Æschylos Tragedies and Fragments

AGAMEMNON

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Watchman

Clytæmnestra

Agamemnon

Chorus of Argive Elders

Herald (Talthybios)

Cassandra

Ægisthos

ARGUMENT. – Ten years had passed since Agamemnon, son of Atreus, king of Mykenæ, had led the Hellenes to Troïa to take vengeance on Alexandros (also known as Paris), son of Priam. For Paris had basely wronged Menelaos, king of Sparta, Agamemnon's brother, in that, being received by him as a guest, he enticed his wife Helena to leave her lord and go with him to Troïa. And now the tenth year had come, and Paris was slain, and the city of the Troïans was taken and destroyed, and Agamemnon and the Hellenes were on their way homeward with the spoil and prisoners they had taken. But meanwhile Clytæmnestra too, Agamemnon's queen, had been unfaithful, and had taken as her paramour Ægisthos, son of that Thyestes whom Atreus, his brother, had made to eat, unknowing, of the flesh of his own children. And now, partly led by her adulterer, and partly seeking to avenge the death of her daughter Iphigeneia, whom Agamemnon had sacrificed to appease the wrath of Artemis, and partly also jealous because he was bringing back Cassandra, the daughter of Priam, as his concubine, she plotted with Ægisthos against her husband's life. But this was done secretly, and she stationed a guard on the roof of the royal palace to give notice when he saw the beacon-fires, by which Agamemnon had promised that he would send tidings that Troïa was taken.

Note.– The unfaithfulness of Clytæmnestra and the murder of Agamemnon had entered into the Homeric cycle of the legends of the house of Atreus. In the Odyssey, however, Ægisthos is the chief agent in this crime (Odyss. iii. 264, iv. 91, 532, xi. 409); and the manner of it differs from that which Æschylos has adopted. Clytæmnestra first appears as slaying both her husband and Cassandra in Pindar (Pyth. xi. 26).

Scene. – Argos. The Palace of Agamemnon; statues of the Godsin front. Watchman on the roof. Time, nightWatchman. I ask the Gods a respite from these toils,This keeping at my post the whole year round,Wherein, upon the Atreidæ's roof reclined,Like dog, upon my elbow, I have learntTo know night's goodly company of stars,And those bright lords that deck the firmament,And winter bring to men, and harvest-tide;[The rising and the setting of the stars.]And now I watch for sign of beacon-torch,The flash of fire that bringeth news from Troïa,And tidings of its capture. So prevailsA woman's manly-purposed, hoping heart;And when I keep my bed of little ease,Drenched with the dew, unvisited by dreams,(For fear, instead of sleep, my comrade is,So that in sound sleep ne'er I close mine eyes,)And when I think to sing a tune, or hum,(My medicine of song to ward off sleep,)Then weep I, wailing for this house's chance,No more, as erst, right well administered.Well! may I now find blest release from toils,When fire from out the dark brings tidings good.[Pauses, then springs up suddenly, seeing alight in the distanceHail! thou torch-bearer of the night, that shedd'stLight as of morn, and bringest full arrayOf many choral bands in Argos met,Because of this success. Hurrah! hurrah!So clearly tell I Agamemnon's queen,With all speed rising from her couch to raiseShrill cry of triumph o'er this beacon-fireThroughout the house, since Ilion's citadelIs taken, as full well that bright blaze shows.I, for my part, will dance my prelude now;[Leaps and dancesFor I shall score my lord's new turn of luck,This beacon-blaze may throw of triple six.271Well, would that I with this mine hand may touchThe dear hand of our king when he comes home!As to all else, the word is “Hush!” An ox272Rests on my tongue; had the house a voice'Twould tell too clear a tale. I'm fain to speakTo those who know, forget with those who know not.[ExitEnter Chorus of twelve Argive elders, chanting as they march to take up their position in the centre of the stage. A procession of women bearing torches is seen in the distanceLo! the tenth year now is passingSince, of Priam great avengers,Menelaos, Agamemnon,Double-throned and doubled-sceptred,Power from sovran Zeus deriving —Mighty pair of the Atreidæ —Raised a fleet of thousand vesselsOf the Argives from our country,Potent helpers in their warfare,Shouting cry of Ares fiercely;E'en as vultures shriek who hover,Wheeling, whirling o'er their eyrie,In wild sorrow for their nestlings,With their oars of stout wings rowing,Having lost the toil that bound themTo their callow fledglings' couches.But on high One, – or Apollo,Zeus, or Pan, – the shrill cry hearing,Cry of birds that are his clients,273Sendeth forth on men transgressing,Erinnys, slow but sure avenger;So against young Alexandros274Atreus' sons the great King sendeth,Zeus, of host and guest protector:He, for bride with many a lover,Will to Danai give and TroïansMany conflicts, men's limbs straining,When the knee in dust is crouching,And the spear-shaft in the onsetOf the battle snaps asunder.But as things are now, so are they,So, as destined, shall the end be.Nor by tears, nor yet libationsShall he soothe the wrath unbendingCaused by sacred rites left fireless.275We, with old frame little honoured,Left behind that host are staying,Resting strength that equals childhood'sOn our staff: for in the bosomOf the boy, life's young sap rushing,Is of old age but the equal;Ares not as yet is found there:And the man in age exceeding,When the leaf is sere and withered,Goes with three feet on his journey;276Not more Ares-like than boyhood,Like a day-seen dream he wanders.[Enter Clytæmnestra, followed by the processionof torch-bearersThou, of Tyndareus the daughter,Queen of Argos, Clytæmnestra,What has happened? what news cometh?What perceiving, on what tidingsLeaning, dost thou put in motionAll this solemn, great procession?Of the Gods who guard the city,Those above and those beneath us,Of the heaven, and of the market,Lo! with thy gifts blaze the altars;And through all the expanse of Heaven,Here and there, the torch-fire rises,With the flowing, pure persuasionOf the holy unguent nourished,And the chrism rich and kinglyFrom the treasure-store's recesses.Telling what of this thou canst tell,What is right for thee to utter,Be a healer of my trouble,Trouble now my soul disturbing,While anon fond hope displayingSacrificial signs propitious,Wards off care that no rest knoweth,Sorrow mind and heart corroding.[The Chorus, taking their places round the central thymele, begin their song 277 StropheAble am I to utter, setting forthThe might from omens sprungWhat met the heroes as they journeyed on,(For still, by God's great gift,My age, yet linked with strength,Breathes suasive power of song,)How the Achæans' twin-throned majesty,Accordant rulers of the youth of Hellas,With spear and vengeful hand,Were sent by fierce, strong bird 'gainst Teucrian shore,Kings of the birds to kings of ships appearing,One black, with white tail one,Near to the palace, on the spear-hand side,On station seen of all,A pregnant hare devouring with her young,Robbed of all runs to come:Wail as for Linos, wail, wail bitterly,And yet may good prevail!278AntistropheAnd the wise prophet of the army seeingThe brave Atreidæ twainOf diverse mood, knew those that tore the hare,And those that led the host;And thus divining spake:“One day this armamentShall Priam's city sack, and all the herdsOwned by the people, countless, by the towers,Fate shall with force lay low.Only take heed lest any wrath of GodsBlunt the great curb of Troïa yet encamped,Struck down before its time;For Artemis the chaste that house doth hate,Her father's wingèd hounds,Who slay the mother with her unborn young,And loathes the eagles' feast.Wail as for Linos, wail, wail bitterly;And yet may good prevail!Epode“*For she, the fair One, though so kind of heartTo fresh-dropt dew from mighty lion's womb,279And young that suck the teatsOf all that roam the fields,Yet prays Him bring to passThe portents of those birds,The omens good yet also full of dread.And Pæan I invokeAs Healer, lest she on the Danai sendDelays that keep the shipsLong time with hostile blasts,So urging on a new, strange sacrifice,Unblest, unfestivalled,280By natural growth artificer of strife,Bearing far other fruit than wife's true fear,For there abideth yet,Fearful, recurring still,Ruling the house, full subtle, unforgetting,Vengeance for children slain.”281Such things, with great good mingled, Calchas spake,In voice that pierced the air,As destined by the birds that crossed our pathTo this our kingly house:And in accord with them,Wail as for Linos, wail, wail bitterly;And yet may good prevail.Strophe IO Zeus – whate'er He be,282If that Name please Him well,By that on Him I call:Weighing all other names I fail to guessAught else but Zeus, if I would cast aside,Clearly, in every deed,From off my soul this idle weight of care.Antistrophe INor He who erst was great,283Full of the might to war,Avails now; He is gone;And He who next came hath departed too,His victor meeting; but if one to Zeus,High triumph-praise should sing,His shall be all the wisdom of the wise;Strophe IIYea, Zeus, who leadeth men in wisdom's way,And fixeth fast the law,That pain is gain;And slowly dropping on the heart in sleepComes woe-recording care,And makes the unwilling yield to wiser thoughts:And doubtless this too comes from grace of Gods,Seated in might upon their awful thrones.Antistrophe IIAnd then of those Achæan ships the chief,284The elder, blaming notOr seer or priest;But tempered to the fate that on him smote…When that Achæan hostWere vexed with adverse winds and failing