The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01 · Chapter 32Iphigenia
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'Tis heard By every one, born 'neath whatever clime, Within whose bosom flows the stream of life, Pure and unhinder'd.—What thy thought? O king, What silent purpose broods in thy deep soul? Is it destruction? Let me perish first! For now, deliv'rance hopeless, I perceive The dreadful peril into which I have With rash precipitancy plung'd my friends. Alas! I soon shall see them bound before me! How to my brother shall I say farewell? I, the unhappy author of his death. Ne'er can I gaze again in his dear eyes!
The traitors have contrived a cunning web, And cast it round thee, who, secluded long, Giv'st willing credence to thine own desires.
No, no! I'd pledge my life these men are true. And shouldst thou find them otherwise, O king, Then let them perish both, and cast me forth, That on some rock-girt island's dreary shore I may atone my folly. Are they true, And is this man indeed my dear Orestes, My brother, long implor'd,—release us both, And o'er us stretch the kind protecting arm Which long hath shelter'd me. My noble sire Fell through his consort's guilt,—she by her son; On him alone the hope of Atreus' race Doth now repose. Oh, with pure heart, pure hand, Let me depart to purify our house. Yes, thou wilt keep thy promise; thou didst swear, That were a safe return provided me, I should be free to go. The hour is come. A king doth never grant like common men, Merely to gain a respite from petition; Nor promise what he hopes will ne'er be claim'd. Then first he feels his dignity supreme When he can make the long-expecting happy.
As fire opposes water, and doth seek With hissing rage to overcome its foe, So doth my anger strive against thy words.
Let mercy, like the consecrated flame Of silent sacrifice, encircled round With songs of gratitude, and joy, and praise, Above the tumult gently rise to heaven.
How often hath this voice assuag'd my soul!
Extend thy hand to me in sign of peace.
Large thy demand within so short a time.
Beneficence doth no reflection need.
'Tis needed oft, for evil springs from good.
'Tis doubt which good doth oft to evil turn. Consider not; act as thy feelings prompt thee.