths of Neilos,
Banks of finest sand, departed!
Yea, we left the region sacred,
Grassy plain on Syria's borders,
Not for guilt of blood to exile
By our country's edict sentenced,
But with free choice, loathing wedlock,
Fleeing marriage-rites unholy
With the children of Ægyptos.
And our father Danaos, ruler,
Chief of council, chief of squadrons,
Playing moves on fortune's draught-board,

Strophe I

Semi-Chor. A. Alas! alas!
Men of stern mood, who would not list to friends,
Unwearied in all ills,
Seizing your father's house, O wretched ones
With the spear's murderous point.
Semi-Chor. B. Yea, wretched they who found a wretched doom,
With havoc of the house.

A NTISTROPHE I

Semi-Chor. A. Alas! alas!
Ye who laid low the ancient walls of home,

Eteoc. O frenzy-stricken, hated sore of Gods!
O woe-fraught race (my race!) of oedipus!
Ah me! my father's curse is now fulfilled;
But neither is it meet to weep or wail,
Lest cry more grievous on the issue come.
Of Polyneikes, name and omen true,
We soon shall know what way his badge shall end,
Whether his gold-wrought letters shall restore him,
His shield's great swelling words with frenzied soul.
An if great Justice, Zeus's virgin child,
Ruled o'er his words and acts, this might have been;