Chorus.Old Troy is taken? how?—when did it fall?Clytemnestra.The self-same night that mothers this to-day.Chorus.But how? what stalwart herald ran so fleetly?Clytemnestra.Hephæstus.f15He from Ida shot the spark;n30And flaming straightway leapt the courier fireFrom height to height; to the Hermæan rockOf Lemnos, first from Ida; from the isleThe Athóan steep of mighty Jove receivedThe beaming beacon; thence the forward strengthOf the far-travelling lamp strode gallantlyn31Athwart the broad sea’s back. The flaming pineRayed out a golden glory like the sun,And winged the message to Macistus’ watch-tower.There the wise watchman, guiltless of delay,Lent to the sleepless courier further speed;And the Messapian station hailed the torchFar-beaming o’er the floods of the Eurípus.There the grey heath lit the responsive fire,Speeding the portioned message; waxing strong,And nothing dulled across Asopus’ plainThe flame swift darted like the twinkling moon,And on Cithæron’s rocky heights awakedA new receiver of the wandering light.The far-sent ray, by the faithful watch not spurned,With bright addition journeying, bounded o’erGorgópus’ lake and Ægiplanctus’ mount,Weaving the chain unbroken.n32Hence it spreadNot scant in strength, a mighty beard of flame,n33Flaring across the headlands that look downOn the Saronic gulf.n34Speeding its march,It reached the neighbour-station of our city,Arachne’s rocky steep; and thence the hallsOf the Atridæ recognised the signal,Light not unfathered by Idæan fire.Such the bright train of my torch-bearing heralds,Each from the other fired with happy news,And last and first was victor in the race.n35Such the fair tidings that my lord hath sent,A sign that Troy hath fallen.Chorus.And for its fallOur voice shall hymn the gods anon: meanwhileI’m fain to drink more wonder from thy words.Clytemnestra.This day Troy fell. Methinks I see’t; a hostOf jarring voices stirs the startled city,Like oil and acid, sounds that will not mingle,By natural hatred sundered. Thou may’st hearShouts of the victor, with the dying groan,Battling, and captives’ cry; upon the dead—Fathers and mothers, brothers, sisters, wives—The living fall—the young upon the old;And from enthralléd necks wail out their woe.Fresh from the fight, through the dark night the spoilersTumultuous rush where hunger spurs them on,To feast on banquets never spread for them.The homes of captive Trojan chiefs they shareAs chance decides the lodgment; there secureFrom the cold night-dews and the biting frosts,Beneath the lordly roof, to their hearts’ contentn36They live, and through the watchless night prolongSound slumbers. Happy if the native godsThey reverence, and the captured altars spare,n37Themselves not captive led by their own folly!May no unbridled lust of unjust gainMaster their hearts, no reckless rash desire!Much toil yet waits them. Having turned the goal,n38The course’s other half they must mete out,Ere home receive them safe. Their ships must brookThe chances of the sea; and, these being scaped,If they have sinnedn39the gods their own will claim,And vengeance wakes till blood shall be atoned.I am a woman; but mark thou well my words;I hint the harm; but with no wavering scale,Prevail the good! I thank the gods who gave meRich store of blessings, richly to enjoy.Chorus.Woman, thou speakest wisely as a man,And kindly as thyself. But having heardThe certain signs of Agamemnon’s coming,Prepare we now to hymn the gods; for surelyWith their strong help we have not toiled in vain.O regal Jove! O blessed Night!Thou hast won thee rich adornments,Thou hast spread thy shrouding meshesO’er the towers of Priam. RuinWhelms the young, the old. In vainShall they strive to o’erleap the snare,And snap the bondsman’s galling chain,In woe retrieveless lost.Jove, I fear thee, just protectorOf the wrong’d host’s sacred rights;Thou didst keep thy bow sure bent’Gainst Alexander; not beforeThe fate-predestined hour, and notBeyond the stars, with idle aim,Thy cunning shaft was shot.CHORAL HYMN.STROPHE I.The hand of Jove hath smote them; thouMay’st trace it plainly;What the god willed, behold it nowNot purposed vainly!The gods are blind,n40and little caring,So one hath said, to mark the daringOf men, whose graceless foot hath riddenO’er things to human touch forbidden.Godless who said so; sons shall rueTheir parents’ folly,Who flushed with wealth, with insolence flown,The sober bliss of man outgrown,The trump of Mars unchastened blew,And stirred red strife without the hueOf justice wholly.Live wiselier thou, not waxing grossWith gain, thou shalt be free from loss.Weak is his tower, with pampering wealthIn brief allianceWho spurns great Justice’ altar dreadWith damned defiance;Him the deep hell shall claim, and shameHis vain reliance.ANTISTROPHE I.Self-will fell Até’s daughter,n41stillFore-counselling ruin,Shall spur him on resistless borneTo his undoing.Fined with sharp loss beyond repairing,His misery like a beacon flaring,Shall shine to all. Like evil brass,That