From the Hippolytus of Euripides (by H.D.)

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From the Hippolytus  of Euripides
by Hilda Doolittle
[from The Poets' Translation Series (issued by The Egoist, London, 1919)]

I



THERAPONTES.

Daemon initiate, spirit

of the god-race, Artemis,

Latona's daughter,

child of Zeus,

of all maids loveliest,

we greet you, mistress:

you dwell in your father's house,

the gold-wrought porches of Zeus,

apart in the depth of space.


HIPPOLYTUS.


Of all maids, loveliest,

I greet you, Artemis,

loveliest upon Olympus:

dearest, to you this gift,

flower set by flower and leaf,

broken by uncut grass,

where neither scythe has dipped

nor does the shepherd yet

venture to lead his sheep;

there it is white and fragrant,

the wild-bee swirls across;

as a slow rivulet,

mystic peace broods and drifts:


Ah! but my own, my dearest,

take for your gold-wrought locks

from my hands these flowers,

as from a spirit.

II



CHORUS OF TROIZENIAN WOMEN.



At high-tide,

the sea—they say—

left a deep pool

below the rock-shelf:

in that clear place

where the women dip

their water-jars,

my friend steeped her veils

and spread the scarlet stuff

across the hot ridge

of sun-baked rocks:

she first brought word

of my mistress:


"She lies sick,

faint on her couch

within the palace;

her thin veils

cast a shadow

across her bright locks.

I count three days

since her beautiful lips

touched the fine wheat—

her frail body

disdains nourishment:

she suffers—

some secret hurt

hastens her death."


Surely, O young queen,

you are possessed

by Pan, by Hecate,

by some spirit

of the Corybantic rites,

or by Cybele

from the hill-rocks!

or have you sinned

that you suffer thus,

against Artemis?

Have you offered

no sacrificial cakes

to the huntress?

For she walks above earth,

along the sea-coast,

and across the salt trail

of the sea-drift.


Or is it that your lord,

born of Erechtheus,

the king most noble in descent,

neglects you in the palace

and your bride-couch

for another in secret?

Or has some sea-man,

landing at our port,

friendly to ships,

brought sad news from Crete?

For some great hurt

binds you to your couch,

broken in spirit.

III



PHAEDRA.

Lift my head, help me up,

I am bruised, bone and flesh;

chafe my white hands, my servants:

this weight about my forehead?

Ah, my veil—loose it—

spread my hair across my breast.


TROPHOS.

There, do not start,

child, nor toss about;

only calm and high pride

can help your hurt:

fate tries all alike.


PHAEDRA.

Ai, ai! to drink deep

of spring water

from its white source;

ai, ai! for rest—black poplars—

thick grass—sleep.


TROPHOS.

What is this you ask,

wild words, mad speech—

hide your hurt, my heart,

hide your hurt

before these servants.


PHAEDRA.

Take me to the mountains!

O for woods, pine tracts,

where hounds athirst for death,

leap on the bright stags!

God, how I would shout to the beasts

with my gold hair torn loose;

I would shake the Thessalian dart,

I would hurl the barbed arrow from my grasp.


TROPHOS.

Why, so distraught,

child, child, why the chase

and this cold water you would ask:

but we may get you that

from deep rills that cut the slopes

before the gate.


PHAEDRA.

Artemis of the salt beach

and of the sea-coast,

mistress of the race-course,

trodden of swift feet,

O for your flat sands

where I might mount

with goad and whip

the horses of Enetas.

IV




O Spirit,

spark by spark,

you instil fire

through the sight:

to hearts you attack

you grant rare happiness!

Do not front me with grief,

yourself discord manifest!


For neither lightning-shaft

nor yet stars shot

from a distant place

can equal the love-dart,

sped from your hands,

child of God, Eros.


In vain along Alpheos,

in vain (if we defy Eros)

are the Greek altars

bright with blood,

and the Pythian rocks

with beasts slain

for Helios:

Aphrodite's child

is man's chief absolute:

he protects love's portal

and love's rite,

or ruthlessly betrays men,

destroying them

in his flight.


