Helen

To what ills Have I been subject, O my dear companions! Did not my mother, as a prodigy Which wondering mortals gaze at, bring me forth? For neither Grecian nor barbaric dame Till then produced an egg, in which her children Enveloped lay, as they report, from Jove Leda engendered. My whole life and all That hath befallen me, but conspires to form One series of miraculous events; To Juno some, and to my beauty some Are owing. Would to Heaven, that, like a tablet Whose picture is effaced, I could exchange This form for one less comely, since the Greeks Forgetting those abundant gifts showered down By prosperous Fortune which I now possess, Think but of what redounds not to my honour, And still remember my ideal shame. Whoever therefore, with one single species Of misery is afflicted by the gods, Although the weight of Heaven's chastising hand Be grievous, may with fortitude endure Such visitation: but by many woes Am I oppressed, and first of all exposed To slanderous tongues, although I ne'er have erred. It were a lesser evil e'en to sin Than be suspected falsely. Then the gods, 'Midst men of barbarous manners, placed me far From my loved country: torn from every friend, I languish here, to servitude consigned Although of free born race: for 'midst barbarians Are all enslaved but one, their haughty lord. My fortunes had this single anchor left, Perchance my husband might at length arrive To snatch me from my woes; but he, alas! Is now no more, my mother too is dead, And I am deemed her murd'ress, though unjustly, Yet am I branded with this foul reproach; And she who was the glory of our house, My daughter in the virgin state grown grey, Still droops unwedded: my illustrious brothers, Castor and Pollux, called the sons of Jove, Are now no more. But I impute my death, Crushed as I am by all these various woes, Not to my own misdeeds, but to the power Of adverse fortune only: this one danger There yet remains, if at my native land I should again arrive, they will confine me In a close dungeon, thinking me that Helen Who dwelt in Ilion, till she thence was borne By Menelaus. Were my husband living, We might have known each other, by producing Those tokens to which none beside are privy: But this will never be, nor can he e'er Return in safety. To what purpose then Do I still lengthen out this wretched being? To what new fortunes am I still reserved? Shall I select a husband, but to vary My present ills, to dwell beneath the roof Of a barbarian, at luxurious boards With wealth abounding, seated? for the dame Whom wedlock couples with the man she hates Death is the best expedient. But with glory How shall I die? the fatal noose appears To be so base, that e'en in slaves 'tis held Unseemly thus to perish; in the poniard There's somewhat great and generous. But to me Delays are useless: welcome instant death: Into such depth of misery am I plunged. For beauty renders other women blest, But hath to me the source of ruin proved. Credits: Reprinted from The Plays of Euripides in English, vol. i. Trans. Shelley Dean Milman. London: J.M. Dent & Sons, 1920.

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