tested shows a coarse black mass,His deep distemper he shall showBy dints of trial.Even as a boy in wanton sport,n42Chasing a bird to his own hurt,And to the state’s redeemless loss,Whom, when he prays, the gods shall crossWith sheer denial,And sweep the lewd and lawless liverFrom earth’s fair memory for ever;Thus to the Atridans’ palace cameFalse Alexander,And shared the hospitable board,A bold offender,Filching his host’s fair wife awayTo far Scamander.STROPHE II.She went, and to the Argive city leftSquadrons shield-bearing,Battle preparing,Swords many-flashing,Oars many-plashing;She went, destruction for her dowry bearing,To the Sigean shore;Light with swift foot she brushed the doorstead, daringA deed undared before.The prophets of the house loud wailing,n43Cried with sorrow unavailing,“Woe to the Atridans! woe!The lofty palaces fallen low!The marriage and the marriage bed,The steps once faithful, fond to followThere where the faithful husband led!”He silent stood in sadness, not in wrath,n44His own eye scarce believing,As he followed her flight beyond the pathOf the sea-wave broadly heaving.And phantoms sway each haunt well known,Which the lost loved one wont to own,And the statued forms that look from their seatsWith a cold smile serenely,He loathes to look on; in his eyePines Aphroditéf16leanly.ANTISTROPHE II.In vain he sleeps; for in the fretful nightShapes of fair seemingFlit through his dreaming,Soothing him sweetly,Leaving him fleetlyOf bliss all barren. The shape fond fancy weaves himHis eager grasp would keep,In vain; it cheats the hand; and leaves him, sweepingSwift o’er the paths of sleep.These sorrows pierce the Atridan chiefs,And, worse than these, their private griefs,But general Greece that to the fraySent her thousands, mourns to-day;And Grief stout-hearted at each doorSits to bear the burden soreOf deathful news from the Trojan shore.Ah! many an Argive heart to-dayIs pricked with wail and mourning,Knowing how many went to Troy,From Troy how few returning!The mothers of each house shall waitTo greet their sons at every gate;But, alas! not men, but dust of menEach sorrowing house receiveth,The urn in which the fleshly caseIts cindered ruin leaveth.STROPHE III.For Mars doth market bodies, and for goldGives dust, and in the battle of the boldHolds the dread scales of Fate.Burnt cinders, a light burden, but to friendsA heavy freight,He sends from Troy; the beautiful vase he sendsWith dust, for hearts, well lined, on which descendsThe frequent tear.And friends do wail their praise; thin hereExpert to wield the pointed spear,And this who cast his life away,Nobly in ignoble fray,For a strange woman’s sake.And in their silent hearts hate burns;Against the kingsThe moody-muttered grudge creeps forth,And points its stings.Others they mourn who ’neath Troy’s wallEntombed, dark sleep prolong,Low pressed beneath the hostile sod,The beautiful, the strong!ANTISTROPHE III.O hard to bear, when evil murmurs fly,Is a nation’s hate; unblest on whom doth lieA people’s curse!My heart is dark, in my fear-procreant brainBad begets worse.For not from heaven the gods behold in vainHands red with slaughter. The black-mantled trainf17Who watch and wait,In their own hour shall turn to baneThe bliss that grew from godless gain.The mighty man with heart elateShall fall; even as the sightless shades,The great man’s glory fades.Sweet to the ear is the popular cheerForth billowed loudly;But the bolt from on high shall blast his eyen45That looketh proudly.Be mine the sober bliss, and farFrom fortune’s high-strung rapture;Not capturing others, may I neverSee my own city’s capture!EPODE.Swift-winged with thrilling note it came,The blithe news from the courier-flame;But whether true and witnessed well,Or if some god hath forged a lie,What tongue can tell?Who is so young, so green of wit,That his heart should blaze with a fever fit,At a tale of this fire-courier’s telling,When a new rumour swiftly swelling,May turn him back to dole? To lift the noteOf clamorous triumph ere the fight be fought,Is a light chance may fitly fall,Where women wield the spear.n46A wandering word by woman’s fond faith spedSwells and increases,But with dispersion swift a woman’s taleIs lost and ceases.EnterClytemnestra.Clytemnestra.Soon shall we know if the light-bearing lampsAnd the bright signals of the fiery changesSpake true or, dream-like, have deceived our senseWith smiling semblance. For, behold, where comes,Beneath the outspread olive’s branchy shade,A herald from the beach; and thirsty dust,Twin-sister of the clay, attests his speed.Not voiceless he, nor with the smoking flameOf mountain pine will bring uncertain news.His heraldry gives increase to our joy,Or—but to speak ill-omened words I shun;—May fair addition fair beginning follow!Chorus.Whoso fears evil where no harm appears,Reap first himself the fruit of his own fears.EnterHerald.Herald.Hail Argive land! dear fatherland, all hail!This tenth year’s light doth shine on my return!And now this one