| |
| IPHIGENEIA, when she heard her doom | |
| At Aulis, and when all beside the king | |
| Had gone away, took his right hand, and said: | |
| “O father! I am young and very happy. | |
| I do not think the pious Calchas heard | 5 |
| Distinctly what the goddess spake; old age | |
| Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew | |
| My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, | |
| While I was resting on her knee both arms, | |
| And hitting it to make her mind my words, | 10 |
| And looking in her face, and she in mine, | |
| Might not he, also, hear one word amiss, | |
| Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?” | |
| The father placed his cheek upon her head, | |
| And tears dropt down it; but the king of men | 15 |
| Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more: | |
| “O father! sayest thou nothing? Hearest thou not | |
| Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, | |
| Listened to fondly, and awakened me | |
| To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, | 20 |
| When it was inarticulate as theirs, | |
| And the down deadened it within the nest?” | |
| He moved her gently from him, silent still; | |
| And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, | |
| Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs: | 25 |
| “I thought to have laid down my hair before | |
| Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed | |
| Her polished altar with my virgin blood; | |
| I thought to have selected the white flowers | |
| To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each | 30 |
| By name, and with no sorrowful regret, | |
| Whether, since both my parents willed the change, | |
| I might at Hymen’s feet bend my clipt brow; | |
| And (after these who mind us girls the most) | |
| Adore our own Athene, that she would | 35 |
| Regard me mildly with her azure eyes,— | |
| But, father, to see you no more, and see | |
| Your love, O father! go ere I am gone!” | |
| Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, | |
| Bending his lofty head far over hers; | 40 |
| And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. | |
| He turned away,—not far, but silent still. | |
| She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh, | |
| So long a silence seemed the approach of death, | |
| And like it. Once again she raised her voice: | 45 |
| “O father! if the ships are now detained, | |
| And all your vows move not the gods above, | |
| When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer | |
| The less to them; and purer can there be | |
| Any, or more fervent, than the daughter’s prayer | 50 |
| For her dear father’s safety and success?” | |
| A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. | |
| An aged man now entered, and without | |
| One word stepped slowly on, and took the wrist | |
| Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw | 55 |
| The fillet of the priest and calm, cold eyes. | |
| Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried: | |
| “O father! grieve no more; the ships can sail.” | |
| |