stores,Still kept where Chalkis in the distance lies,And the vexed waves in Aulis ebb and flow;Strophe IIIAnd breezes from the Strymon sweeping down,Breeding delays and hunger, driving forthOur men in wandering course,On seas without a port.Sparing nor ships, nor rope, nor sailing gear,With doubled months wore down the Argive host;And when, for that wild storm,Of one more charm far harder for our chiefsThe prophet told, and spake of Artemis,285In tone so piercing shrill,The Atreidæ smote their staves upon the ground,And could not stay their tears.Antistrophe IIIAnd then the old king lifted up his voice,And spake, “Great woe it is to disobey;Great too to slay my child,The pride and joy of home,Polluting with the streams of maiden's bloodHer father's hands upon the altar steps.What course is free from ill?How lose my ships and fail of mine allies?'Tis meet that they with strong desire should seekA rite the winds to soothe,E'en though it be with blood of maiden pure;May all end well at last!”Strophe IIISo when he himself had harnessedTo the yoke of Fate unbending,With a blast of strange, new feeling,Sweeping o'er his heart and spirit,Aweless, godless, and unholy,He his thoughts and purpose alteredTo full measure of all daring,(Still base counsel's fatal frenzy,Wretched primal source of evils,Gives to mortal hearts strange boldness,)And at last his heart he hardenedHis own child to slay as victim,Help in war that they were waging,To avenge a woman's frailty,Victim for the good ship's safety.Antistrophe IIIAll her prayers and eager callings,On the tender name of Father,All her young and maiden freshness,They but set at nought, those rulers,In their passion for the battle.And her father gave commandmentTo the servants of the Goddess,When the prayer was o'er, to lift her,Like a kid, above the altar,In her garments wrapt, face downwards, —286Yea, to seize with all their courage,And that o'er her lips of beautyShould be set a watch to hinderWords of curse against the houses,With the gag's strength silence-working.287Strophe IVAnd she upon the groundPouring rich folds of veil in saffron dyed,Cast at each one of those who sacrificedA piteous glance that pierced,Fair as a pictured form;288And wishing, – all in vain, —To speak; for oftentimesIn those her father's hospitable hallsShe sang, a maiden pure with chastest song,And her dear father's lifeThat poured its threefold cup of praise to God,289Crowned with all choicest good,She with a daughter's loveWas wont to celebrate.Antistrophe IVWhat then ensued mine eyesSaw not, nor may I tell, but Calchas' artsWere found not fruitless. Justice turns the scaleFor those to whom through painAt last comes wisdom's gain.But for our future fate,Since help for it is none,Good-bye to it before it comes, and thisHas the same end as wailing premature;For with to-morrow's dawnIt will come clear; may good luck crown our fate!So prays the one true guard,Nearest and dearest found,Of this our Apian land.290[The Chief of the Chorus turns to Clytæmnestra, andher train of handmaids, who are seenapproachingChor. I come, O Clytæmnestra, honouringThy majesty: 'tis meet to pay respectTo a chief's wife, the man's throne empty left:But whether thou hast heard good news, or elseIn hopes of tidings glad dost sacrifice,I fain would hear, yet will not silence blame.Clytæm. May Morning, as the proverb runs, appearBearing glad tidings from his mother Night!291Joy thou shalt learn beyond thy hope to hear;For Argives now have taken Priam's city.Chor. What? Thy words sound so strange they flit by me.Clytæm. The Achæans hold Troïa. Speak I clear enough?Chor. Joy creeps upon me, drawing forth my tears.Clytæm. Of loyal heart thine eyes give token true.Chor. What witness sure hast thou of these events?Clytæm. Full clear (how else?) unless the God deceive.292Chor. Reliest thou on dreams or visions seen?Clytæm. I place no trust in mind weighed down with sleep.293Chor. Hath then some wingless omen charmed thy soul?294Clytæm. My mind thou scorn'st, as though 'twere but a girl's.Chor. What time has passed since they the city sacked?Clytæm. This very night, the mother of this morn.Chor. What herald could arrive with speed like this?Clytæm. Hephæstos flashing forth bright flames from Ida:Beacon to beacon from that courier-fireSent on its tidings; Ida to the rock295Hermæan named, in Lemnos: from the isleThe height of Athos, dear to Zeus, receivedA third great torch of flame, and lifted up,So as on high to skim the broad sea's back,The stalwart fire rejoicing went its way;The pine-wood, like a sun, sent forth its lightOf golden radiance to Makistos' watch;And he, with no delay, nor unawaresConquered by sleep, performed his courier's part:Far off the torch-light, to Eurîpos' straitsAdvancing, tells it to Messapion's guards:They, in their turn, lit up and passed it on,Kindling a pile of dry and aged heath.Still strong and fresh the torch, not yet grown dim,Leaping across Asôpos' plain in guiseLike a bright moon, towards Kithæron's rock,Roused the next station of the courier flame.And that far-travelled light the sentries thereRefused not, burning more than all yet named:And then the light swooped o'er Gorgôpis' lake,And passing on to Ægiplanctos' mount,Bade the bright fire's due order tarry not;And they, enkindling boundless store, send onA mighty beard of flame, and then it passedThe headland e'en that looks on Saron's gulf,Still blazing. On it swept, until it cameTo Arachnæan heights, the watch-tower near;Then here on the Atreidæ's roof it swoops,This light, of Ida's fire no doubtful heir.Such is the order of my torch-race games;One from another taking up the course,296But here the winner is both first and last;And this sure proof and token now I tell thee,Seeing that my lord hath sent it me from Troïa.Chor. I to the Gods, O Queen, will pray hereafter,But fain would I hear all thy tale again,E'en as thou tell'st, and satiate my wonder.Clytæm. This very day the Achæans Troïa hold.I trow full diverse cry pervades the town:Pour in the same vase vinegar and oil,And you would call them enemies, not friends;And so from conquerors and from captives nowThe cries of varied fortune one may hear.For these, low-fallen on the carcasesOf husbands and of brothers, children tooBy aged fathers, mourn their dear ones' death,And that with throats that are no longer free.And those the hungry toil of sleepless guard,After the battle, at their breakfast sets;Not billeted in order fixed and clear,But just as each his own chance fortune grasps,They in the captive houses of the TroïansDwell, freed at last from all the night's chill frosts,And dews of heaven, for now, poor wretches, theyWill sleep all night without the sentry's watch;And if they reverence well the guardian GodsOf that new-conquered country, and their shrines,Then they, the captors, will not captured be.Ah! let no evil lust attack the hostConquered by greed, to plunder what they ought not:For yet they need return in safety home,Doubling the goal to run their backward race.297But should the host come sinning 'gainst the Gods,Then would the curse of those that perishèdBe watchful, e'en though no quick ill might fall.Such thoughts are mine, mere woman though I be.May good prevail beyond all doubtful chance!For I have got the blessing of great joy.Chor. Thou, lady, kindly, like a sage, dost speak,And I, on hearing thy sure evidence,Prepare myself to give the Gods due thanks;For they have wrought full meed for all our toil.[Exit Clytæm. with her trainO Zeus our King! O Night beloved,Mighty winner of great glories,Who upon the towers of TroïaCasted'st snare of closest meshes,So that none full-grown or youthfulCould o'erleap the net of bondage,Woe of universal capture; —Zeus, of host and guest protector,Who hath brought these things, I worship;He long since on AlexandrosStretched his bow that so his arrowMight not sweep at random, missing,Or beyond the stars shoot idly.Strophe IYes, one may say, 'tis Zeus whose blow they feel;This one may clearly trace:They fared as He decreed:Yea, one there was who said,“The Gods deign not to care for mortal men298By whom the grace of things inviolableIs trampled under foot.”No fear of God had he:Now is it to the children manifest299Of those who, overbold,Breathed rebel War beyond the bounds of Right,Their houses overfilled with precious storeAbove the golden mean.Ah! let our life be free from all that hurts,So that for one who gainsWisdom in heart and soul,That lot may be enough.Since still there is no bulwark strong in wealthAgainst destruction's doom,For one who in the pride of wantonnessSpurns the great altar of the Right and Just.Antistrophe IHim woeful, subtle Impulse urges on,Resistless in her might,Atè's far-scheming child:All remedy is vain.It is not hidden, but is manifest,That mischief with its horrid gleaming light;And, like to worthless bronze,300By friction tried and tests,It turns to tarnished blackness in its hue:Since, boy-like, he pursuesA bird upon its flight, and so doth bringUpon his city shame intolerable:And no God hears his prayer,But bringeth low the unjust,Who deals with deeds like this.Thus Paris came to the Atreidæ's home,And stole its queen away,And so left brand of shame indelibleUpon the board where host and guest had sat.Strophe IIShe, leaving to her countrymen at homeWild din of spear and shield and ships of war,And bringing, as her dower,To Ilion doom of death,Passed very swiftly through the palace gates,Daring what none should dare;And many a wailing cryThey raised, the minstrel prophets of the house,“Woe for that kingly home!Woe for that kingly home and for its chiefs!Woe for the marriage-bed and