Aeschylus (525–456 B.C.). Agamemnon.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Lines 1–499
To close the watch I keep, this livelong year;
For as a watch-dog lying, not at rest,
Propped on one arm, upon the palace-roof
Of Atreus’ race, too long, too well I know
The starry conclave of the midnight sky,
Too well, the splendours of the firmament,
The lords of light, whose kingly aspect shows—
What time they set or climb the sky in turn—
The year’s divisions, bringing frost or fire.
When shall stream up the glow of signal-flame,
The bale-fire bright, and tell its Trojan tale—
Troy town is ta’en: such issue holds in hope
She in whose woman’s breast beats heart of man.
Bathed with the dews of night, unvisited
Stands Fear as my familiar, and repels
The soft repose that would mine eyelids seal.
And if at whiles, for the lost balm of sleep,
I medicine my soul with melody
Of trill or song—anon to tears I turn,
Wailing the woe that broods upon this home,
Not now by honour guided as of old.
That sets me free, whene’er the thick night glow
With beacon-fire of hope deferred no more.
All hail![A beacon-light is seen reddening the distant sky.
Fire of the night, that brings my spirit day,
Shedding on Argos light, and dance, and song.
Greetings to fortune, hail!
Of Agamemnon’s queen, that she anon
Start from her couch and with a shrill voice cry
A joyous welcome to the beacon-blaze,
For Ilion’s fall; such fiery message gleams
From yon high flame; and I, before the rest,
Will foot the lightsome measure of our joy;
For I can say, My master’s dice fell fair—
Behold! the triple sice, the lucky flame!
Now be my lot to clasp, in loyal love,
The hand of him restored, who rules our home:
Home—but I say no more: upon my tongue
Treads hard the ox o’ the adage.
Had it voice,
The home itself might soothliest tell its tale;
I, of set will, speak words the wise may learn,
To others, nought remember nor discern.[Exit. The chorus of old men of Mycenæ enter, each leaning on a staff. During their song Clytemnestra appears in the background, kindling the altars.
Since the twin lords of sceptred sway,
By Zeus endowed with pride of place,
The doughty chiefs of Atreus’ race,
Went forth of yore,
To plead with Priam, face to face,
Before the judgment-seat of War!
Put forth to bear the martial band,
That with a spirit stern and strong
Went out to right the kingdom’s wrong—
Pealed, as they went, the battle-song,
Wild as the vultures’ cry;
When o’er the eyrie, soaring high,
In wild bereavèd agony,
Around, around, in airy rings,
They wheel with oarage of their wings,
But not the eyas-brood behold,
That called them to the nest of old;
But let Apollo from the sky,
Or Pan, or Zeus, but hear the cry,
The exile cry, the wail forlorn,
Of birds from whom their home is torn—
On those who wrought the rapine fell,
Heaven sends the vengeful fiends of hell.
And guardian of the hearth and board,
Speed Atreus’ sons, in vengeful ire,
’Gainst Paris—sends them forth on fire,
Her to buy back, in war and blood,
Whom one did wed but many woo’d!
And many, many, by his will,
The last embrace of foes shall feel,
And splintered spears on shields ring loud,
That iron bridal-feast be o’er!
But as he willed ’tis ordered all,
And woes, by heaven ordained, must fall—
Unsoothed by tears or spilth of wine
Poured forth too late, the wrath divine
Glares vengeance on the flameless shrine.
Feeble of frame, unfit were held
To join the warrior array
That then went forth unto the fray:
And here at home we tarry, fain
Our feeble footsteps to sustain,
Each on his staff—so strength doth wane,
And turns to childishness again.
For while the sap of youth is green,
And, yet unripened, leaps within,
The young are weakly as the old,
And each alike unmeet to hold
The vantage post of war!
And ah! when flower and fruit are o’er,
And on life’s tree the leaves are sere,
Age wendeth propped its journey drear,
As forceless as a child, as light
And fleeting as a dream of night
Lost in the garish day!
Queen Clytemnestra, speak! and say
What messenger of joy today
Hath won thine ear? what welcome news,
That thus in sacrificial wise
E’en to the city’s boundaries
Thou biddest altar-fires arise?