heart’s hope from countless wrecksI save! Scarce hoped I e’er to lay my bonesWithin the tomb where dearest dust is stored.I greet thee, native land! thee, shining sun!Thee, the land’s Sovereign, Jove! thee, Pythian King,Shooting no more thy swift-winged shafts against us.Enough on red Scamander’s banks we knewThee hostile; now our saviour-god be thou,Apollo, and our healer from much harm!n47And you, all gods that guide the chance of fight,I here revoke; and thee, my high protector,Loved Hermes, of all heralds most revered.And you, all heroes that sent forth our hosts,Bring back, I pray, our remnant with good omens.O kingly halls! O venerated seats!O dear-loved roofs, and ye sun-fronting gods,n48If ever erst, now on this happy day,With these bright-beaming eyes, duly receiveYour late returning king; for AgamemnonComes, like the sun, a common joy to all.Greet him with triumph, as beseems the man,Who with the mattock of justice-bringing JoveHath dug the roots of Troy, hath made its altarsThings seen no more, its towering temples razed,And caused the seed of the whole land to perish.Such yoke on Ilium’s haughty neck the elderAtridan threw, a king whom gods have blessedAnd men revere, ’mongst mortals worthy mostOf honour; now nor Paris, nor in the bondPartner’d with him, old Troy more crime may boastThan penalty; duly in the court of fight,In the just doom of rape and robbery damned,His pledge is forfeited;n49his hand hath reapedClean bare the harvest of all bliss from Troy.Doubly they suffer for a double crime.Chorus.Hail soldier herald, how farest thou?Herald.Right well!So well that I could bless the gods and die.Chorus.Doubtless thy love of country tried thy heart?Herald.To see these shores I weep for very joy.Chorus.And that soul-sickness sweetly held thee?Herald.How?Instruct my wit to comprehend thy words.Chorus.Smitten with love of them that much loved thee.Herald.Say’st thou? loved Argos us as we loved Argos?Chorus.Ofttimes we sorrowed from a sunless soul.Herald.How so? Why should the thought of the host have cloudedThy soul with sadness?Chorus.Sorrow not causeless came;But I have learned to drug all woes by silence.Herald.Whom should’st thou quail before, the chiefs away?Chorus.I could have used thy phrase, and wished to die.Herald.Die now, an’ thou wilt, for joy! The rolling yearsHave given all things a prosperous end, though someWere hard to bear; for who, not being a god,Can hope to live long years of bliss unbroken?A weary tale it were to tell the titheOf all our hardships; toils by day, by night,Harsh harbourage, hard hammocks, and scant sleep.No sun without new troubles, and new groans,Shone on our voyage; and when at length we landed,Our woes were doubled; ’neath the hostile walls,On marshy meads night-sprinkled by the dews,We slept, our clothes rotted with drenching rain,And like wild beasts with shaggy-knotted hair.Why should I tell bird-killing winter’s sorrows,Long months of suffering from Idéan snows,Then summer’s scorching heat, when noon beheldThe waveless sea beneath the windless airIn sleep diffused; these toils have run their hour.The dead care not to rise; their roll our griefWould muster o’er in vain; and we who liveVainly shall fret at the cross strokes of fate.Henceforth to each harsh memory of the pastFarewell! we who survive this long-drawn warHave gains to count that far outweigh the loss.Well may we boast in the face of the shining sun,O’er land and sea our winged tidings wafting,The Achæan host hath captured Troy; and nowOn the high temples of the gods we hangThese spoils, a shining grace, there to remainAn heritage for ever.n50These things to hearShall men rejoice, and with fair praises laudThe state and its great generals, laud the graceOf Jove the Consummator. I have said.Chorus.I own thy speech the conqueror; for a manCan never be too old to learn good news,And though thy words touch Clytemnestra most,Joy to the Atridan’s halls is wealth to me.Clytemnestra.I lifted first the shout of jubilee,Then when the midnight sign of the courier fireTold the deep downfall of the captured Troy;But one then mocked my faith, that I believedThe fire-sped message in so true a tale.’Tis a light thing to buoy a woman’s heartWith hopeful news, they cried; and with these wordsThey wildered my weak wit. And yet I spedThe sacrifice, and raised the welcoming shoutIn woman’s wise, and at a woman’s wordForthwith from street to street uprose to the godsWell-omened salutations, and glad hymns,Lulling the fragrant incense-feeding flame.What needs there more? The event has proved me right,Himself—my lord—with his own lips shall speakThe weighty tale; myself will go make readyWith well-earned honour to receive the honoured.What brighter bliss on woman’s lot may beam,Than when a god gives back her spouse from war,To ope the gates of welcome. Tell my husband,To his loved home, desired of all, to haste.A faithful wife, even as he left her, hereHe’ll find expectant, like a watch-dog, gentleTo him and his, to all that hate