traces leftOf wife who loved her lord!”There stands he silent; foully wronged and yetUttering no word of scorn,301In deepest woe perceiving she is gone;And in his yearning loveFor one beyond the sea,A ghost shall seem to queen it o'er the house;The grace of sculptured forms302Is loathèd by her lord,And in the penury of life's bright eyesAll Aphroditè's charmTo utter wreck has gone.Antistrophe IIAnd phantom shades that hover round in dreamsCome full of sorrow, bringing vain delight;For vain it is, when oneSees seeming shows of good,And gliding through his hands the dream is gone,After a moment's space,On wings that follow stillUpon the path where sleep goes to and fro.Such are the woes at homeUpon the altar hearth, and worse than these.But on a wider scale for those who wentFrom Hellas' ancient shore,A sore distress that causeth pain of heartIs seen in every house.Yea, many things there are that touch the quick:For those whom each did sendHe knoweth; but, insteadOf living men, there come to each man's homeFuneral urns alone,And ashes of the dead.Strophe IIIFor Ares, trafficking for golden coinThe lifeless shapes of men,And in the rush of battle holding scales,Sends now from IlionDust from the funeral pyre,A burden sore to loving friends at home,And bitterly bewailed,Filling the brazen urnWith well-smoothed ashes in the place of men;And with high praise they mournThis hero skilled and valiant in the fight,And that who in the battle nobly fell,All for another's wife:And other words some murmur secretly;And jealous discontentAgainst the Atreidæ, champions in the suit,Creeps on all stealthily;And some around the wall,In full and goodly form have sepultureThere upon Ilion's soil,And their foes' land inters its conquerors.Antistrophe IIIAnd so the murmurs of their subjects riseWith sullen discontent,And do the dread work of a people's curse;And now my boding fearAwaits some news of ill,As yet enwrapt in blackness of the night.Not heedless are the GodsOf shedders of much blood,And the dark-robed Erinnyes in due time,By adverse chance of life,Place him who prospers in unrighteousnessIn gloom obscure; and once among the unseen,There is no help for him:Fame in excess is but a perilous thing;For on men's quivering eyesIs hurled by Zeus the blinding thunderbolt.I praise the good successThat rouses not God's wrath;Ne'er be it mine a city to lay waste.303Nor, as a prisoner, seeMy life wear on beneath another's power!EpodeAnd now at bidding of the courier flame,The herald of good news,A rumour swift spreads through the city streets,But who knows clearly whether it be true,Or whether God has mingled lies with it?Who is so childish or so reft of sense,As with his heart a-glowAt that fresh uttered message of the flame,Then to wax sad at changing rumour's sound?It suits the mood that sways a woman's mindTo pour thanksgiving ere the truth is seen:Quickly, with rapid steps, too credulous,The limit which a woman sets to trustAdvances evermore;304And with swift doom of deathA rumour spread by woman perishes.[As the Chorus ends, a Herald is seen approaching, his head wreathed with olive 305 Soon we shall know the sequence of the torchesLight-giving, and of all the beacon-fires,If they be true; or if, as 'twere a dream,This sweet light coming hath beguiled our minds.I see a herald coming from the shore,With olive boughs o'ershadowed, and the dust,306Dry sister-twin of mire,307 announces this,That neither without voice, nor kindling blazeOf wood upon the mountains, he will signalWith smoke from fire, but either he will come,With clear speech bidding us rejoice, or else … [pausesThe word opposed to this I much mislike.Nay, may good issue good beginnings crown!Who for our city utters other prayers,May he himself his soul's great error reap!Herald. Hail, soil of this my Argive fatherland.Now in the light of the tenth year I reach thee,Though many hopes are shattered, gaining one.For never did I think in Argive landTo die, and share the tomb that most I craved.Now hail! thou land; and hail! thou light of day:Zeus our great ruler, and thou Pythian king,No longer darting arrows from thy bow.308Full hostile wast thou by Scamandros' banks,Now be thou Saviour, yea, and Healer found,O king Apollo! and the Gods of war,These I invoke; my patron Hermes too,Dear herald, whom all heralds reverence, —Those heroes, too, that sent us,309– graciouslyTo welcome back the host that war has spared.Hail, O ye royal dwellings, home beloved!Ye solemn thrones, and Gods who face the sun!310If e'er of old, with cheerful glances nowAfter long time receive our king's array.For he is come, in darkness bringing lightTo you and all, our monarch, Agamemnon.Salute him with all grace; for so 'tis meet,Since he hath dug up Troïa with the spadeOf Zeus the Avenger, and the plain laid waste;Fallen their altars and the shrines of Gods;The seed of all the land is rooted out,This yoke of bondage casting over Troïa,Our chief, the elder of the Atreidæ, comes,A man full blest, and worthiest of high honourOf all that are. For neither Paris' self,Nor his accomplice city now can boastTheir deed exceeds its punishment. For he,Found guilty on the charge of rape and theft,311Hath lost his prize and brought his father's house,With lands and all, to waste and utter wreck;And Priam's sons have double forfeit paid.312Chor. Joy, joy, thou herald of the Achæan host!Her. All joy is mine: I shrink from death no more.Chor. Did love for this thy fatherland so try thee?Her. So that mine eyes weep tears for very joy,*Chor. Disease full sweet then this ye suffered from …Her. How so? When taught, I shall thy meaning master.Chor. Ye longed for us who yearned for you in turn.Her. Say'st thou this land its yearning host yearned o'er?Chor. Yea, so that oft I groaned in gloom of heart.Her. Whence came these bodings that an army hates?Chor. Silence I've held long since a charm for ill.Her. How, when your lords were absent, feared ye any?Chor. To use thy words, death now would welcome be.Her. Good is the issue; but in so long timeSome things, one well might say, have prospered well,And some give cause for murmurs. Save the Gods,Who free from sorrow lives out all his life?For should I tell of toils, and how we lodgedFull hardly, seldom putting in to shore,313And then with couch full hard… What gave us notGood cause for mourning? What ill had we notAs daily portion? And what passed on land,That brought yet greater hardship: for our bedsWere under our foes' walls, and meadow mistsFrom heaven and earth still left us wringing wet,A constant mischief to our garments, makingOur hair as shaggy as the beasts'.314 And ifOne spoke of winter frosts that killed the birds,By Ida's snow-storms made intolerable,315Or heat, when Ocean in its noontide couchWindless reclined and slept without a wave…But why lament o'er this? Our toil is past;Past too is theirs who in the warfare fell,So that no care have they to rise again.Why should I count the number of the dead,Or he that lives mourn o'er a past mischance?To change and chance I bid a long Farewell:With us, the remnant of the Argive host,Good fortune wins, no ills as counterpoise.So it is meet to this bright sun we boast,Who travel homeward over land and sea;“The Argive host who now have captured Troïa,These spoils of battle316 to the Gods of HellasHang on their pegs, enduring prize and joy.”317Hearing these things we ought to bless our countryAnd our commanders; and the grace of ZeusThat wrought this shall be honoured. My tale's told.Chor. Thy words o'ercome me, and I say not nay;To learn good keeps youth's freshness with the old.'Tis meet these things should be a special careTo Clytæmnestra and the house, and yetThat they should make me sharer in their joy. Enter ClytæmnestraClytæm. I long ago for gladness raised my cry,When the first fiery courier came by night,Telling of Troïa taken and laid waste:And then one girding at me spake, “Dost think,Trusting in beacons, Troïa is laid waste?This heart elate is just a woman's way.”In words like these they made me out distraught;Yet still I sacrificed, and with a strainShrill as a woman's, they, now here, now there,Throughout the city hymns of blessing raisedIn shrines of Gods, and lulled to gentle sleepThe fragrant flame that on the incense fed.And now why need'st thou lengthen out thy words?I from the king himself the tale shall learn;And that I show all zeal to welcome backMy honoured lord on his return (for whatIs brighter joy for wife to see than this,When God has brought her husband back from war,To open wide her gates?) tell my lord this,“To come with all his speed, the city's idol;”And “may he find a faithful wife at home,Such as he left her, noble watch-dog stillFor him, and hostile to his enemies;And like in all things else, who has not brokenOne seal of his in all this length of time.”318No pleasure have I known, nor scandal illWith any other more than … stains on bronze.319Such is my vaunt, and being full of truth,Not shameful for a noble wife to speak.320 [ExitChor. [to Herald.] She hath thus spoken in thy hearing nowA goodly word for good interpreters.But tell me, herald, tell of Menelaos,If, coming home again in safety heIs with you, the dear strength of this our land.Her. I cannot make report of false good news,So that my friends should long rejoice in it.Chor. Ah! could'st thou good news speak, and also true!These things asunder are not well concealed.Her. The chief has vanished from the Achæan host,He and his ship. I speak no falsehood here.Chor. In sight of all when he from Ilion sailed?Or did a storm's wide evil part him from you?Her. Like skilful archer thou hast hit the mark,And in few words