Ion: And hast thou yet a fear,
Holding me, not to hold me?
Creusa: Such fond hopes
Long time have I renounced. Thou hallow'd matron,
From whom didst thou receive my infant child?
What bless'd hand brought him to Apollo's shrine?
Ion: It was the god's appointment: may our life
To come be happy, as the past was wretched.
Creusa: Not without tears, my son, wast thou brought forth;
Nor without anguish did my hands resign thee.
Now breathing on thy cheek I feel a joy
Transporting me with heartfelt ecstasies.
Ion: The words expressive of thy joys speak mine.
Creusa: Childless no more, no more alone, my house
Now shines with festive joy; my realms now own
A lord; Erechtheus blooms again; no more
His high-traced lineage sees night darkening round,
But glories in the sun's refulgent beams.
Studies
