Iphigenia

Had I, my father, the persuasive voice Of Orpheus, and his skill to charm the rocks To follow me, and soothe whome'er I please With winning words, I would make trial of it; But I have nothing to present thee now Save tears, my only eloquence; and those I can present thee. On thy knees I hang, A suppliant wreath, this body, which she bore To thee. Ah! kill me not in youth's fresh prime. Sweet is the light of heaven; compel me not What is beneath to view. I was the first To call thee father, me thou first didst call Thy child; I was the first that on thy knees Fondly caressed thee, and from thee received The fond caress; this was thy speech to me: "Shall I, my child, e'er see thee in some house Of splendour, happy in thy husband, live, And flourish, as becomes my dignity?" My speech to thee was, leaning 'gainst thy cheek, Which with my hand I now caress: "And what Shall I then do for thee? Shall I receive My father when grown old, and in my house Cheer him with each fond office, to repay The careful nurture which he gave my youth?" These words are on my memory deep impressed; Thou hast forgot them, and wilt kill thy child. By Pelops I entreat thee, by thy sire Atreus, by this my mother, who before Suffered for me the pangs of childbirth, now These pangs again to suffer, do not kill me. If Paris be enamoured of his bride, His Helen, what concerns it me? and how Comes he to my destruction? Look upon me, Give me a smile, give me a kiss, my father, That, if my words persuade thee not, in death I may have this memorial of thy love. My brother, small assistance canst thou give Thy friends, yet for thy sister with thy tears Implore thy father that she may not die: E'en infants have a sense of ills: and see, My father, silent though he be, he sues To thee: be gentle to me, on my life Have pity. Thy two children by this beard Entreat thee, thy dear children: one is yet An infant, one to riper years arrived. I will sum all in this, which shall contain More than long speech: To view the light of life To mortals is most sweet, but all beneath Is nothing: of his senses is he reft Who hath a wish to die; for life, though ill, Excels whate'er there is of good in death.