has told of evil long.Chor. And was it of him as alive or deadThe whisper of the other sailors ran?Her. None to that question answer clear can give,Save the Sun-God who feeds the life of earth.Chor. How say'st thou? Did a storm come on our fleet,And do its work through anger of the Gods?Her. It is not meet a day of tidings goodTo mar with evil news. Apart for eachIs special worship. But when courier bringsWith louring face the ills men pray against,And tells a city that its host has fallen,That for the State there is a general wound,That many a man from many a home is driven,As banned by double scourge that Ares loves,Woe doubly-barbed, Death's two-horsed chariot this…When with such griefs as freight a herald comes,'Tis meet to chant the Erinnyes' dolorous song;But for glad messenger of good deeds wroughtThat bring deliverance, coming to a townRejoicing in its triumph, … how shall IBlend good with evil, telling of a stormThat smote the Achæans, not without God's wrath?For they a compact swore who erst were foes,Ocean and Fire, and their pledges gave,Wrecking the ill-starred army of the Argives;And in the night rose ill of raging storm:For Thrakian tempests shattered all the ships,Each on the other. Some thus crashed and bruised,By the storm stricken and the surging foamOf wind-tost waves, soon vanished out of sight,Whirled by an evil pilot. And when roseThe sun's bright orb, behold, the Ægæan seaBlossomed with wrecks of ships and dead Achæans.And as for us and our uninjured ship,Surely 'twas some one stole or begged us off,Some God, not man, presiding at the helm;And on our ship with good will Fortune sat,Giver of safety, so that nor in havenFelt we the breakers, nor on rough rock-beachRan we aground. But when we had escapedThe hell of waters, then in clear, bright day,Not trusting in our fortune, we in thoughtO'er new ills brooded of our host destroyed,And eke most roughly handled. And if stillBreathe any of them they report of usAs having perished. How else should they speak?And we in our turn deem that they are so.God send good ending! Look you, first and chief,For Menelaos' coming; and indeed,If any sunbeam know of him aliveAnd well, by help of Zeus who has not willedAs yet to blot out all the regal race,Some hope there is that he'll come back again.Know, hearing this, that thou the truth hast heard.[Exit HeraldStrophe IChor. Who was it named her with such wondrous truth?(Could it be One unseen,In strange prevision of her destined work,Guiding the tongue through chance?)Who gave that war-wed, strife-upstirring oneThe name of Helen, ominous of ill?321For all too plainly sheHath been to men, and ships,And towers, as doom of Hell.From bower of gorgeous curtains forth she sailedWith breeze of Zephyr Titan-born and strong;322And hosts of many men,Hunters that bore the shield,Went on the track of those who steered their boatUnseen to leafy banks of Simois,On her account who came,Dire cause of strife with bloodshed in her train.Antistrophe IAnd so the wrath which works its vengeance outDear bride to Ilion brought,(Ah, all too truly named!) exacting still323After long lapse of timeThe penalty of foul dishonour doneTo friendship's board and Zeus, of host and guestThe God, from those who paidTheir loud-voiced honour thenUnto that bridal strain,That hymeneal chorus which to chantFell to the lot of all the bridegroom's kin.324But learning other song,Priam's ancient city nowBewaileth sore, and calls on Paris' name,Wedded in fatal wedlock; all the timeEnduring tear-fraught lifeFor all the blood its citizens had lost.Strophe IISo once a lion's cub,A mischief in his house,As foster child one reared,325While still it loved the teats;In life's preluding dawnTame, by the children loved,And fondled by the old,326Oft in his arms 'twas held,Like infant newly born,With eyes that brightened to the hand that stroked,And fawning at the hest of hunger keen.Antistrophe IIBut when full-grown, it showedThe nature of its sires;For it unbidden madeA feast in recompenseOf all their fostering care,By banquet of slain sheep;With blood the house was stained,A curse no slaves could check,Great mischief murderous:By God's decree a priest of Atè thusWas reared, and grew within the man's own house.Strophe IIISo I would tell that thus to Ilion cameMood as of calm when all the air is still,The gentle pride and joy of kingly state,A tender glance of eye,The full-blown blossom of a passionate love,Thrilling the very soul;And yet she turned aside,And wrought a bitter end of marriage feast,Coming to Priam's race,Ill sojourner, ill friend,Sent by great Zeus, the God of host and guest —Erinnys, for whom wives weep many tears.Antistrophe IIIThere lives an old saw, framed in ancient days,327In memories of men, that high estateFull-grown brings forth its young, nor childless dies,But that from good successSprings to the race a woe insatiable.But I, apart from all,Hold this my creed alone:For impious act it is that offspring breeds,Like to their parent stock:For still in every houseThat loves the right their fate for evermoreRejoiceth in an issue fair and good.Strophe IVBut Recklessness of oldIs wont to breed another Recklessness,Sporting its youth in human miseries,Or now, or then, whene'er the fixed hour comes:That in its youth, in turn,Doth full-flushed Lust beget,And that dread demon-power unconquerable,Daring that fears not God, —Two curses black within the homes of men,Like those that gendered them.Antistrophe IVBut Justice shineth brightIn dwellings that are dark and dim with smoke,And honours life law-ruled,While gold-decked homes conjoined with hands defiledShe with averted eyesHath left, and draweth nearTo holier things, nor worships might of wealth,If counterfeit its praise;But still directeth all the course of thingsTowards its destined goal.[Agamemnon is seen approaching in hischariot, followed by another chariot, in which Cassandra is standing, carryingher prophet's wand in her hand, andwearing fillets round her temples, and bya great train of soldiers bearing trophies.As they come on the stage the Chorussings its welcomeCome then, king, thou son of Atreus,Waster of the towers of Troïa,What of greeting and of homageShall I give, nor overshooting,Nor due need of honour missing?Men there are who, right transgressing,Honour semblance more than being.O'er the sufferer all are readyWail of bitter grief to utter,Though the biting pang of sorrowNever to their heart approaches;So with counterfeit rejoicingMen strain faces that are smileless;But when one his own sheep knoweth,Then men's eyes cannot deceive him,When they deem with kindly purpose,And with fondness weak to flatter.Thou, when thou did'st lead thine armyFor Helen's sake – (I will not hide it) —Wast to me as one whose featuresHave been limned by unskilled artist,Guiding ill the helm of reason,Giving men to death's doom sentencedCourage which their will rejected.328Now nor from the spirit's surface,Nor with touch of thought unfriendly,All the toil, I say, is welcome,If men bring it to good issue.And thou soon shalt know, enquiringHim who rightly, him who wronglyOf thy citizens fulfillethTask of office for the city.329Agam. First Argos, and the Gods who guard the land,'Tis right to greet; to them in part I oweThis my return, and vengeance that I tookOn Priam's city. Not on hearsay proofJudging the cause, with one consent the GodsCast in their votes into the urn of bloodFor Ilion's ruin and her people's death;I' the other urn Hope touched the rim alone,Still far from being filled full.330 And even yetThe captured city by its smoke is seen,The incense clouds of Atè live on still;And, in the act of dying with its prey,From richest store the dust sends savours sweet.For these things it is meet to give the GodsThank-offerings long-enduring; for our netsOf vengeance we set close, and for a womanOur Argive monster laid the city low,331Foaled by the mare, a people bearing shield,Taking its leap when set the Pleiades;332And, bounding o'er the tower, that ravenous lionLapped up its fill of blood of kingly race.This prelude to the Gods I lengthen out;And as concerns thy feeling (this I wellRemember hearing) I with thee agree,And thou in me may'st find an advocate.With but few men is it their natural bentTo honour without grudging prosperous friend:For ill-souled envy that the heart besets,Doubles his woe who suffers that disease:He by his own griefs first is overwhelmed,And groans at sight of others' happier lot.And I with good cause say, (for well I know,)They are but friendship's mirror, phantom shade,Who seemed to be my most devoted friends.Odysseus only, who against his will333Sailed with us, still was found true trace-fellow:And this I say of him or dead or living.But as for all that touches on the State,Or on the Gods, in full assembly we,Calling our council, will deliberate:For what goes well we should with care provideHow longest it may last; and where there needsA healing charm, there we with all good-will,By surgery or cautery will tryTo turn away the mischief of disease.And now will I to home and household hearthMove on, and first give thanks unto the GodsWho led me forth, and brought me back again.Since Victory follows, long may she remain! Enter Clytæmnestra, followed by female attendantscarrying purple tapestryClytæm. Ye citizens, ye Argive senators,I will not shrink from telling you the taleOf wife's true love. As time wears on one dropsAll over-shyness. Not learning it from others,I will narrate my own unhappy life,The whole long time my lord at Ilion stayed.For first, that wife should sit at home aloneWithout her husband is a monstrous grief,Hearing full many an ill