him harsh.The seals that knew his stamp, when hence he sailed,Unharmed remain, untouched: and for myselfNor praise nor blame from other man I know,No more than dyer’s art can tincture brass.n51Herald.A boast like this, instinct with very truth,Comes from a noble lady without blame.Chorus.Wise words she spake, and words that need no commentTo ears that understand. But say, good Herald,Comes Menelaus safe back from the wars,His kindly sway in Argos to resume?Herald.I cannot gloss a lie with fair pretence;The best told lie bears but a short-lived fruit.Chorus.Speak the truth plainly, if thou canst not pleasantly;These twain be seldom wedded; and here, alas!They stand out sundered with too clear a mark.Herald.The man is vanished from the Achæan host,He and his vessel. Thou hast heard the truth.Chorus.Sailed he from Ilium separate from the fleet?Or did the tempest part him from his friends!Herald.Like a good marksman thou hast hit the mark,In one short sentence summing many sorrows.Chorus.Alive is he or dead? What word hath reached you?What wandering rumour from sea-faring men?Herald.This none can tell, save yon bright sun aloft,That cherishes all things with his friendly light.Chorus.How came the storm on the fleet? or how was endedThe wrath of the gods?Herald.Not well it suits to blotWith black rehearsal this auspicious day.Far from the honors of the blissful godsn52Be grief’s recital. When with gloomy visageAn ugly tale the herald’s voice unfolds,At once a general wound, and private grief,An army lost, the sons of countless housesDeath-doomed by the double scourge so dear to Ares,f18A twin-speared harm, a yoke of crimson slaughter:A herald saddled with such woes may singA pæan to the Erinnyes. But I,Who to this city blithe and prosperousBrought the fair news of Agamemnon’s safety,How shall I mingle bad with good, rehearsingThe wintry wrath sent by the gods to whelm us?Fire and the sea, sworn enemies of old,n53Made friendly league to sweep the Achæan hostWith swift destruction pitiless. Forth rushedThe tyrannous Thracian blasts, and wave chased wave,Fierce ’neath the starless night, and ship on shipStruck clashing; beak on butting beak was driven;The puffing blast, the beat of boiling billows,The whirling gulph (an evil pilot) wrapt themIn sightless death. And when the shining sunShone forth again, we see the Ægean tideStrewn with the purple blossoms of the dead,And wrecks of shattered ships. Us and our barkSome god, no man, the storm-tost hull directing,Hath rescued scathless, stealing us from the fray,Or with a prayer begging our life from Fate.Kind Fortune helmed us further, safely keptFrom yeasty ferment in the billowy bay,Nor dashed on far-ledged rocks. Thus having ’scapedThat ocean hell,n54scarce trusting our fair fortune,We hailed the lucid day; but could we hope,The chance that saved ourselves had saved our friends?Our fearful hearts with thoughts of them we fed,Far-labouring o’er the loosely-driving main.n55And doubtless they, if yet live breath they breathe,Deem so of us, as we must fear of them,That they have perished. But I hope the best.And first and chief expect ye the returnOf Menelaus. If the sun’s blest rayYet looks on him, where he beholds the dayBy Jove’s devising,n56not yet willing whollyTo uproot the race of Atreus, hope may beHe yet returns. Thou hast my tale; and IHave told the truth untinctured with a lie. [Exit.CHORAL HYMN.STROPHE I.Who gave her a nameSo true to her fame?Does a Providence rule in the fate of a word?Sways there in heaven a viewless powerO’er the chance of the tongue in the naming hour?Who gave her a name,This daughter of strife, this daughter of shame,The spear-wooed maid of Greece?Helen the taker!n57’tis plain to seeA taker of ships, a taker of men,A taker of cities she.From the soft-curtained chamber of Hymen she fled,By the breath of giantn58Zephyr sped,And shield-bearing throngs in marshalled arrayHounded her flight o’er the printless way,Where the swift-plashing oarThe fair booty boreTo swirling Simois’ leafy shore,And stirred the crimson fray.ANTISTROPHE I.For the gods sent a bride,Kin but not kind,n59Ripe with the counsel of wrath to Troy,In the fulness of years, the offender to prove,And assert the justice of Jove;For great Jove is lordOf the rights of the hearth and the festal board.The sons of Priam sangA song to the praise of the bride:From jubilant throats they praised her then,The bride from Hellas brought;But now the ancient city hath changedHer hymn to a doleful note.She weeps bitter tears; she curses the headOf the woe-wedded Paris; she curses the bedOf the beautiful brideThat crossed the flood,And filched the life of her sons, and washedHer wide-paved streets with blood.STROPHE II.Whoso nurseth the cub of a lionWeaned from the dugs of its dam, where the draughtOf its mountain-milk was free,Finds it gentle at first and tame.It frisks with the children in innocent game,And the old man smiles to see;It is dandled about like a babe in the arm,It licketh the hand that