So at Oechalie,

that girl, chaste—

a wild colt,

mateless, uncaught—

was betrayed by Kupris:

Heracles dragged her,

a bacchante, hell-loosed,

from her palace

to his ship:

there was flame and blood spilt

for the bride-chant,

for rapture, unhappiness.


O Thebes,

high-built and chaste,

O Dirke's river-bank,

you can tell how Kupris strikes:

for with thunder-bolt,

alight at both points,

she slew the mother of Bacchus,

child of Zeus!

Ah evil wedlock! Ah fate!

she incites all to evil,

she flutters over all things,

like a bee in flight.

V



O for wings,

swift, a bird,

set of God

among the bird-flocks!

I would dart

from some Adriatic precipice,

across its wave-shallows and crests,

to Eradanus' river-source;

to the place

where his daughters weep,

thrice-hurt for Phaeton's sake,

tears of amber and gold which dart

their fire through the purple surface.


I would seek

the song-haunted Hesperides

and the apple-trees

set above the sand drift:

there the god

of the purple marsh

lets no ships pass;

he marks the sky-space

which Atlas keeps—

that holy place

where streams,

fragrant as honey,

pass to the couches spread

in the palace of Zeus:

there the earth-spirit,

source of bliss,

grants the gods happiness.


O ship

white-sailed of Crete,

you brought my mistress

from her quiet palace

through breaker and crash of surf

to love-rite of unhappiness!

Though the boat swept

toward great Athens,

though she was made fast

with ship-cable and ship-rope

at Munychia the sea-port,

though her men stood

on the main-land,

(whether unfriended by all alike

or only by the gods of Crete)

it was evil—the auspice.


On this account

my mistress,

most sick at heart,

is stricken of Kupris

with unchaste thought:

helpless and overwrought,

she would fasten

the rope-noose about the beam

above her bride-couch

and tie it to her white throat:

she would placate the daemon's wrath,

still the love-fever in her breast,

and keep her spirit inviolate.

VI



No more, O my spirit,

are we flawless,

we have seen evil undreamt

I myself saw it:

the Greek, the most luminous,

the Athenian, the star-like,

banished through his father's hate

to a country far distant.


O sand dunes and sand-stretches

of the Athenian coast,

O mountain-thickets

where you climbed,

following the wild beasts,

with hounds, delicate of feet,

bunting with the daemon, Artemis!


No more

will you mount your chariot,

yoked with horses of Enetas,

nor spur forward your steed

toward the stadium at Limnas,

and your chant, ever rapturous,

and the answering lyre-note,

shall cease in the king's house:

far in the forest depth

in the glades where she loves to rest,

Latona's child shall be crownless:

at your flight

the contest of the maidens will cease,

and their love-longing, comfortless.


And because of your fate,

I accept bitter hurt,

and weep:

ai, ai, poor mother,

your birth-pangs were fruitless:

I am wroth with these spirits:

alas, Karites, never-separate,

why, why have you sent him forth,

the unfortunate, blameless,

from his palace,

from his own gates?

VII

         Men you strike
         and the gods'
         dauntless spirits alike,
         and Eros helps you, O Kupris,
         with wings' swift
         interplay of light:
         now he flies above earth,
         now above sea-crash
         and whirl of salt:
         he enchants beasts
         who dwell in the hills
         and shoals in the sea-depth:
         he darts gold wings
         maddening their spirits:
         he charms all born of earth,
         (all whom Helios visits,
         fiery with light)
         and men's hearts:
         you alone, Kupris,
         creator of all life,
         reign absolute.


* * *

To read other H.D. works in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.

We also recommend these volumes from Amazon:

   

Posted by Jesus Crisis at 1/9/2010 7:27 PM
Categories: 1900s, Euripides, Writing, Doolittle (Hilda), American
Tags: H.D. Hilda Doolittle Imagiste Imagist American Poetry American Literature
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