report of him,Now one and now another coming still,Bringing news home, worse trouble upon bad.Yea, if my lord had met as many woundsAs rumour told of, floating to our house,He had been riddled more than any net;And had he died, as tidings still poured in,Then he, a second Geryon334 with three lives,Had boasted of a threefold coverletOf earth above, (I will not say below him,)335Dying one death for each of those his forms;And so, because of all these ill reports,Full many a noose around my neck have othersLoosed by main force, when I had hung myself.And for this cause no son is with me now,Holding in trust the pledges of our love,As he should be, Orestes. Wonder not;For now a kind ally doth nurture him,Strophios the Phokian, telling me of woesOf twofold aspect, danger on thy sideAt Ilion, and lest loud-voiced anarchyShould overthrow thy council, since 'tis stillThe wont of men to kick at those who fall.No trace of guile bears this excuse of mine;As for myself, the fountains of my tearsHave flowed till they are dry, no drop remains,And mine eyes suffer from o'er-late repose,Watching with tears the beacons set for thee,336Left still unheeded. And in dreams full oftI from my sleep was startled by the gnatWith thin wings buzzing, seeing in the nightIlls that stretched far beyond the time of sleep.337Now, having borne all this, with mind at ease,I hail my lord as watch-dog of the fold,The stay that saves the ship, of lofty roofMain column-prop, a father's only child,Land that beyond all hope the sailor sees,Morn of great brightness following after storm,Clear-flowing fount to thirsty traveller.338Yes, it is pleasant to escape all straits:With words of welcome such as these I greet thee;May jealous Heaven forgive them! for we boreFull many an evil in the past; and now,Dear husband, leave thy car, nor on the ground,O King, set thou the foot that Ilion trampled.Why linger ye, [turning to her attendants,] ye maids, whose task it wasTo strew the pathway with your tapestries?Let the whole road be straightway purple-strown,That Justice lead to home he looked not for.All else my care, by slumber not subdued,Will with God's help work out what fate decrees.339(The handmaids advance, and are about to lay thepurple carpets on the ground)Agam. O child of Leda, guardian of my home,Thy speech hath with my absence well agreed —For long indeed thou mad'st it – but fit praiseIs boon that I must seek at other hands.I pray thee, do not in thy woman's fashionPamper my pride, nor in barbaric guiseProstrate on earth raise full-mouthed cries to me;Make not my path offensive to the GodsBy spreading it with carpets.340 They aloneMay claim that honour; but for mortal menTo walk on fair embroidery, to meSeems nowise without peril. So I bid youTo honour me as man, and not as God.Apart from all foot-mats and tapestryMy fame speaks loudly; and God's greatest giftIs not to err from wisdom. We must blessHim only who ends life in fair estate.341Should I thus act throughout, good hope were mine.Clytæm. Nay, say not this my purposes to thwart.Agam. Know I change not for the worse my purpose.Clytæm. In fear, perchance, thou vowèd'st thus to act.Agam. If any, I, with good ground spoke my will.342Clytæm. What think'st thou Priam, had he wrought such deeds…?Agam. Full gladly he, I trow, had trod on carpets.Clytæm. Then shrink not thou through fear of men's dispraise.Agam. And yet a people's whisper hath great might.343Clytæm. Who is not envied is not enviable.Agam. 'Tis not a woman's part to crave for strife.Clytæm. True, yet the prosperous e'en should sometimes yield.Agam. Dost thou then prize that victory in the strife?Clytæm. Nay, list; with all good-will yield me this boon.Agam. Well, then, if thou wilt have it so, with speedLet some one loose my buskins344 (servants theyDoing the foot's true work), and as I treadUpon these robes sea-purpled, may no wrathFrom glance of Gods smite on me from afar!Great shame I feel to trample with my footThis wealth of carpets, costliest work of looms;So far for this. This stranger [pointing to Cassandra] lead thou inWith kindliness. On him who gently wieldsHis power God's eye looks kindly from afar.None of their own will choose a bondslave's life;And she, the chosen flower of many spoils,Has followed with me as the army's gift.But since I turn, obeying thee in this,I'll to my palace go, on purple treading.Clytæm. There is a sea, – and who shall drain it dry?Producing still new store of purple juice,Precious as silver, staining many a robe.And in our house, with God's help, O my king,'Tis ours to boast our palace knows no stint.Trampling of many robes would I have vowed,Had that been ordered me in oracles,When for my lord's return I then did planMy votive gifts. For while the root lives on,The foliage stretches even to the house,And spreads its shade against the dog-star's rage;So when thou comest to thy hearth and home,Thou show'st that warmth hath come in winter time;And when from unripe clusters Zeus maturesThe wine,345 then is there coolness in the house,If the true master dwelleth in his home.Ah, Zeus! the All-worker, Zeus, work out for meAll that I pray for; let it be thy careTo look to what Thou purposest to work.346[Exeunt Agamemnon, walking on the tapestry,Clytæmnestra, and her attendantsStrophe IChor. Why thus continuallyDo haunting phantoms hover at the gateOf my foreboding heart?Why floats prophetic song, unbought, unbidden?Why doth no steadfast trustSit on my mind's dear throne,To fling it from me as a vision dim?Long time hath passed since stern-ropes of our shipsWere fastened on the sand, when our great hostOf those that sailed in shipsHad come to Ilion's towers:347Antistrophe IAnd now from these mine eyesI learn, myself reporting to myself,Their safe return; and yetMy mind within itself, taught by itself,Chanteth Erinnys' dirge,The lyreless melody,And hath no strength of wonted confidence.Not vain these inner pulses, as my heartWhirls eddying in breast oracular.I, against hope, will prayIt prove false oracle.Strophe IIOf high, o'erflowing healthThere is no bound that stays the wish for more,For evermore disease, as neighbour closeWhom but a wall divides,Upon it presses; and man's prosperous stateMoves on its course, and strikesUpon an unseen rock;But if his fear for safety of his freight,A part, from well-poised sling, shall sacrifice,Then the whole house sinks not,O'erfilled with wretchedness,Nor does he swamp his boat:So, too, abundant giftFrom Zeus in bounteous fulness, and the fruitOf glebe at harvest tideHave caused to cease sore hunger's pestilence;Antistrophe IIBut blood that once hath flowedIn purple stains of death upon the groundAt a man's feet, who then can bid it backBy any charm of song?Else him who knew to call the dead to life348Zeus had not sternly checked,As warning unto all;But unless Fate, firm-fixed, had barred our fateFrom any chance of succour from the Gods,Then had my heart poured forthIts thoughts, outstripping speech.349But now in gloom it wailsSore vexed, with little hopeAt any time hereafter fitting endTo find, unravelling,My soul within me burning with hot thoughts. Re-enter ClytæmnestraClytæm. [to Cassandra, who has remained in thechariot during the choral ode]Thou too – I mean Cassandra – go within;Since Zeus hath made it thine, and not in wrath,To share the lustral waters in our house,Standing with many a slave the altar nighOf Zeus, who guards our goods.350 Now get thee downFrom out this car, nor look so over proud.They say that e'en Alcmena's son endured351Being sold a slave, constrained to bear the yoke:And if the doom of this ill chance should come,Great boon it is to meet with lords who ownAncestral wealth. But whoso reap full cropsThey never dared to hope for, these in all,And beyond measure, to their slaves are harsh:352From us thou hast what usage doth prescribe.Chor. So ends she, speaking words full clear to thee:And seeing thou art in the toils of fate,If thou obey, thou wilt obey; and yet,Perchance, obey thou wilt not.Clytæm. Nay, but unless she, like a swallow, speaksA barbarous tongue unknown, I speaking nowWithin her apprehension, bid obey.Chor. [to Cassandra, still standing motionless] Go with her. What she bids is now the best;Obey her: leave thy seat upon this car.Clytæm. I have no leisure here to stay without:For as regards our central altar, thereThe sheep stand by as victims for the fire;For never had we hoped such thanks to give:If thou wilt do this, make no more delay;But if thou understandest not my words,Then wave thy foreign hand in lieu of speech.[Cassandra shudders as in horror, butmakes no signChor. The stranger seems a clear interpreterTo need. Her look is like a captured deer's.Clytæm. Nay, she is mad, and follows evil thoughts,Since, leaving now her city, newly-captured,She comes, and knows not how to take the curb,Ere she foam out her passion in her blood.I will not bear the shame of uttering more. [ExitChor. And I – I pity her, and will not rage:Come, thou poor sufferer, empty leave thy car;Yield to thy doom, and handsel now the yoke.