fears no harm,And when hunger pinches its fretful maw,It fawns with an eager glee.ANTISTROPHE II.But it grows with the years; and soon revealsThe fount of fierceness whence it came:And, loathing the food of the tame,It roams abroad, and feasts in the fold,On feasts forbidden, and stains the floorOf the house that nursed it with gore.A curse they nursed for their own undoing,A mouth by which their own friends shall perish;A servant of Até, a priest of Ruin,n60Some god hath taught them to cherish.STROPHE III.Thus to Troy came a bride of the Spartan race,With a beauty as bland as a windless calm,Prosperity’s gentlest grace;And mild was love’s blossom that rayed from her eye,The soft-winged dart that with pleasing painThrills heart and brain.But anon she changed: herself fulfilledHer wedlock’s bitter end;A fatal sister, a fatal bride,Her fateful head she rears;Herself the Erinnys from Jove to avengeThe right of the injured host, and changeThe bridal joy to tears.ANTISTROPHE III.’Twas said of old, and ’tis said to-day,That wealth to prosperous stature grownBegets a birth of its own:That a surfeit of evil by good is prepared,And sons must bear what allotment of woeTheir sires were spared.But this I rebel to believe: I knowThat impious deeds conspireTo beget an offspring of impious deedsToo like their ugly sire.But whoso is lust, though his wealth like a riverFlow down, shall be scathless: his house shall rejoiceIn an offspring of beauty for ever.STROPHE IV.The heart of the haughty delights to begetA haughty heart.n61From time to timeIn children’s children recurrent appearsThe ancestral crime.When the dark hour comes that the gods have decreed,And the Fury burns with wrathful fires,A demon unholy, with ire unabated,Lies like black night on the halls of the fated:And the recreant son plunges guiltily onTo perfect the guilt of his sires.ANTISTROPHE IV.But Justice shines in a lowly cell;In the homes of poverty, smoke-begrimed,With the sober-minded she loves to dwell.But she turns asideFrom the rich man’s house with averted eye,The golden-fretted halls of prideWhere hands with lucre are foul, and the praiseOf counterfeit goodness smoothly sways:And wisely she guides in the strong man’s despiteAll things to an issue ofright.Chorus.But, hail the king! the city-takingSeed of Atreus’ race.How shall I accost thee! HowWith beseeming reverence greet thee?Nor above the mark, nor sinkingBeneath the line of grace?Many of mortal men there be,’Gainst the rule of right preferringSeeming to substance; tears are freeIn the eye when woe its tale rehearseth,But the sting of sorrow piercethNo man’s liver; many forceLack-laughter faces to relaxInto the soft lines traced by joy.But the shepherd true and wiseKnows the faithless man, whose eyes,With a forward friendship twinkling,Fawn with watery love.n62For me, I nothing hide. O King,In my fancy’s picturing,From the Muses far I deemed thee,And thy soul not wisely helmingWhen thou drew’st the knifeFor Helen’s sake, a woman, whelmingThousands in ruin, rushing rashlyOn unwelcome strife.But now all’s well. No shallow smilesWe wear for thee, thy weary toilsAll finished. Thou shalt know anonWhat friends do serve thee truly,And who in thy long absence usedTheir stewardship unduly.EnterAgamemnonwith attendants;Cassandrabehind.Agamemnon.First Argos hail! and ye, my country’s gods,Who worked my safe return, and nerved my armWith vengeance against Priam! for the gods,Taught by no glozing tongue, but by the sightOf their own eyes knew justice; voting ruinAnd men-destroying death to ancient Troy,Their fatal pebbles in the bloody urnNot doubtingly they dropt; the other vase,Unfed with hope of suffrage-bearing hand,Stood empty. Now the captured city’s smokePoints where it fell. Raves Ruin’s storm; the windsWith crumbled dust and dissipated goldFloat grossly laden. To the immortal godsThese thanks, fraught with rich memory of much good,We pay; they taught our hands to spread the netWith anger-whetted wit; a woman’s frailtyLaid bare old Ilium to the Argive bite,And with the setting Pleiads outleapt a birthOf strong shield-bearers from the fateful horse.A fierce flesh-tearing lion leapt their wails,And licked a surfeit of tyrannic blood.This prelude to the gods. As for thy wordsOf friendly welcome, I return thy greeting,And as your thought, so mine; for few are giftedWith such rich store of love, to see a friendPreferred and feel no envy; ’tis a diseasePossessing mortal men, a poison lodgedClose by the heart, eating all joy awayWith double barb—has own mischance who suffersAnd bliss of others sitting at his gate,Which when he sees he groans. I know it well;They who seemed most my friends, and many seemed,Were but the mirrored show, the shadowy ghostOf something like to friendship, substanceless.Ulysses only, most averse to sail,Was still most ready an the yoke with meTo bear the harness; living now or dead,This praise I frankly give him. For the rest,The city and the gods, we will take counselIn full assembly