Each god who doth our city guard,
And keeps o’er Argos watch and ward
From heaven above, from earth below—
The mighty lords who rule the skies,
The market’s lesser deities,
Piled for the sacrifice!
And here and there, anear, afar,
Streams skyward many a beacon-star,
Conjur’d and charm’d and kindled well
By pure oil’s soft and guileless spell,
Hid now no more
Within the palace’ secret store.
Known unto thee, were well revealed,
That thou wilt trust it to our ear,
And bid our anxious heart be healed!
That waneth now unto despair—
Now, waxing to a presage fair,
Dawns, from the altar, Hope—to scare
From our rent hearts the vulture Care.
The chiefs’ emprise, the strength that omens gave!
List! on my soul breathes yet a harmony,
From realms of ageless powers, and strong to save!
Led forth the youth of Hellas in their flower,
Urged on their way, with vengeful spear and brand,
By warrior-birds, that watched the parting hour.
And the sea-kings obeyed the sky-kings’ word,
When on the right they soared across the sky,
And one was black, one bore a white tail barred.
Then lit in sight of all, and rent and tare,
Far from the fields that she should range no more,
Big with her unborn brood, a mother-hare.
And the two chiefs, unlike of soul and will,
In the twy-coloured eagles straight he knew,
And spake the omen forth, for good and ill.
Yet long the time shall be; and flock and herd,
The people’s wealth, that roam before the wall,
Shall force hew down, when Fate shall give the word.
To dim the glowing battle-forge once more,
And mar the mighty curb of Trojan pride,
The steel of vengeance, welded as for war!
Against the royal house, the eagle-pair,
Who rend the unborn brood, insatiate—
Yea, loathes their banquet on the quivering hare.
The tender new-born cubs of lions bold,
Too weak to range—and well the sucking child
Of every beast that roams by wood and wold.
“Nay, if it must be, be the omen true!
Yet do the visioned eagles presage ill;
The end be well, but crossed with evil too!”
Nor weave the long delay of thwarting gales,
To war against the Danaans and withhold
From the free ocean-waves their eager sails!
Shed forth, a curst unhallowed sacrifice—
’Twixt wedded souls, artificer of strife,
And hate that knows not fear, and fell device.
Biding its time, a wrath unreconciled,
In blood, resentment for a murdered child.
Amid good tidings, such the word of fear,
What time the fateful eagles hovered o’er
The kings, and Calchas read the omen clear.
Sing woe and well-a-day! but be the issue fair!)
That name of many names seem good—
Zeus, upon Thee I call.
Thro’ the mind’s every road
I passed, but vain are all,
Save that which names thee Zeus, the Highest One,
Were it but mine to cast away the load,
The weary load, that weighs my spirit down.
In full-blown pride of place and valour bold,
Hath fallen and is gone, even as an old tale told!
And he that next held sway,
By stronger grasp o’erthrown
Hath pass’d away!
And whoso now shall bid the triumph-chant arise
To Zeus, and Zeus alone,
He shall be found the truly wise.
’Tis Zeus alone who shows the perfect way
Of knowledge: He hath ruled,
Men shall learn wisdom, by affliction schooled.
Descend the many memories of pain
Before the spirit’s sight: through tears and dole
Comes wisdom o’er the unwilling soul—
A boon, I wot, of all Divinity,
That holds its sacred throne in strength, above the sky!
The fleet of Greece was manned,
Cast on the seer no word of hate,
But veered before the sudden breath of Fate—
Did every store, each minish’d vessel, fail,
While all the Achæan host
At Aulis anchored lay,
Looking across to Chalcis and the coast
Where refluent waters welter, rock, and sway;
And rife with ill delay
From northern Strymon blew the thwarting blast—
Mother of famine fell,
That holds men wand’ring still
Far from the haven where they fain would be!—
And pitiless did waste
Each ship and cable, rotting on the sea,
And, doubling with delay each weary hour,
Withered with hope deferred th’ Achæans’ warlike flower.
And heavier with ill to either chief,
Pleading the ire of Artemis, the seer avowed,
The two Atridæ smote their sceptres on the plain,
And, striving hard, could not their tears restrain!
And then the elder monarch spake aloud—
Ill lot were mine, to disobey!
And ill, to smite my child, my household’s love and pride!
To stain with virgin blood a father’s hands, and slay
My daughter, by the altar’s side!
