Aeschylus (525–456 B.C.). Agamemnon.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Lines 1000–1499
And he who followed spake of ill on ill,
Keening Lost, lost, all lost! thro’ hall and bower.
Had this my husband met so many wounds,
As by a thousand channels rumour told,
No network e’er was full of holes as he.
Had he been slain, as oft as tidings came
That he was dead, he well might boast him now
A second Geryon of triple frame,
With triple robe of earth above him laid—
For that below, no matter—triply dead,
Dead by one death for every form he bore.
And thus distraught by news of wrath and woe,
Oft for self-slaughter had I slung the noose,
But others wrenched it from my neck away.
Hence haps it that Orestes, thine and mine,
The pledge and symbol of our wedded troth,
Stands not beside us now, as he should stand.
Nor marvel thou at this: he dwells with one
Who guards him loyally; ’tis Phocis’ king,
Strophius, who warned me erst, Bethink thee, queen,
What woes of doubtful issue well may fall!
Thy lord in daily jeopardy at Troy,
While here a populace uncurbed may cry,
“Down with the council, down!” bethink thee too,
’Tis the world’s way to set a harder heel
On fallen power.
For thy child’s absence then
Such mine excuse, no wily afterthought.
For me, long since the gushing fount of tears
Is wept away; no drop is left to shed.
Dim are the eyes that ever watched till dawn,
Weeping, the bale-fires, piled for thy return,
Night after night unkindled. If I slept,
Each sound—the tiny humming of a gnat,
Roused me again, again, from fitful dreams
Wherein I felt thee smitten, saw thee slain,
Thrice for each moment of mine hour of sleep.
A hail my lord as watch-dog of a fold,
As saving stay-rope of a storm-tossed ship,
As column stout that holds the roof aloft,
As only child unto a sire bereaved,
As land beheld, past hope, by crews forlorn,
As sunshine fair when tempest’s wrath is past,
As gushing spring to thirsty wayfarer.
So sweet it is to ’scape the press of pain.
With such salute I bid my husband hail!
Nor heaven be wroth therewith! for long and hard
I bore that ire of old.
Sweet lord, step forth,
Step from thy car, I pray—nay, not on earth
Plant the proud foot, O king, that trod down Troy!
Women! why tarry ye, whose task it is
To spread your monarch’s path with tapestry?
Swift, swift, with purple strew his passage fair,
That justice lead him to a home, at last,
He scarcely looked to see.
For what remains,
Zeal unsubdued by sleep shall nerve my hand
To work as right and as the gods command.
Thy greeting well befits mine absence long,
For late and hardly has it reached its end.
Know that the praise which honour bids us crave,
Must come from others’ lips, not from our own:
See too that not in fashion feminine
Thou make a warrior’s pathway delicate;
Not unto me, as to some Eastern lord,
Bowing thyself to earth, make homage loud.
Strew not this purple that shall make each step
An arrogance; such pomp beseems the gods,
Not me. A mortal man to set his foot
On these rich dyes? I hold such pride in fear,
And bid thee honour me as man, not god.
Loud from the trump of Fame my name is blown;
Best gift of heaven it is, in glory’s hour,
To think thereon with soberness: and thou—
Bethink thee of the adage, Call none blest
Till peaceful death have crowned a life of weal.
’Tis said: I fain would fare unvexed by fear.
Swiftly these sandals, slaves beneath my foot:
And stepping thus upon the sea’s rich dye,
I pray, Let none among the gods look down
With jealous eye on me—reluctant all,
To trample thus and mar a thing of price,
Wasting the wealth of garments silver-worth.
Enough hereof: and, for the stranger maid,
Lead her within, but gently: God on high
Looks graciously on him whom triumph’s hour
Has made not pitiless. None willingly
Wear the slave’s yoke—and she, the prize and flower
Of all we won, comes hither in my train,
Gift of the army to its chief and lord.
—Now, since in this my will bows down to thine,
I will pass in on purples to my home.
And deep within its breast, a mighty store,
Precious as silver, of the purple dye,
Whereby the dipped robe doth its tint renew.