freely. What is goodWe will give heed that it be lasting; whereDisease the cutting or the caustic cureDemands, we will apply it. I, meanwhile,My hearth and home salute, and greet the gods,Who, as they sent me to the distant fray,Have brought me safely back. Fair victory,Once mine, may she dwell with me evermore!Clytemnestra.Men! Citizens! ye reverend Argive seniors,No shame feel I, even in your face, to tellMy husband-loving ways. Long converse lendsBoldness to bashfulness. No foreign griefs,Mine own self-suffered woes I tell. While heWas camping far at Ilium, I at homeSat all forlorn, uncherished by the mateWhom I had chosen; this was woe enoughWithout enforcement; but, to try me further,A host of jarring rumours stormed my doors,Each fresh recital with a murkier hueThan its precedent; and I must hear all.If this my lord, had borne as many woundsIn battle as the bloody fame recounted,He had been pierced throughout even as a net;And had he died as oft as Rumour slew him,He might have boasted of a triple coiln63Like the three-bodied Geryon, while on earth(Of him below I speak not), and like himBeen three times heaped with a cloak of funeral dust.Thus fretted by cross-grained reports, oft-timesThe knotted rope high-swung had held my neck,But that my friends with forceful aid prevented.Add that my son, pledge of our mutual vows,Orestes is not here; nor think it strange.Thy Phocian spear-guest,n64the most trusty Strophius,Took him in charge, a twofold danger urgingFirst thine beneath the walls of Troy, and furtherThe evil likelihood that, should the GreeksBe worsted in the strife, at home the voiceOf many-babbling anarchy might castThe council down, and as man’s baseness is,At fallen greatness insolently spurn.Moved by these thoughts I parted with my boy,And for no other cause. Myself the whileSo woe-worn lived, the fountains of my griefTo their last drop were with much weeping drained;And far into the night my watch I’ve keptWith weary eyes, while in my lonely roomThe night-torch faintly glimmered. In my dreamThe buzzing gnat, with its light-brushing wing,Startled the fretful sleeper; thou hast beenIn waking hours, as in sleep’s fitful turnsMy only thought. But having bravely borneThis weight of woe, now with blithe heart I greetThee, my heart’s lord, the watch-dog of the fold,The ship’s sure mainstay, pillared shaft whereonRests the high roof, fond parent’s only child,Land seen by sailors past all hope, a dayLovely to look on when the storm hath broken,And to the thirsty wayfarer the flowOf gushing rill. O sweet it is, how sweetTo see an end of the harsh yoke that galled us!These greetings to my lord; nor grudge me, friends,This breadth of welcome; sorrows we have knownAmple enough. And now, thou precious head,Come from thy car; nay, do not set thy foot,The foot that trampled Troy, on common clay.What ho! ye laggard maids! why lags your taskBehind the hour? Spread purple where he treads.Fitly the broidered foot-cloth marks his path,Whom Justice leadeth to his long-lost homeWith unexpected train. What else remainsOur sleepless zeal, with favour of the gods,Shall order as befits.Agamemnon.Daughter of Leda, guardian of my house!Almost thou seem’st to have spun thy welcome outTo match my lengthened absence; but I pray theePraise with discretion, and let other mouthsProclaim my pæans. For the rest, abstainFrom delicate tendance that would turn my manhoodTo woman’s temper. Not in barbaric wiseWith prostrate reverence base, kissing the ground,Mouth sounding salutations; not with purple,Breeder of envy, spread my path. Such honorsSuit the immortal gods; me, being mortal,To tread on rich-flowered carpetings wise fearProhibits. As a man, not as a god,Let me be honored. Not the less my fameShall be far blazoned, that on common earthI tread untapestried. A sober heartIs the best gift of God; call no man happyTill death hath found him prosperous to the close.For me, if what awaits me fall not worse
Chorus.
Old Troy is taken? how?—when did it fall?
Clytemnestra.
The self-same night that mothers this to-day.
Chorus.
But how? what stalwart herald ran so fleetly?
Clytemnestra.
Hephæstus.f15He from Ida shot the spark;n30
And flaming straightway leapt the courier fire
From height to height; to the Hermæan rock
Of Lemnos, first from Ida; from the isle
The Athóan steep of mighty Jove received
The beaming beacon; thence the forward strength
Of the far-travelling lamp strode gallantlyn31
Athwart the broad sea’s back. The flaming pine
Rayed out a golden glory like the sun,
And winged the message to Macistus’ watch-tower.
There the wise watchman, guiltless of delay,
Lent to the sleepless courier further speed;
And the Messapian station hailed the torch
Far-beaming o’er the floods of the Eurípus.
There the grey heath lit the responsive fire,
Speeding the portioned message; waxing strong,
And nothing dulled across Asopus’ plain
The flame swift darted like the twinkling moon,
And on Cithæron’s rocky heights awaked
A new receiver of the wandering light.