’Twixt woe and woe I dwell—
I dare not like a recreant fly,
And leave the league of ships, and fail each true ally;
For rightfully they crave, with eager fiery mind,
God send the deed be well!
Fate’s hard compelling yoke;
Then, in the counter-gale of will abhorr’d, accursed,
To recklessness his shifting spirit veered—
Alas! that Frenzy, first of ills and worst,
With evil craft men’s souls to sin hath ever stirred!
Aiding a war for one false woman’s sake,
His child to slay,
And with her spilt blood make
An offering, to speed the ships upon their way!
Closed heart and ears, and would nor hear nor heed
The girl-voice plead,
Pity me, Father! nor her prayers,
Nor tender, virgin years.
Her father bade the youthful priestly train
Raise her, like some poor kid, above the altar-stone,
From where amid her robes she lay
Sunk all in swoon away—
Bade them, as with the bit that mutely tames the steed,
Her fair lips’ speech refrain,
Lest she should speak a curse on Atreus’ home and seed,
With one last piteous dart from her beseeching eye
Those that should smite she smote—
Fair, silent, as a pictur’d form, but fain
To plead, Is all forgot?
How oft those halls of old,
Wherein my sire high feast did hold,
When I, a stainless child,
Sang from pure lips and undefiled,
Sang of my sire, and all
His honoured life, and how on him should fall
Heaven’s highest gift and gain!
And then—but I beheld not, nor can tell,
What further fate befel:
But this is sure, that Calchas’ boding strain
Can ne’er be void or vain.
This wage from Justice’ hand do sufferers earn,
The future to discern;
And yet—farewell, O secret of tomorrow!
Foreknowledge is fore-sorrow.
Clear with the clear beams of the morrow’s sun,
The future presseth on.
Now, let the house’s tale, how dark soe’er,
Find yet an issue fair!—
So prays the loyal, solitary band
That guards the Apian land.[They turn to Clytemnestra, who leaves the altars and comes forward.
For, while the ruler’s kingly seat is void,
The loyal heart before his consort bends.
Now—be it sure and certain news of good,
Or the fair tidings of a flatt’ring hope,
That bids thee spread the light from shrine to shrine,
I, fain to hear, yet grudge not if thou hide.
Spring forth, with promise fair, the young child Light.
Ay—fairer even than all hope my news—
By Grecian hands is Priam’s city ta’en!
Sent forth his sign; and on, and ever on,
Beacon to beacon sped the courier-flame.
From Ida to the crag, that Hermes loves,
Of Lemnos; thence unto the steep sublime
Of Athos, throne of Zeus, the broad blaze flared.
Thence, raised aloft to shoot across the sea,
The moving light, rejoicing in its strength,
Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its way,
In golden glory, like some strange new sun,
Onward, and reached Macistus’ watching heights.
There, with no dull delay nor heedless sleep,
The watcher sped the tidings on in turn,
Until the guard upon Messapius’ peak
Saw the far flame gleam on Euripus’ tide,
And from the high-piled heap of withered furze
Lit the new sign and bade the message on.
Then the strong light, far flown and yet undimmed,
Shot thro’ the sky above Asopus’ plain,
Bright as the moon, and on Cithæron’s crag
Aroused another watch of flying fire.
And there the sentinels no whit disowned,
But sent redoubled on, the hest of flame—
Swift shot the light, above Gorgopis’ bay,
To Ægiplanctus’ mount, and bade the peak
Fail not the onward ordinance of fire.
And like a long beard streaming in the wind,
Full-fed with fuel, roared and rose the blaze,
And onward flaring, gleamed above the cape,
Beneath which shimmers the Saronic bay,
And thence leapt light unto Arachne’s peak,
The mountain watch that looks upon our town.
Thence to th’ Atrides’ roof—in lineage fair,
A bright posterity of Ida’s fire.
So sped from stage to stage, fulfilled in turn,
Flame after flame, along the course ordained,
And lo! the last to speed upon its way
Sights the end first, and glows unto the goal.
Tells me the tale, and ye have learned my word.
But, wouldst thou speak once more, I fain would hear
From first to last the marvel of the tale.
And loud therein the voice of utter wail!
Within one cup pour vinegar and oil,
And look! unblent, unreconciled, they war.