Enough of such, O king, within thy halls
There lies, a store that cannot fail; but I—
I would have gladly vowed unto the gods
Cost of a thousand garments trodden thus
(Had once the oracle such gift required),
Contriving ransom for thy life preserved.
Spreading a shade, what time the dog-star glows;
And thou, returning to thine hearth and home,
Art as a genial warmth in winter hours,
Or as a coolness, when the lord of heaven
Mellows the juice within the bitter grape.
Such boons and more doth bring into a home
The present footstep of its proper lord.
Zeus, Zeus, Fulfilment’s lord! my vows fulfil,
And whatsoe’er it be, work forth thy will![Exeunt all but Cassandra and the Chorus.
Hovers a vision drear
Before my boding heart? a strain,
Unbidden and unwelcome, thrills mine ear,
Oracular of pain.
Not as of old upon my bosom’s throne
Sits Confidence, to spurn
Such fears, like dreams we know not to discern.
Old, old and gray long since the time has grown,
Which saw the linked cables moor
The fleet, when erst it came to Ilion’s sandy shore;
And now mine eyes and not another’s see
Their safe return.
The inner spirit sings a boding song,
Self-prompted, sings the Furies’ strain—
And seeks, and seeks in vain,
To hope and to be strong!
Are these wild throbbings of my heart and breast—
Yea, of some doom they tell—
Each pulse, a knell.
Lief, lief I were, that all
To unfulfilment’s hidden realm might fall.
Grasping at utter weal, unsatisfied—
Till the fell curse, that dwelleth hard beside,
Thrust down the sundering wall. Too fair they blow,
The gales that waft our bark on Fortune’s tide!
Swiftly we sail, the sooner all to drive
Upon the hidden rock, the reef of woe.
Sling forth into the sea
Part of the freight, lest all should sink below,
From the deep death it saves the bark: even so,
Doom-laden though it be, once more may rise
His household, who is timely wise.
Is saved by God’s large gift, the new year’s yield!
But blood of man once spilled,
Once at his feet shed forth, and darkening the plain,—
Nor chant nor charm can call it back again.
Else had he spared the leech Asclepius, skilled
To bring man from the dead: the hand divine
Did smite himself with death—a warning and a sign.
Held not the will of gods constrained, controlled,
Helpless to us-ward, and apart—
Swifter than speech my heart
Had poured its presage out!
Now, fretting, chafing in the dark of doubt,
’Tis hopeless to unfold
Truth, from fear’s tangled skein; and, yearning to proclaim
Its thought, my soul is prophecy and flame.
For Zeus to thee in gracious mercy grants
Beside the altar of his guardianship,
Slave among many slaves. What, haughty still?
Step from the car; Alcmena’s son, ’tis said,
Was sold perforce and bore the yoke of old.
Ay, hard it is, but, if such fate befal,
’Tis a fair chance to serve within a home
Of ancient wealth and power. An upstart lord,
To whom wealth’s harvest came beyond his hope,
Is as a lion to his slaves, in all
Exceeding fierce, immoderate in sway.
Pass in: thou hearest what our ways will be.
But thou—within the toils of Fate thou art—
If such thy will, I urge thee to obey;
Yet I misdoubt thou dost nor hear nor heed.
Some strange barbarian tongue from oversea—
My words must speak persuasion to her soul.
Step from the car’s high seat and follow her.
I will not stay: beside the central shrine
The victims stand, prepared for knife and fire—
Offerings from hearts beyond all hope made glad.
Thou—if thou reckest aught of my command,
’Twere well done soon: but if thy sense be shut
From these my words, let thy barbarian hand
Fulfil by gesture the default of speech.
Unaided: like some wild thing of the wood,
New-trapped, behold! she shrinks and glares on thee.
Since she beheld her city sink in fire,
And hither comes, nor brooks the bit, until
In foam and blood her wrath be champed away.
See ye to her; unqueenly ’tis for me,
Unheeded thus to cast away my words.[Exit Clytemnestra.
Poor maiden, come thou from the car; no way
There is but this—take up thy servitude.
Apollo, Apollo!
Who will not brook the suppliance of woe.
Apollo, Apollo!
Who stands far off and loathes the voice of wail.