The far-sent ray, by the faithful watch not spurned,
With bright addition journeying, bounded o’er
Gorgópus’ lake and Ægiplanctus’ mount,
Weaving the chain unbroken.n32Hence it spread
Not scant in strength, a mighty beard of flame,n33
Flaring across the headlands that look down
On the Saronic gulf.n34Speeding its march,
It reached the neighbour-station of our city,
Arachne’s rocky steep; and thence the halls
Of the Atridæ recognised the signal,
Light not unfathered by Idæan fire.
Such the bright train of my torch-bearing heralds,
Each from the other fired with happy news,
And last and first was victor in the race.n35
Such the fair tidings that my lord hath sent,
A sign that Troy hath fallen.
Chorus.
And for its fall
Our voice shall hymn the gods anon: meanwhile
I’m fain to drink more wonder from thy words.
Clytemnestra.
This day Troy fell. Methinks I see’t; a host
Of jarring voices stirs the startled city,
Like oil and acid, sounds that will not mingle,
By natural hatred sundered. Thou may’st hear
Shouts of the victor, with the dying groan,
Battling, and captives’ cry; upon the dead—
Fathers and mothers, brothers, sisters, wives—
The living fall—the young upon the old;
And from enthralléd necks wail out their woe.
Fresh from the fight, through the dark night the spoilers
Tumultuous rush where hunger spurs them on,
To feast on banquets never spread for them.
The homes of captive Trojan chiefs they share
As chance decides the lodgment; there secure
From the cold night-dews and the biting frosts,
Beneath the lordly roof, to their hearts’ contentn36
They live, and through the watchless night prolong
Sound slumbers. Happy if the native gods
They reverence, and the captured altars spare,n37
Themselves not captive led by their own folly!
May no unbridled lust of unjust gain
Master their hearts, no reckless rash desire!
Much toil yet waits them. Having turned the goal,n38
The course’s other half they must mete out,
Ere home receive them safe. Their ships must brook
The chances of the sea; and, these being scaped,
If they have sinnedn39the gods their own will claim,
And vengeance wakes till blood shall be atoned.
I am a woman; but mark thou well my words;
I hint the harm; but with no wavering scale,
Prevail the good! I thank the gods who gave me
Rich store of blessings, richly to enjoy.
Chorus.
Woman, thou speakest wisely as a man,
And kindly as thyself. But having heard
The certain signs of Agamemnon’s coming,
Prepare we now to hymn the gods; for surely
With their strong help we have not toiled in vain.
O regal Jove! O blessed Night!
Thou hast won thee rich adornments,
Thou hast spread thy shrouding meshes
O’er the towers of Priam. Ruin
Whelms the young, the old. In vain
Shall they strive to o’erleap the snare,
And snap the bondsman’s galling chain,
In woe retrieveless lost.
Jove, I fear thee, just protector
Of the wrong’d host’s sacred rights;
Thou didst keep thy bow sure bent
’Gainst Alexander; not before
The fate-predestined hour, and not
Beyond the stars, with idle aim,
Thy cunning shaft was shot.
CHORAL HYMN.STROPHE I.
The hand of Jove hath smote them; thou
May’st trace it plainly;
What the god willed, behold it now
Not purposed vainly!
The gods are blind,n40and little caring,
So one hath said, to mark the daring
Of men, whose graceless foot hath ridden
O’er things to human touch forbidden.
Godless who said so; sons shall rue
Their parents’ folly,
Who flushed with wealth, with insolence flown,
The sober bliss of man outgrown,
The trump of Mars unchastened blew,
And stirred red strife without the hue
Of justice wholly.
Live wiselier thou, not waxing gross
With gain, thou shalt be free from loss.
Weak is his tower, with pampering wealth
In brief alliance
Who spurns great Justice’ altar dread
With damned defiance;
Him the deep hell shall claim, and shame
His vain reliance.
ANTISTROPHE I.
Self-will fell Até’s daughter,n41still
Fore-counselling ruin,
Shall spur him on resistless borne
To his undoing.
Fined with sharp loss beyond repairing,
His misery like a beacon flaring,
Shall shine to all. Like evil brass,
That tested shows a coarse black mass,
His deep distemper he shall show
By dints of trial.
Even as a boy in wanton sport,n42
Chasing a bird to his own hurt,
And to the state’s redeemless loss,
Whom, when he prays, the gods shall cross
With sheer denial,
And sweep the lewd and lawless liver
From earth’s fair memory for ever;
Thus to the Atridans’ palace came
False Alexander,
And shared the hospitable board,
A bold offender,
Filching his host’s fair wife away
To far Scamander.
STROPHE II.
She went, and to the Argive city left
Squadrons shield-bearing,
Battle preparing,
Swords many-flashing,
Oars many-plashing;
She went, destruction for her dowry bearing,
To the Sigean shore;
Light with swift foot she brushed the doorstead, daring
A deed undared before.