So in the twofold issue of the strife
Mingle the victor’s shout, the captives’ moan.
For all the conquered whom the sword has spared
Cling weeping—some unto a brother Slain,
Some childlike to a nursing father’s form,
And wail the loved and lost, the while their neck
Bows down already ’neath the captive’s chain.
And lo! the victors, now the fight is done,
Goaded by restless hunger, far and wide
Range all disordered thro’ the town, to snatch
Such vitual and such rest as chance may give
Within the captive halls that once were Troy—
Joyful to rid them of the frost and dew,
Wherein they couched upon the plain of old—
Joyful to sleep the gracious night all through,
Unsummoned of the watching sentinel.
Yet let them reverence well the city’s gods,
The lords of Troy, tho’ fallen, and her shrines;
So shall the spoilers not in turn be spoiled.
Yea, let no craving for forbidden gain
Bid conquerors yield before the darts of greed.
For we need yet, before the race be won,
Homewards, unharmed, to round the course once more.
For should the host wax wanton ere it come,
Then, tho’ the sudden blow of fate be spared,
Yet in the sight of gods shall rise once more
Now, hearing from this woman’s mouth of mine,
The tale and eke its warning, pray with me,
Luck sway the scale, with no uncertain poise,
For my fair hopes are changed to fairer joys.
Worthy a wise man’s utterance, O my queen;
Now with clear trust in thy convincing tale
I set me to salute the gods with song,
Who bring us bliss to counterpoise our pain.[Exit Clytemnestra.
Of victory, that hast our might
With all the glories crowned!
On towers of Ilion, free no more,
Hast flung the mighty mesh of war,
And closely girt them round,
Till neither warrior may ’scape,
Nor stripling lightly overleap
The trammels as they close, and close,
Till with the grip of doom our foes
In slavery’s coil are bound!
In grateful awe I bend to thee—
’Tis thou hast struck the blow!
At Alexander, long ago,
We marked thee bend thy vengeful bow,
But long and warily withhold
The eager shaft, which uncontrolled
And loosed too soon or launched too high,
Had wandered bloodless through the sky.
This can our thought track out—
The blow that fells the sinner is of God,
And as he wills, the rod
The gods list not to hold
A reckoning with him whose feet oppress
The grace of holiness—
An impious word! for whensoe’er the sire
Breathed forth rebellious fire—
What time his household overflowed the measure
Of bliss and health and treasure—
His children’s children read the reckoning plain,
At last, in tears and pain.
On me let weal that brings no woe be sent,
And therewithal, content!
Who spurns the shrine of Right, nor wealth nor power
Shall be to him a tower,
To guard him from the gulf: there lies his lot,
Where all things are forgot.
Lust drives him on—lust, desperate and wild,
Fate’s sin-contriving child—
And cure is none; beyond concealment clear,
Kindles sin’s baleful glare.
As an ill coin beneath the wearing touch
Betrays by stain and smutch
Its metal false—such is the sinful wight.
Before, on pinions light,
Fair Pleasure flits, and lures him childlike on,
While home and kin make moan
Beneath the grinding burden of his crime;
Till, in the end of time,
Cast down of heaven, he pours forth fruitless prayer
To powers that will not hear.
Unto Atrides’ home,
And thence, with sin and shame his welcome to repay,
Ravished the wife away—
And she, unto her country and her kin
Leaving the clash of shields and spears and arming ships,
And bearing unto Troy destruction for a dower,
And overbold in sin,
Went fleetly thro’ the gates, at midnight hour.
Moaned out the warning and the wail—Ah woe!
Woe for the home, the home! and for the chieftains, woe!
Woe for the bride-bed, warm
Yet from the lovely limbs, the impress of the form
Of her who loved her lord, a while ago!
And woe! for him who stands
Shamed, silent, unreproachful, stretching hands
That find her not, and sees, yet will not see,
That she is far away!
And his sad fancy, yearning o’er the sea,
Shall summon and recall
Her wraith, once more to queen it in his hall.
And sad with many memories,
The fair cold beauty of each sculptured face—
And all to hatefulness is turned their grace,
Seen blankly by forlorn and hungering eyes!
And when the night is deep,
Come visions, sweet and sad, and bearing pain