Aeschylus, Suppliants 1–175: Parodos: the Danaids arrive at Argos

May Zeus who guards suppliants look graciously upon our company, which boarded a ship and put to sea from the outlets of the fine sand of the Nile. For we have fled Zeus’ land whose pastures border Syria, and are fugitives, not because of some public decree pronounced against blood crime, but because of our own act to escape the suit of man, since we abhor as impious all marriage with the sons of Aegyptus. It was Danaus, our father, adviser and leader, who, considering well our course, decided, as the best of all possible evils, that we flee with all speed over the waves of the sea and find a haven on Argos’ shore. For from there descends our race, sprung from the caress and breath of Zeus on the gnat-tormented heifer. To what kinder land than this could we come with these wool-wreathed branches in our hands, sole weapons of the suppliant? O realm, O land, and clear water; gods on high and earth-bound powers, grievous in your vengeance, which inhabit the tomb; and you, Zeus the Savior, invoked third, the guardian of the habitations of righteous men: receive as suppliants this band of women with the compassionate spirit of the land. But the thronging swarm of violent men born of Aegyptus, should they set foot upon this marshy land, drive them seaward—and with them their swift ship—and there may they encounter a cruel sea with thunder, lightning, and rain-charged winds, and perish by the tempest’s buffeting blasts, if they ever lay their hands on us, their cousins, and mount unwilling beds from which Right holds them aloof.

And now I invoke, as our champion from beyond the sea, the calf born of Zeus, the offspring of the flower-grazing cow, our ancestress, the caress of Zeus’ breath. The appointed period confirmed itself in a name suited to the event—Epaphus, to whom she gave birth.

To him I cry for help. And now in the region wherein our first mother pastured, by recounting the story of her distress of long ago, I shall now set forth reliable proofs to the inhabitants of the land; and other evidence, though unexpected, will yet appear. Men will come to know the truth as my tale proceeds.

Now if by chance there be some neighbor in the land who knows the song of birds, when our complaint greets his ear, he will fancy that he hears the voice of Metis, Tereus’ piteous wife, the hawk-chased nightingale.

For she, constrained to leave her green leaves, laments pitifully her accustomed haunts, and composes the tale of her own child’s doom—how he perished, destroyed by her own hand, victim of the wrath of an unnatural mother.

Even so I, indulging my grief in Ionian strains, pain my tender face summered by Nile’s sun and my heart unexercised in tears; and I gather the flowers of grief, anxious whether there is any friendly kinsman here to champion our band which has fled from the haze-shrouded land.

But, gods of our race, hear, and regard with favor the cause of righteousness; if you refuse youth fulfillment of its arrogant desires, and readily abhor violence, you would be righteous toward marriage. Even for those who flee hard-pressed from war there is an altar, a shelter against harm through respect for the powers of heaven.

But may Zeus grant that it go well with us. For Zeus’ desire is hard to trace: it shines everywhere, even in gloom, together with fortune obscure to mortal men.

Safely it falls, and not upon its back, whatever deed comes to pass at Zeus’ nod; for the pathways of his understanding stretch dark and tangled, beyond comprehension.

From their high-towering hopes he hurls mankind to utter destruction; yet he does not marshal any armed violence— all that is wrought by the powers divine is free from toil. Seated on his holy throne, unmoved, in mysterious ways he accomplishes his will.

So let him look upon human outrageousness —in what way it shoots up men in their wooing of us, sprouted from thoughts of evil intent, having a frenzied purpose as its irresistible spur, and deluded, turning its thoughts to folly.

Such piteous strains of woe I utter in my pain, now shrill, now deep, blended with falling tears—Alas, alas! groans appropriate to funeral wails; though I live, I chant my own dirge.

I invoke Apia’s hilly land—for well, O land, you understand my barbarous speech—, and many times I lay my hands upon my Sidonian veil and tear its linen fabric to shreds.

Sacrifices in satisfaction of vows are given freely to the gods when all fares well, if only there be escape from death. Alas, alas, perplexing troubles! Where will this wave of trouble bear me away?

I invoke Apia’s hilly land—for well, O land, you understand my barbarous speech—, and many times I lay my hands upon my Sidonian veil and tear its linen fabric to shreds.

Our oars, indeed, and our timbered ship, bound with yellow rope to withstand the sea, sped me on by help of favoring winds, unharmed by all tempests; nor have I reason for complaint. But may the all-seeing Father establish a kindly issue in due time—

That the mighty race of our honorable mother escape the embrace of man (ah me), unwedded, unvanquished.

And may Zeus’ pure daughter, she who holds securely the sacred wall, willingly, meeting my will, look upon me; and, grieved at our pursuit, come with all her might, a virgin to a virgin’s aid, to deliver me—

That the mighty race of our honorable mother may escape the embrace of man (ah me), unwedded, unvanquished.

Yet, if she will not, we, a dark, sun-burned race, with suppliant boughs will invoke the underworld Zeus, Zeus the great host of the dead; for if the gods of Olympus hear us not, we will hang ourselves.

Ah Zeus! On account of the poisonous hate of Io vengeance from the gods pursues us. I know your consort’s sky-conquering spite; for a stormy sea follows a harsh wind.

And Zeus shall then be liable to the charge of injustice that he hates the child of the heifer, the child whom he himself begat long ago, his very own, and now he holds his face averted from our prayers. May he from above hear our call!