Ion

Euripides

Euripides. The Plays of Euripides, Translated into English Prose from the Text of Paley. Vol. I. Coleridge, Edward P., translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1906.

  1. crying Who was it strove to slay me? Proclaim it, old sirrah, for thine was the officious zeal and thine the hand from which I took the cup. With that he caught the grey-beard by the arm and set to searching him that he might take the old man red-handed in the act.
  2. So was he detected, and under strong constraint declared Creusa’s daring deed and all the trick of the poisoned draught. Forth rushed the young man, whom the oracle of Loxias to his sire assigned, taking with him the banqueters, and standing mid the Delphic nobles made harangue,
  3. O! hallowed soil, a stranger woman, daughter of Erechtheus, seeks to poison me. And the lords of Delphi decreed by general vote that my mistress should be hurled from the rock to die, because she strove to slay the priest and compass his death in the temple.
  4. So now is the whole city seeking her, who hath to her sorrow sped a hapless journey; for, coming to crave the boon of offspring from Phoebus, she hath lost her life and children too.
Chorus
  1. Ah me! I see no way at all to turn death’s
  2. hand aside; all, all, ere this, is brought to light owing to that fatal draught of the wine-god’s juice mixed for death with drops of viper’s gore, quick to slay;
  3. detected is our offering to the dead; for me my life must end in woe, while death by stoning waits my mistress. How can I escape? Shall I take wings and fly away, or creep beneath the darksome caverns of the earth,
  4. striving to shun the doom of death by stoning? or shall I mount the car drawn by swiftest steeds, or embark upon a ship?
Chorus
  1. No man may hide his guilt, save when some
  2. god of his own will steals him away. Ah! my
    poor mistress! what suffering now awaits thy soul? Must then our wish to work another harm end in our own discomfiture, as justice doth decree?
Creusa
  1. My trusty maids, the men of death are on my track; the vote of Delphi goes against me; they give me up to die.
Chorus
  1. Unhappy one! we know thy sad mischance, how thou art placed.
Creusa
  1. Oh! whither can I fly? for scarce had I the start of my pursuers from the house in my race for life; ’tis by stealth alone that I have thus far escaped my foes.
Chorus
  1. Where shouldst thou fly except to the altar?
Creusa
  1. What good is that to me?
Chorus
  1. To slay a suppliant is forbidden.
Creusa
  1. Aye, but the law has given me over to death.
Chorus
  1. Only if thou fall into their hands.
Creusa
  1. Look! here they come, cruel champions of vengeance, eagerly brandishing their swords.
Chorus
  1. Sit thee down upon the altar of burnt-offering! for if thou art slain there, thou wilt fix