God of all ways, but only Death’s to me,
Once and again, O thou, Destroyer named,
thou hast destroyed me, thou, my love of old!
Slave tho’ she be, instinct with prophecy.
God of all ways, but only Death’s to me,
O thou Apollo, thou Destroyer named!
What way hast led me, to what evil home?
Take these my words for sooth and ask no more.
Ye visioned woes within—
The blood-stained hands of them that smite their kin—
The strangling noose, and, spattered o’er
With human blood, the reeking floor!
Keen-scented unto blood and death she hies!
Whereby my prophet-soul is onwards led?
Look! for their flesh the spectre-children wail,
Their sodden limbs on which their father fed!
But for those deeds we seek no prophet’s tongue.
Worse than the storied woe of olden time,
A shaming death, for those that should be dear!
Alas! and far away, in foreign land,
He that should help doth stand!
But now thy speech is dark, beyond my ken.
Thou for thy wedded lord
The cleansing wave hast poured—
A treacherous welcome!
How the sequel tell?
Too soon ’twill come, too soon, for now, even now,
She smites him, blow on blow!
Thro’ the dim films that screen the prophecy.
Set by her hand—herself a snare more fell!
A wedded wife, she slays her lord,
Helped by another hand!
Ye powers, whose hate
Of Atreus’ home no blood can satiate,
Raise the wild cry above the sacrifice abhorred!
Shriek o’er the house? Thine is no cheering word.
Back to my heart in frozen fear I feel
My waning life-blood run—
The blood that round the wounding steel
Ebbs slow, as sinks life’s parting sun—
Swift, swift and sure, some woe comes pressing on!
The monarch of the herd, the pasture’s pride,
Far from his mate! In treach’rous wrath,
Muffling his swarthy horns, with secret scathe
She gores his fenceless side!
Hark! in the brimming bath,
The heavy plash—the dying cry—
Hark—in the laver—hark, he falls by treachery!
Yet something warns me that they tell of ill.
O dark prophetic speech,
Ill tidings dost thou teach
Ever, to mortals here below!
Ever some tale of awe and woe
Thro’ all thy windings manifold
Do we unriddle and unfold!
Whereof I chant, foams with a draught for me.
Ah lord, ah leader, thou hast led me here—
Was’t but to die with thee whose doom is near?
And wailest for thyself a tuneless lay,
As piteous as the ceaseless tale
Wherewith the brown melodious bird
Doth ever Itys! Itys! wail,
Deep-bowered in sorrow, all its little lifetime’s day!
Some solace for thy woes did heaven afford,
But for my death is edged the double-biting sword!
Sent on thee from on high?
Thou chantest terror’s frantic strain,
Yet in shrill measured melody.
How thus unerring canst thou sweep along
The prophet’s path of boding song?
Was death and fire upon thy race and Troy!
And woe for thee, Scamander’s flood!
Beside thy banks, O river fair,
I grew in tender nursing care
From childhood unto maidenhood!
Now not by thine, but by Cocytus’ stream
And Acheron’s banks shall ring my boding scream.
A child might read aright thy fateful strain.
Deep in my heart their piercing fang
Terror and sorrow set, the while I heard
That piteous, low, tender word,
Yet to mine ear and heart a crushing pang.
Father, how oft with sanguine stain
Streamed on thine altar-stone the blood of cattle, slain
That heaven might guard our wall!
But all was shed in vain.
Low lie the shattered towers whereas they fell,
And I—ah burning heart!—shall soon lie low as well.
Alas, what power of ill
Sits heavy on thy heart and bids thee tell
In tears of perfect moan thy deadly tale?
Some woe—I know not what—must close thy piteous wail.
Bride-like, shall peer from its secluding veil;
But as the morning wind blows clear the east,
More bright shall blow the wind of prophecy,
And as against the low bright line of dawn
Heaves high and higher yet the rolling wave,
So in the clearing skies of prescience
Dawns on my soul a further, deadlier woe,
And I will speak, but in dark speech no more.
Bear witness, ye, and follow at my side—
I scent the trail of blood, shed long ago.
Within this house a choir abidingly
Chants in harsh unison the chant of ill;
Yea, and they drink, for more enhardened joy,
Man’s blood for wine, and revel in the halls,
Departing never, Furies of the home.