[Cassandra leaves the chariot, and burstsinto a cry of wailingStrophe ICass. Woe! woe, and well-a-day!Apollo! O Apollo!Chor. Why criest thou so loud on Loxias?The wailing cry of mourner suits not him.Antistrophe ICass. Woe! woe, and well-a-day!Apollo! O Apollo!Chor. Again with boding words she calls the God,Though all unmeet as helper to men's groans.Strophe IICass. Apollo! O Apollo!God of all paths, Apollo true to me;For still thou dost appal me and destroy.353Chor. She seems her own ills like to prophesy:The God's great gift is in the slave's mind yet.Antistrophe IICass. Apollo! O Apollo!God of all paths, Apollo true to me;What path hast led me? To what roof hast brought?Chor. To that of the Atreidæ. This I tell,If thou know'st not. Thou wilt not find it false.Strophe IIICass. Ah! Ah! Ah me!Say rather to a house God hates – that knowsMurder, self-slaughter, ropes,354A human shamble, staining earth with blood.Chor. Keen scented seems this stranger, like a hound,And sniffs to see whose murder she may find.Antistrophe IIICass. Ah! Ah! Ah me!Lo! [looking wildly, and pointing to the house,] there the witnesses whose word I trust, —Those babes who wail their death,The roasted flesh that made a father's meal.Chor. We of a truth had heard thy seeress fame,But prophets now are not the race we seek.355Strophe IVCass. Ah me! O horror! What ill schemes she now?What is this new great woe?Great evil plots she in this very house,Hard for its friends to bear, immedicable;And help stands far aloof.Chor. These oracles of thine surpass my ken;Those I know well. The whole town rings with them.356Antistrophe IVCass. Ah me! O daring one! what work'st thou here,Who having in his bathTended thy spouse, thy lord, then … How tell the rest?For quick it comes, and hand is following hand,Stretched out to strike the blow.Chor. Still I discern not; after words so darkI am perplexed with thy dim oracles.Strophe VCass. Ah, horror, horror! What is this I see?Is it a snare of Hell?Nay, the true net is she who shares his bed,Who shares in working death.Ha! let the Band insatiable in hate357Howl for the race its wild exulting cryO'er sacrifice that callsFor death by storm of stones.Strophe VIChor. What dire Erinnys bidd'st thou o'er our houseTo raise shrill cry? Thy speech but little cheers;And to my heart there rushBlood-drops of saffron hue,358Which, when from deadly woundThey fall, together with life's setting raysEnd, as it fails, their own appointed course:And mischief comes apace.Antistrophe VCass. See, see, I say, from that fell heifer thereKeep thou the bull:359 in robesEntangling him, she with her weapon goresHim with the swarthy horns;360Lo! in that bath with water filled he falls,Smitten to death, and I to thee set forthCrime of a bath of blood,By murderous guile devised.Antistrophe VIChor. I may not boast that I keen insight haveIn words oracular; yet bode I ill.What tidings good are broughtBy any oraclesTo mortal men? These arts,In days of evil sore, with many words,Do still but bring a vague, portentous fearFor men to learn and know.Strophe VIICass. Woe, woe! for all sore ills that fall on me!It is my grief thou speak'st of, blending itWith his.361 [Pausing, and then crying out.]Ah! wherefore thenHast thou362 thus brought me here,Only to die with thee?What other doom is mine?Strophe VIIIChor. Frenzied art thou, and by some God's might swayed,And utterest for thyselfA melody which is no melody,Like to that tawny one,Insatiate in her wail,The nightingale, who still with sorrowing soul,And “Itys, Itys,” cry,363Bemoans a life o'erflourishing in ills.Antistrophe VIICass. Ah, for the doom of clear-voiced nightingale!The Gods gave her a body bearing wings,And life of pleasant daysWith no fresh cause to weep:But for me waiteth stillStroke from the two-edged sword.Antistrophe VIIIChor. From what source hast thou these dread agoniesSent on thee by thy God,Yet vague and little meaning; and thy criesDire with ill-omened shrieksDost utter as a chant,And blendest with them strains of shrillest grief?Whence treadest thou this trackOf evil-boding path of prophecy?Strophe IXCass. Woe for the marriage-ties, the marriage-tiesOf Paris that brought ruin on his friends!Woe for my native stream,Scamandros, that I loved!Once on thy banks my maiden youth was reared,(Ah, miserable me!)Now by Cokytos and by Acheron's shoresI seem too likely soon to utter songOf wild, prophetic speech.Strophe XChor. What hast thou spoken nowWith utterance all too clear?Even a boy its gist might understand;I to the quick am piercedWith throe of deadly pain,Whilst thou thy moaning cries art utteringOver thy sore mischance,Wondrous for me to hear.Antistrophe IXCass. Woe for the toil and trouble, toil and troubleOf city that is utterly destroyed!Woe for the victims slainOf herds that roamed the fields,My father's sacrifice to save his towers!No healing charm they broughtTo save the city from its present doom:And I with hot thoughts wild myself shall castFull soon upon the ground.Antistrophe XChor. This that thou utterest nowWith all before agrees.Some Power above dooms thee with purpose ill,Down-swooping heavily,To utter with thy voiceSorrows of deepest woe, and bringing death.And what the end shall bePerplexes in the extreme.Cass. Nay, now no more from out of maiden veilsMy oracle shall glance, like bride fresh wed;364But seems as though 'twould rush with speedy galesIn full, clear brightness to the morning dawn;So that a greater war than this shall surgeLike wave against the sunlight.365 Now I'll teachNo more in parables. Bear witness ye,As running with me, that I scent the trackOf evil deeds that long ago were wrought:For never are they absent from this house,That choral band which chants in full accord,Yet no good music; good is not their theme.And now, as having drunk men's blood,366 and soGrown wilder, bolder, see, the revelling band,Erinnyes of the race, still haunt the halls,Not easy to dismiss. And so they sing,Close cleaving to the house, its primal woe,367And vent their loathing in alternate strainsOn marriage-bed of brother ruthless foundTo that defiler. *Miss I now, or hit,Like archer skilled? or am I seeress false,A babbler vain that knocks at every door?Yea, swear beforehand, ere I die, I know(And not by rumour only) all the sinsOf ancient days that haunt and vex this house.Chor. How could an oath, how firm soe'er confirmed,Bring aught of healing? Lo, I marvel at thee,That thou, though born far off beyond the sea,Should'st tell an alien city's tale as clearAs though thyself had stood by all the while.Cass. The seer Apollo set me to this task.Chor. Was he a God, so smitten with desire?Cass. There was a time when shame restrained my speech.Chor. True; they who prosper still are shy and coy.Cass. He wrestled hard, breathing hot love on me.Chor. And were ye one in act whence children spring?Cass. I promised Loxias, then I broke my vow.Chor. Wast thou e'en then possessed with arts divine?Cass. E'en then my country's woes I prophesied.Chor. How wast thou then unscathed by Loxias' wrath?Cass. I for that fault with no man gained belief.Chor. To us, at least, thou seem'st to speak the truth.Cass. [Again speaking wildly, as in an ecstasy.] Ah, woe is me! Woe's me! Oh, ills on ills!Again the dread pang of true prophet's giftWith preludes of great evil dizzies me.See ye those children sitting on the houseIn fashion like to phantom forms of dreams?Infants who perished at their own kin's hands,Their palms filled full with meat of their own flesh,Loom on my sight, the heart and entrails bearing,(A sorry burden that!) on which of oldTheir father fed.368 And in revenge for this,I say a lion, dwelling in his lair,With not a spark of courage, stay-at-home,Plots 'gainst my master, now he's home returned,(Yes mine – for still I must the slave's yoke bear;)And the ship's ruler, Ilion's conqueror,Knows not what things the tongue of that lewd bitchHas spoken and spun out in welcome smooth,And, like a secret Atè, will work outWith dire success: thus 'tis she plans: the manIs murdered by the woman. By what nameShall I that loathèd monster rightly call?An Amphisbæna? or a Skylla dwelling369Among the rocks, the sailors' enemy?Hades' fierce raging mother, breathing outAgainst her friends a curse implacable?Ah, how she raised her cry, (oh, daring one!)As for the rout of battle, and she feignsTo hail with joy her husband's safe return!And if thou dost not credit this, what then?What will be will. Soon, present, pitying meThou'lt own I am too true a prophetess.Chor. Thyestes' banquet on his children's fleshI know and shudder at, and fear o'ercomes me,Hearing not counterfeits of fact, but truths;Yet in the rest I hear and miss my path.Cass. I say thou'lt witness Agamemnon's death.Chor. Hush, wretched woman, close those lips of thine!Cass. For this my speech no healing God's at hand.Chor. True, if it must be; but may God avert it!Cass. Thou utterest prayers, but others murder plot.Chor. And by what man is this dire evil wrought?Cass. Sure, thou hast seen my bodings all amiss.Chor. I see not his device who works the deed.Cass. And yet I speak the Hellenic tongue right well.Chor. So does the Pythian, yet her words are hard.Cass. [In another access of frenzy.] Ah me, this fire!It comes upon me now!Ah me, Apollo, wolf-slayer! woe is me!This biped lioness who takes to bedA wolf in absence of the noble lion,Will slay me, wretched me. And, as oneMixing a poisoned draught, she boasts that sheWill put my price into her cup of wrath,Sharpening her sword to smite her spouse with death,So paying him for bringing me. Oh, whyDo I still wear what all men flout and scorn,My wand and seeress wreaths around my neck?370Thee, ere myself I die I will destroy: [breaks her wand]Perish ye thus: [casting off her wreaths] I soon shall follow you:Make rich another Atè371 in my place;Behold Apollo's self is stripping meOf my divining garments, and that too,When he has seen me even in this garbScorned without cause among my friends and kin,By foes, with no diversity of mood.Reviled as vagrant, wandering prophetess,Poor, wretched, famished, I endured to live:And now the Seer who me a seeress madeHath brought me to this lot of deadly doom.Now for my father's altar there awaits meA butcher's block, where I am smitten downBy slaughtering stroke, and with hot gush of blood.But the Gods will not slight us when we're dead;Another yet shall come as champion for us,A son who slays his mother, to avengeHis father; and the exiled wandererFar from his home, shall one day come again,Upon these woes to set the coping-stone:For the high Gods have sworn a mighty oath,His father's fall, laid low, shall bring him back.Why then do I thus groan in this new home,372When, to begin with, Ilion's town I sawFaring as it did fare, and they who heldThat town are gone by judgment of the Gods?I too will fare as they, and venture death:So I these gates of Hades now address,And pray for blow that bringeth death at once,That so with no fierce spasm, while the bloodFlows in calm death, I then may close mine eyes.