English

Strophe I

Chor. May the Gods grant my champion good success!
For justly he goes forth
For this our State to fight;
But yet I quake with fear
To see the deaths of those who die for friends.
Mess. Yea, may the Gods give good success to him!
The Electran gates have fallen to Capaneus,
A second giant, taller far than he
Just named, with boast above a mortal's bounds;
And dread his threats against our towers (O Fortune,

Strophe I

Chor. My heart is full of care and knows not sleep,
By panic fear o'ercome;
And troubles throng my soul,
And set a-glow my dread
Of the great host encamped around our walls,
As when a trembling dove
Fears, for her callow brood,
The snakes that come, ill mates for her soft nest;
For some upon our towers
March in full strength of mingled multitude;
And what will me befall?

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Eteoc. Ye citizens of Cadmos, it behoves
That one who standeth at the stern of State
Guiding the helm, with eyes unclosed in sleep,
Should speak the things that meet occasion's need.
For should we prosper, God gets all the praise:
But if (which God forbid!) disaster falls,
Eteocles, much blame on one head falling,
Would find his name the by-word of the State,
Sung in the slanderous ballads of the town;
Yes, and with groanings, which may Zeus the Averter,

" H IPPOLITOS . "

Phaidra . O Women, dwellers in this portal-seat
Of Pelops' land, gazing toward my Crete,
How oft, in other days than these, have I
Thro night's long hours thought of man's misery,
And how this life is wreckt! And, to mine eyes,
Not in man's knowledge, not in wisdom, lies
The lack that makes for sorrow. Nay, we scan
And know the right — for wit hath many a man —
But will not to the last end strive and serve.
For some grow too soon weary, and some swerve

" H IPPOLITOS . "

O God , why hast Thou made this gleaming snare,
Woman, to dog us on the happy earth?
Was it thy will to make Man, why his birth
Thro Love and Woman? Could we not have rolled
Our store of prayer and offering, royal gold,
Silver and weight of bronze before thy feet,
And bought of God new child-souls, as were meet
For each man's sacrifice, and dwelt in homes
Free, where nor Love nor Woman goes and comes?
How, is that daughter not a bane confest

" H IPPOLITOS . "

Phaidra. Oh for a deep and dewy spring,
With runlets cold to draw and drink.
And a great meadow blossoming,
Long-grassed, and poplars in a ring,
To rest me by the brink!
Nurse . Nay, Child! Shall strangers hear this tone
So wild, and thoughts so fever-flown?
Phaidra . Oh, take me to the Mountain! Oh,
Past the great pines and thro the wood,
Up where the lean hounds softly go,

" H IPPOLITOS . "

To thee this wreathed garland from a green
And virgin meadow bear I, O my Queen,
Where never shepherd leads his grazing ewes
Nor scythe has toucht. Only the river dews
Gleam, and the spring bee sings, and in the glade
Hath Solitude her mystic garden made.
No evil hand may cull it: only he
Whose heart hath known the heart of Purity,
Unlearned of man, and true whate'er befall.
Take therefore from pure hands this coronal,
O Mistress loved, thy golden hair to twine.

" H IPPOLITOS . "

Could I take me to some cavern for mine hiding,
In the hilltops where the Sun scarce hath trod;
Or a cloud make the home of mine abiding,
As a bird among the bird-droves of God.
Could I wing me to my rest amid the roar
Of the deep Adriatic on the shore,
Where the water of Eridanus is clear,
And Phaethon's sad sisters by his grave
Weep into the river, and each tear

I sing that hero over France who reigned
Whose right by conquest & by birth was gained
Who by long miseries severe was taught
To rule his subjects as a father ought
Who knew to vanquish & to pardon all
To calm dread factions loud incessant brawl
Who overcame Mayenne the " federate league
Iberia and stopped the horrid plague
Of civil war, then King of France became;
Adding the father's, to the victors' name.

Come awful Truth descending from on high
Shed power and splendor on this history;

I

On a winter's night long time ago
(The bells ring loud and the bells ring low),
When high howled wind, and down fell snow
(Carillon, Carilla).
Saint Joseph he and Nostre Dame,
Riding on an ass, full weary came
From Nazareth into Bethlehem.
And the small child Jesus smile on you.

II

And Bethlehem inn they stood before
(The bells ring less and the bells ring more),