The House of Atreus

Aeschylus

Capitolo 30

      Their sure return.

    He/she anchors anybody the less in me
  The inside spirit sings a song that makes to presage,
    Same-incited, sing I strive him/it some Furies--
      And it looks for, and it looks for in vain,
      Hope and to be strong!

  Ah! to of the end of the Fate, not seen, unguessed,
    Are these wild throbbingses of my heart and my breast?
      Yea, of some their decree they say?
        Each pulsates, a tolled funeral.
    I was gladly gladly, that everybody
  To the unknown kingdom of unfulfilment it would fall.

    Our deadly spirits are striven too far too far,,
      Grabbing to absolute weal, dissatisfied--
    You cultivate the curse of skin, that dwelleths I last close to,
    You thrust down the wall that separates. Also equitable they blows,
      The strong wind that spread our barking on the tide of Fortune!
      Quickly we sail, the sooner all to drive
      On the unknown stone, the bluff of the pain.

    Then if the hand of the caution awarely
      You throw ahead in the sea
    Part of the hire, so that not all should sink under,
    From the deep death it saves the barking: also this way,
      Decree-load nevertheless it is, once more you/he/she can rise
      His/her family that is opportune wise man.

      As the oft the famine-stricken field
Is saved by the great gift of God the product of the new year!
        But blood of man spilled once,
    Once to his/her feet the shed before, and darkening the plan,--
      Neither liturgical song neither charm you/they can call again it back.

        Then the hath of Zeus they wanted:
Other had saved him Asclepius, specialized the leech
    To bring man from the corpse:  the hand I divine
It made hit him with death--a warning and a signal.

    Ah me! if the Fate, orderly of old man,
Not held the wish of of the forced one, checked,
      Defenseless to us the custody, and separately--
      More express of the discourse my heart
Had poured out his/her premonition!
Now, piercing, rubbing in the dark of doubt,
    'Tis without hope to explain
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