[Goes towards the door of the palaceChor. O thou most wretched, yet again most wise:Long hast thou spoken, lady, but if wellThou know'st thy doom, why to the altar go'st thou,Like heifer driven of God, so confidently?373Cass. For me, my friends, there is no time to 'scape.374Chor. Yea; but he gains in time who comes the last.Cass. The day is come: small gain for me in flight.Chor. Know then thou sufferest with a heart full brave.Cass. Such words as these the happy never hear.Chor. Yet mortal man may welcome noble death.Cass. [Shrinking back from opening the door.] Woe's me for thee and thy brave sons, my father!375Chor. What cometh now? What fear oppresseth thee?Cass. [Again going to the door and then shuddering in another burst of frenzy.] Fie on't, fie!Chor. Whence comes this “Fie?” unless from mind that loathes?Cass. The house is tainted with the scent of death.Chor. How so? This smells of victims on the hearth.Cass. Nay, it is like the blast from out a grave.Chor. No Syrian ritual tell'st thou for our house.376Cass. Well then I go, and e'en within will wailMy fate and Agamemnon's. And for me,Enough of life. Ah, friends! Ah! not for noughtI shrink in fear, as bird shrinks from the brake.377When I am dead do ye this witness bear,When in revenge for me, a woman, DeathA woman smites, and man shall fall for manIn evil wedlock wed. This friendly office,As one about to die, I pray you do me.Chor. Thy doom foretold, poor sufferer, moves my pity.Cass. I fain would speak once more, yet not to wailMine own death-song; but to the Sun I pray,To his last rays, that my avengers wreakUpon my hated murderers judgment dueFor me, who die a slave's death, easy prey.Ah, life of man! when most it prospereth,It is but limned in outline;378 and when broughtTo low estate, then doth the sponge, full soaked,Wipe out the picture with its frequent touch:And this I count more piteous e'en than that.379[Passes through the door into the palaceChor. 'Tis true of all men that they never setA limit to good fortune; none doth say,As bidding it depart,And warding it from palaces of pride,“Enter thou here no more.”To this our lord the Blest Ones gave to takePriam's city; and he comesSafe to his home and honoured by the Gods;But if he now shall payThe forfeit of blood-guiltiness of old,And, dying, so work out for those who died,By his own death another penalty,Who then of mortal men,Hearing such things as this,Can boast that he was bornWith fate from evil free?Agam. [from within.] Ah, me! I am struck down with deadly stroke.Chor. Hush! who cries out with deadly stroke sore smitten?Agam. Ah me, again! struck down a second time![DiesChor. By the king's groans I judge the deed is done;But let us now confer for counsels safe.380Chor. a. I give you my advice to summon here,Here to the palace, all the citizens.Chor. b. I think it best to rush at once on them,And take them in the act with sword yet wet.Chor. c. And I too give like counsel, and I voteFor deed of some kind. 'Tis no time to pause.Chor. d. Who will see, may. – They but the prelude workOf tyranny usurped o'er all the State.Chor. e. Yes, we are slow, but they who trample downThe thought of hesitation slumber not.Chor. f. I know not what advice to find or speak:He who can act knows how to counsel too.Chor. g. I too think with thee; for I have no hopeWith words to raise the dead again to life.Chor. h. What! Shall we drag our life on and submitTo these usurpers that defile the house?Chor. i. Nay, that we cannot bear: To die were better;For death is gentler far than tyranny.Chor. k. Shall we upon this evidence of groansGuess, as divining that our lord is dead?Chor. l. When we know clearly, then should we discuss:To guess is one thing, and to know another.Chor. 381 So vote I too, and on the winning side,Taking the votes all round that we should learnHow he, the son of Atreus, fareth now. Enter Clytæmnestra from the palace, in robes with stains of blood, followed by soldiers and attendants. The open doors show the corpses of Agamemnon and Cassandra, the former lying in a silvered bathClytæm. Though many words before to suit the timeWere spoken, now I shall not be ashamedThe contrary to utter: How could oneBy open show of enmity to foesWho seemed as friends, fence in the snares of deathToo high to be o'erleapt? But as for me,Not without forethought for this long time past,This conflict comes to me from triumph old382Of his, though slowly wrought. I stand where IDid smite him down, with all my task well done.So did I it, (the deed deny I not,)That he could nor avert his doom nor flee:I cast around him drag-net as for fish,With not one outlet, evil wealth of robe:And twice I smote him, and with two deep groansHe dropped his limbs: And when he thus fell downI gave him yet a third, thank-offering true383To Hades of the dark, who guards the dead.So fallen, he gasps out his struggling soul,And breathing forth a sharp, quick gush of blood,He showers dark drops of gory rain on me,Who no less joy felt in them than the corn,When the blade bears, in glad shower given of God.Since this is so, ye Argive elders here,Ye, as ye will, may hail the deed, but IBoast of it. And were't fitting now to pourLibation o'er the dead,384 'twere justly done,Yea more than justly; such a goblet full,Of ills hath he filled up with curses direAt home, and now has come to drain it off.Chor. We marvel at the boldness of thy tongueWho o'er thy husband's corpse speak'st vaunt like this.Clytæm. Ye test me as a woman weak of mind;But I with dauntless heart to you that knowSay this, and whether thou dost praise or blame,Is all alike: – here Agamemnon lies,My husband, now a corpse, of this right hand,As artist just, the handiwork: so stands it.StropheChor. What evil thing, O Queen, or reared on earth,Or draught from salt sea-waveHast thou fed on, to bringSuch incense on thyself,385A people's loud-voiced curse?'Twas thou did'st sentence him,'Twas thou did'st strike him down;But thou shall exiled be,Hated with strong hate of the citizens.Clytæm. Ha! now on me thou lay'st the exile's doom,My subjects' hate, and people's loud-voiced curse,Though ne'er did'st thou oppose my husband there,Who, with no more regard than had been dueTo a brute's death, although he called his ownFull many a fleecy sheep in pastures bred,Yet sacrificed his child, the dear-loved fruitOf all my travail-pangs, to be a charmAgainst the winds of Thrakia. Shouldst thou notHave banished him from out this land of ours,As meed for all his crimes? Yet hearing nowMy deeds, thou art a judge full stern. But ITell thee to speak thy threats, as knowing wellI am prepared that thou on equal termsShould'st rule, if thou dost conquer. But if GodShould otherwise decree, then thou shall learn,Late though it be, the lesson to be wise.AntistropheChor. Yea, thou art stout of heart, and speak'st big words;And maddened is thy soulAs by a murderous hate;And still upon thy browIs seen, not yet avenged,The stain of blood-spot foul;And yet it needs must be,One day thou, reft of friends,Shall pay the penalty of blow for blow.Clytæm. Now hear thou too my oaths of solemn dread:By my accomplished vengeance for my child,By Atè and Erinnys, unto whomI slew him as a victim, I look notThat fear should come beneath this roof of mine,So long as on my hearth Ægisthos kindlesThe flaming fire, as well disposed to meAs he hath been aforetime. He to usIs no slight shield of stoutest confidence.There lies he, [pointing to the corpse of Agamemnon,] one who foully wronged his wife,The darling of the Chryseïds at Troïa;And there [pointing to Cassandra] this captive slave, this auguress,His concubine, this seeress trustworthy,Who shared his bed, and yet was as well knownTo the sailors as their benches!.. They have faredNot otherwise than they deserved: for heLies as you see. And she who, like a swan,386Has chanted out her last and dying song,Lies close to him she loved, and so has broughtThe zest of a new pleasure to my bed.Strophe I387Chor. Ah me, would death might comeQuickly, with no sharp throe of agony,Nor long bed-ridden pain,Bringing the endless sleep;Since he, the watchman most benign of all,Hath now been smitten low,And by a woman's means hath much endured,And at a woman's hand hath lost his life!Strophe IIAlas! alas! O Helen, evil-souled,Who, though but one, hast slainMany, yea, very many lives at Troïa.388· · · · ·Strophe IIIBut now for blood that may not be washed outThou hast to full bloom broughtA deed of guilt for ever memorable,For strife was in the house,Wrought out in fullest strength,Woe for a husband's life.Strophe IVClytæm. Nay, pray not thou for destiny of death,Oppressed with what thou see'st;Nor turn thou against Helena thy wrath,As though she murderess were,And, though but one, had many Danaï's soulsBrought low in death, and wrought o'erwhelming woe.Antistrophe IChor. O Power that