They sit within, they chant the primal curse,
Each spitting hatred on that crime of old,
The brother’s couch, the love incestuous
That brought forth hatred to the ravisher.
Say, is my speech or wild and erring now,
Or doth its arrow cleave the mark indeed?
They called me once, The prophetess of lies,
The wandering hag, the pest of every door—
Attest ye now, She knows in very sooth
The house’s curse, the storied infamy.
I swear it—aught avail thee? In good sooth,
That thou, a maiden born beyond the seas,
Dost as a native know and tell aright
Tales of a city of an alien tongue.
Dread pain that sees the future all too well
With ghastly preludes whirls and racks my soul.
Behold ye—yonder on the palace roof
The spectre-children sitting—look, such things
As dreams are made on, phantoms as of babes,
Horrible shadows, that a kinsman’s hand
Hath marked with murder, and their arms as full—
A rueful burden—see, they hold them up,
The entrails upon which their father fed!
A coward lion, couching in the lair—
Guarding the gate against my master’s foot—
My master-mine—I bear the slave’s yoke now,
And he, the lord of ships, who trod down Troy,
Knows not the fawning treachery of tongue
Of this thing false and dog-like—how her speech
Glazes and sleeks her purpose, till she win
By ill fate’s favour the desired chance,
Moving like Ate to a secret end.
O aweless soul! the woman slays her lord—
Woman? what loathsome monster of the earth
Were fit comparison? The double snake—
Or Scylla, where she dwells, the seaman’s bane,
Girt round about with rocks? some hag of hell,
Raving a truceless curse upon her kin?
Hark—even now she cries exultingly
The vengeful cry that tells of battle turned—
How fain, forsooth, to greet her chief restored!
Nay, then, believe me not: what skills belief
Or disbelief? Fate works its will—and thou
Wilt see and say in ruth, Her tale was true.
I guess her meaning and with horror thrill,
Hearing no shadow’d hint of th’ o’er—true tale,
But its full hatefulness: yet, for the rest,
Far from the track I roam, and know no more.
Familiar is the tongue, but dark the thought.
Woe, woe for me, Apollo of the dawn!
Couched with the wolf—her noble mate afar—
Will slay me, slave forlorn! Yea, like some witch,
She drugs the cup of wrath, that slays her lord
With double death—his recompense for me!
Ay, ’tis for me, the prey he bore from Troy,
That she hath sworn his death, and edged the steel!
Ye wands, ye wreaths that cling around my neck,
Ye showed me prophetess yet scorned of all—
I stamp you into death, or e’er I die—
Down, to destruction!
Thus I stand revenged—
Go, crown some other with a prophet’s woe.
Look! it is he, it is Apollo’s self
Rending from me the prophet-robe he gave.
God! while I wore it yet, thou saw’st me mocked
There at my home by each malicious mouth—
To all and each, an undivided scorn.
The name alike and fate of witch and cheat—
Woe, poverty, and famine—all I bore;
And at this last the god hath brought me here
Into death’s toils, and what his love had made,
His hate unmakes me now: and I shall stand
Not now before the altar of my home,
But me a slaughter-house and block of blood
Shall see hewn down, a reeking sacrifice.
Yet shall the gods have heed of me who die,
For by their will shall one requite my doom.
He, to avenge his father’s blood outpoured,
Shall smite and slay with matricidal hand.
Ay, he shall come—tho’ far away he roam,
A banished wanderer in a stranger’s land—
To crown his kindred’s edifice of ille
Called home to vengeance by his father’s fall:
Thus have the high gods sworn, and shall fulfil.
Since first mine Ilion has found its fate
And I beheld, and those who won the wall
Pass to such issue as the gods ordain?
I too will pass and like them dare to die![Turns and looks upon the palace door.
Portal of Hades, thus I bid thee hail!
Grant me one boon—a swift and mortal stroke,
That all unwrong by pain, with ebbing blood
Shed forth in quiet death, I close mine eyes.
Long was thy prophecy: but if aright
Thou readest all thy fate, how, thus unscared,
Dost thou approach the altar of thy doom,
As fronts the knife some victim, heaven-controlled?