The Poems of Oscar Wilde/Threnodia
ΘΡΗΝΩΙΔΙΑ
(Eur. Hec., 444-483)
Song sung by captive women of Troy on the sea beach at Aulia, while the Achæans were there storm-bound through the wrath of dishonoured Achilles, and waiting for a fair wind to bring them home.
ΣΤΡΟΦΗ
O fair wind blowing from the sea!
Who through the dark and mist dost guide
The ships that on the billows ride,
Unto what land, ah, misery!
Shall I be borne, across what stormy wave,
Or to whose house a purchased slave?
O sea-wind blowing fair and fast
Is it unto the Dorian strand,
Or to those far and fable shores,
Where great Apidanus outpours
His streams upon the fertile land,
Or shall I tread the Phthian sand,
Borne by the swift breath of the blast?
ΑΝΤΙΣΤΡΟΦΗ
O blowing wind! you bring my sorrow near,
For surely borne with splashing of the oar,
And hidden in some galley-prison drear
I shall be led unto that distant shore
Where the tall palm-tree first took root, and made,
With clustering laurel leaves, a pleasant shade
For Leto when with travail great she bore
A god and goddess in Love's bitter fight,
Her body's anguish, and her soul's delight.
It may be in Delos,
Encircled of seas,
I shall sing with some maids
From the Cyclades,
Of Artemis goddess
And queen and maiden,
Sing of the gold
In her hair heavy-laden.
Sing of her hunting,
Her arrows and bow,
And in singing find solace
From weeping and woe.
ΣΤΡΟΦΗ Β
Or it may be my bitter doom
To stand a handmaid at the loom,
In distant Athens of supreme renown;
And weave some wondrous tapestry,
Or work in bright embroidery,
Upon the crocus-flowered robe and saffron-coloured gown,
The flying horses wrought in gold,
The silver chariot onward rolled
That bears Athena through the Town;
Or the warring giants that strove to climb
From earth to heaven to reign as kings,
And Zeus the conquering son of Time
Borne on the hurricane's eagle wings;
And the lightning flame and the bolts that fell
From the risen cloud at the god's behest,
And hurled the rebels to darkness of hell,
To a sleep without slumber or waking or rest.
ΑΝΤΙΣΤΡΟΦΗ Β
Alas! our children's sorrow, and their pain
In slavery.
Alas! our warrior sires nobly slain
For liberty.
Alas! our country's glory, and the name
Of Troy's fair town;
By the lances and the fighting and the flame
Tall Troy is down.
I shall pass with my soul over-laden,
To a land far away and unseen,
For Asia is slave and handmaiden,
Europa is Mistress and Queen.
Without love, or love's holiest treasure,
I shall pass into Hades abhorred,
To the grave as my chamber of pleasure,
To death as my Lover and Lord.