dost attackOur palace and the two Tantalidæ,389And dost through women wieldA might that grieves my heart!390And o'er the body, like a raven foul,Against all laws of right,Standing, she boasteth in her pride of heart391That she can chant her pæan hymn of praise.Antistrophe IVClytæm. Now thou dost guide aright thy speech and thought,Invoking that dread Power,The thrice-gorged evil genius of this house;For he it is who feedsIn the heart's depth the raging lust of blood:Ere the old wound is healed, new bloodshed comes.Strophe VChor. Yes, of a Power thou tell'stMighty and very wrathful to this house;Ah me! ah me! an evil tale enoughOf baleful chance of doom,Insatiable of ill:Yet, ah! it is through Zeus,The all-appointing and all-working One;For what with mortal menIs wrought apart from Zeus?What of all this is not by God decreed?392Strophe VIAh me! ah me!My king, my king, how shall I weep for thee?What shall I speak from heart that truly loves?And now thou liest there, breathing out thy life,In impious deed of death,In this fell spider's web, —Strophe VII(Yes, woe is me! woe, woe!Woe for this couch of thine dishonourable!) —Slain by a subtle death,393With sword two-edged which her right hand did wield.Strophe VIIIClytæm. Thou speak'st big words, as if the deed were mine;Yet think thou not of me,As Agamemnon's spouse;But in the semblance of this dead man's wife,The old and keen Avenger of the houseOf Atreus, that cruel banqueter of old,Hath wrought out vengeance fullOn him who lieth here,And full-grown victim slainOver the younger victims of the past.394Antistrophe VChor. That thou art guiltless foundOf this foul murder who will witness bear?How can it be so, how? And yet, perchance,As helper to the deed,Might come the avenging FiendOf that ancestral time;And in this rush of murders of near kinDark Ares presses on,Where he will vengeance workFor clotted gore of children slain as food.Antistrophe VIAh me! ah me!My king, my king, how shall I weep for thee?What shall I speak from heart that truly loves?And now thou liest there, breathing out thy life,In impious deed of death,In this fell spider's web, —Antistrophe VII(Yes, woe is me! woe, woe!Woe for this couch of thine dishonourable!) —Slain by a subtle death,With sword two-edged which her right hand did wield.Antistrophe VIIIClytæm. Nay, not dishonourableHis death doth seem to me:Did he not work a doom,In this our house with guile?395Mine own dear child, begotten of this man,Iphigeneia, wept with many a tear,He slew; now slain himself in recompense,Let him not boast in Hell,Since he the forfeit pays,Pierced by the sword in death,For all the evil that his hand began.Strophe IXChor. I stand perplexed in soul, deprived of powerOf quick and ready thought,Where now to turn, since thusOur home is falling low.I shrink in fear from the fierce pelting stormOf blood that shakes the basement of the house:No more it rains in drops:And for another deed of mischief dire,Fate whets the righteous doomOn other whetstones still.Antistrophe IIO Earth! O Earth! Oh, would thou had'st received me,Ere I saw him on couchOf bath with silvered walls thus stretched in death!Who now will bury him, who wail? Wilt thou,When thou hast slain thy husband, have the heartTo mourn his death, and for thy monstrous deedsDo graceless grace? And who will chant the dirgeWith tears in truth of heart,Over our godlike chief?Strophe XClytæm. It is not thine to speak;'Twas at our hands he fell,Yea, he fell low in death,And we will bury him,Not with the bitter tears of those who weepAs inmates of the house;But she, his child, Iphigeneia, thereShall meet her father, and with greeting kind,E'en as is fit, by that swift-flowing ford,Dark stream of bitter woes,Shall clasp him in her arms,And give a daughter's kiss.Antistrophe IXChor. Lo! still reproach upon reproach doth come;Hard are these things to judge:The spoiler still is spoiled,The slayer pays his debt;Yea, while Zeus liveth through the ages, thisLives also, that the doer dree his weird;For this is law fast fixed.Who now can drive from out the kingly houseThe brood of curses dark?The race to Atè cleaves.Antistrophe XClytæm. Yes, thou hast touched with truthThat word oracular;But I for my part wish,(Binding with strongest oathThe evil dæmon of the Pleisthenids,)396Though hard it be to bear,To rest content with this our present lot;And, for the future, that he go to vexAnother race with homicidal deaths.Lo! 'tis enough for me,Though small my share of wealth,At last to have freed my houseFrom madness that sets each man's hand 'gainst each. Enter ÆgisthosÆgis. Hail, kindly light of day that vengeance brings!Now I can say the Gods on high look down,Avenging men, upon the woes of earth,Since lying in the robes the Erinnyes woveI see this man, right welcome sight to me,Paying for deeds his father's hand had wrought.Atreus, our country's ruler, this man's father,Drove out my sire Thyestes, his own brother,(To tell the whole truth,) quarrelling for rule,An exile from his country and his home.And coming back a suppliant on the hearth,The poor Thyestes found a lot secure,Nor did he, dying, stain the soil with blood,There in his home. But this man's godless sire,397Atreus, more prompt than kindly in his deeds,On plea of keeping festal day with cheer,To my sire banquet gave of children's flesh,His own. The feet and finger-tips of handsHe, sitting at the top, apart concealed;And straight the other, in his blindness takingThe parts that could not be discerned, did eatA meal which, as thou see'st, perdition worksFor all his kin. And learning afterwardsThe deed of dread, he groaned and backward fell,Vomits the feast of blood, and imprecatesOn Pelops' sons a doom intolerable,And makes the o'erturning of the festive board,With fullest justice, as a general curse,That so might fall the race of Pleisthenes.And now thou see'st how here accordinglyThis man lies fallen; I, of fullest right,The weaver of the plot of murderous doom.For me, a babe in swaddling-clothes, he banishedWith my poor father, me, his thirteenth child;And Vengeance brought me back, of full age grown:And e'en far off I wrought against this man,And planned the whole scheme of this dark device.And so e'en death were now right good for me,Seeing him into the nets of Vengeance fallen.Chor. I honour not this arrogance in guilt,Ægisthos. Thou confessest thou hast slainOf thy free will our chieftain here, – that thouAlone did'st plot this murder lamentable;Be sure, I say, thy head shall not escapeThe righteous curse a people hurls with stones.Ægisth. Dost thou say this, though seated on the benchOf lowest oarsmen, while the upper rowCommands the ship?398 But thou shalt find, though old,How hard it is at such an age to learn,When the word is, “keep temper.” But a prisonAnd fasting pains are admirably apt,As prophet-healers even for old age.Dost see, and not see this? Against the pricksKick not,399 lest thou perchance should'st smart for it.Chor. Thou, thou, O Queen, when thy lord came from war,While keeping house, thy husband's bed defiling,Did'st scheme this death for this our hero-chief.Ægisth. These words of thine shall parents prove of tears:But this thy tongue is Orpheus' opposite;He with his voice led all things on for joy,But thou, provoking with thy childish cries,Shalt now be led; and then, being kept in check,Thou shall appear in somewhat gentler mood.Chor. As though thou should'st o'er Argives ruler be,Who even when thou plotted'st this man's deathDid'st lack good heart to do the deed thyself?Ægisth. E'en so; to work this fraud was clearly partFit for a woman. I was foe, of oldSuspected. But now will I with his wealthSee whether I his subjects may command,And him who will not hearken I will yokeIn heavy harness as a full-fed colt,Nowise as trace-horse;400 but sharp hunger joinedWith darksome dungeon shall behold him tamed.Chor. Why did'st not thou then, coward as thou art,Thyself destroy him? but a woman with thee,Pollution to our land and our land's Gods,She slew him. Does Orestes see the light,Perchance, that he, brought back by Fortune's grace,May for both these prove slayer strong to smite?Ægisth. Well, since thou think'st to act, not merely talk,Thou shall know clearly…[Calling his Guards from the palaceOn then, my troops, the time for deeds is come.Chor. On then, let each man grasp his sword in hand.Ægisth. With sword in hand, I too shrink not from death.Chor. Thou talkest of thy death; we hail the word;And make our own the fortune it implies.Clytæm. Nay, let us not do other evil deeds,Thou dearest of all friends. An ill-starred harvestIt is to have reaped so many. Enough of woe:Let no more blood be shed: Go thou – [to the Chorus] – go ye,Ye aged sires, to your allotted homes,Ere ye do aught amiss and dree your weird:This that we have done ought to have sufficed;But should it prove we've had enough of ills,We will accept it gladly, stricken lowIn evil doom by heavy hand of God.This is a woman's counsel, if there beThat deigns to hear it.Ægisth. But that these should flingThe blossoms of their idle speech at me,And utter words like these, so tempting Fate,And fail of counsel wise, and flout their master…!Chor. It suits not Argives on the vile to fawn.Ægisth. Be sure, hereafter I will hunt thee down.Chor. Not so, if God should guide Orestes back.Ægisth. Right well I know how exiles feed on hopes.Chor. Prosper, wax fat, do foul wrong – 'tis thy day.Ægisth. Know thou shalt pay full price for this thy folly.Chor. Be bold, and boast, like cock beside his mate.Clytæm. Nay, care not thou for these vain howlings; IAnd thou together, ruling o'er the house,Will settle all things rightly. [Exeunt