FEDALMA. ZARCA. No, no-I will not say it-I will go! This deed and I have ripened with the hours: It is a part of me-a wakened thought And grows into a doom. O mother life, ΦΕΙΔΑΛΜΗ. ΞΑΡΚΗΣ. Φ. μὴ δήτ'· ἐρῶ τόδ ̓ οὔποτ'· ἀλλ ̓ ἅμ ̓ ἕψομαι. πάτερ, δέδοκται· μηδ ̓ ἴση ζῴην θεοῖς φρίσσουσα κωκυτοῖσιν ἐκτόπου δύης. ἐμοὶ γὰρ ἔργον συντρόφως τόδ ̓ ἤκμασεν ὡς συμπεφυκός· οὗ μέλημ ̓ ἐγρηγορὸς γίγας τις ὡς πάνταρχον αἴρεται φρενών, δίκην ἀνάγκης βρίθον· ὦ ζωῆς γάνος μητρῷον, ὦ δόξασά μ' ηπίως τρέφειν, κάν γαστρί μ' οὖσαν πῦρ ἄρ ̓ ὧρισας περᾶν, ψυχῆς δ ̓ ἀπαρτῶσ ̓ ἐλπίδας πολλῶν μιᾶς τελεῖν κατηγγύησας· ὥσπερ οὖν τελῶ. σθένος γὰρ εἰ μοι δοῦσ ̓ ἵν ̓ ἐγχέαιμι πᾶν Into this anguish. I can never shrink Back into bliss-my heart has grown too big O Father, will the women of our tribe Suffer as I do in the years to come When you have made them great in Africa? A conscious woe? Then-is it worth the pains? To raise a funeral pile and perish all? So closing up a myriad avenues To misery yet unwrought? My soul is faint— Will these sharp pains buy any certain good? Zarca. Nay, never falter: no great deed is done By falterers who wish for certainty. No good is certain, but the steadfast mind, The undivided will to seek the good: The greatest gift the hero leaves his race, Is to have been a hero. GEORGE ELIOT. εἰς τήνδ ̓ ἀνίαν· οὐδ ̓ ἂν εἰς στενὴν χαρὰν ἔρωτι τοῦ μελλοντος· ἔψομαι, πάτερ. ἢ χατέραις, γεννῆτορ, ἐμφύλων μένει ἐμοῖς ἴσ ̓ ἀντλεῖν καὶ μεταὖθις ἄλγεσιν, λύπας πάρεσται; κατα δρᾶν προύργου τάδε; μήπω φανέντων; φεῦ· φρέν ̓ ὡς βαρύνομαι μῶν κέρδος ὠδὶς ἐμπολᾷ πικρὰ σαφές; Ξ. μή νυν ὀκνήσῃς μηδέν· ὡς ὅσοι σαφῆ ποθοῦντες ὀκνοῦσ ̓ οὐδὲν αἴρονται μέγα. σαφὲς γὰρ ἀγαθὸν φρὴν ἀκίνητος μόνον, σπουδή τ' ἀκραιφνὴς τἀγάθ' ἐξιχνοσκοπεῖν. λείπει δ ̓ ὁ δράσας λαμπρὰ τοῖς ἐμφυλίοις τοῦτ ̓ αὐτὸ λῷστον, λαμπρὰ καὶ δεδρακέναι. Dost thou look back? DOST thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely-gifted man, Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green; Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance, And grapples with his evil star: Who makes by force his merit known, And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state's decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne: |