The prophets of the house loud wailing,n43
Cried with sorrow unavailing,
“Woe to the Atridans! woe!
The lofty palaces fallen low!
The marriage and the marriage bed,
The steps once faithful, fond to follow
There where the faithful husband led!”
He silent stood in sadness, not in wrath,n44
His own eye scarce believing,
As he followed her flight beyond the path
Of the sea-wave broadly heaving.
And phantoms sway each haunt well known,
Which the lost loved one wont to own,
And the statued forms that look from their seats
With a cold smile serenely,
He loathes to look on; in his eye
Pines Aphroditéf16leanly.
ANTISTROPHE II.
In vain he sleeps; for in the fretful night
Shapes of fair seeming
Flit through his dreaming,
Soothing him sweetly,
Leaving him fleetly
Of bliss all barren. The shape fond fancy weaves him
His eager grasp would keep,
In vain; it cheats the hand; and leaves him, sweeping
Swift o’er the paths of sleep.
These sorrows pierce the Atridan chiefs,
And, worse than these, their private griefs,
But general Greece that to the fray
Sent her thousands, mourns to-day;
And Grief stout-hearted at each door
Sits to bear the burden sore
Of deathful news from the Trojan shore.
Ah! many an Argive heart to-day
Is pricked with wail and mourning,
Knowing how many went to Troy,
From Troy how few returning!
The mothers of each house shall wait
To greet their sons at every gate;
But, alas! not men, but dust of men
Each sorrowing house receiveth,
The urn in which the fleshly case
Its cindered ruin leaveth.
STROPHE III.
For Mars doth market bodies, and for gold
Gives dust, and in the battle of the bold
Holds the dread scales of Fate.
Burnt cinders, a light burden, but to friends
A heavy freight,
He sends from Troy; the beautiful vase he sends
With dust, for hearts, well lined, on which descends
The frequent tear.
And friends do wail their praise; thin here
Expert to wield the pointed spear,
And this who cast his life away,
Nobly in ignoble fray,
For a strange woman’s sake.
And in their silent hearts hate burns;
Against the kings
The moody-muttered grudge creeps forth,
And points its stings.
Others they mourn who ’neath Troy’s wall
Entombed, dark sleep prolong,
Low pressed beneath the hostile sod,
The beautiful, the strong!
ANTISTROPHE III.
O hard to bear, when evil murmurs fly,
Is a nation’s hate; unblest on whom doth lie
A people’s curse!
My heart is dark, in my fear-procreant brain
Bad begets worse.
For not from heaven the gods behold in vain
Hands red with slaughter. The black-mantled trainf17
Who watch and wait,
In their own hour shall turn to bane
The bliss that grew from godless gain.
The mighty man with heart elate
Shall fall; even as the sightless shades,
The great man’s glory fades.
Sweet to the ear is the popular cheer
Forth billowed loudly;
But the bolt from on high shall blast his eyen45
That looketh proudly.
Be mine the sober bliss, and far
From fortune’s high-strung rapture;
Not capturing others, may I never
See my own city’s capture!
EPODE.
Swift-winged with thrilling note it came,
The blithe news from the courier-flame;
But whether true and witnessed well,
Or if some god hath forged a lie,
What tongue can tell?
Who is so young, so green of wit,
That his heart should blaze with a fever fit,
At a tale of this fire-courier’s telling,
When a new rumour swiftly swelling,
May turn him back to dole? To lift the note
Of clamorous triumph ere the fight be fought,
Is a light chance may fitly fall,
Where women wield the spear.n46
A wandering word by woman’s fond faith sped
Swells and increases,
But with dispersion swift a woman’s tale
Is lost and ceases.
EnterClytemnestra.
Clytemnestra.
Soon shall we know if the light-bearing lamps
And the bright signals of the fiery changes
Spake true or, dream-like, have deceived our sense
With smiling semblance. For, behold, where comes,
Beneath the outspread olive’s branchy shade,
A herald from the beach; and thirsty dust,
Twin-sister of the clay, attests his speed.
Not voiceless he, nor with the smoking flame
Of mountain pine will bring uncertain news.
His heraldry gives increase to our joy,
Or—but to speak ill-omened words I shun;—
May fair addition fair beginning follow!
Chorus.
Whoso fears evil where no harm appears,
Reap first himself the fruit of his own fears.
EnterHerald.
Herald.
Hail Argive land! dear fatherland, all hail!
This tenth year’s light doth shine on my return!
And now this one heart’s hope from countless wrecks
I save! Scarce hoped I e’er to lay my bones
Within the tomb where dearest dust is stored.
I greet thee, native land! thee, shining sun!
Thee, the land’s Sovereign, Jove! thee, Pythian King,
Shooting no more thy swift-winged shafts against us.
Enough on red Scamander’s banks we knew
Thee hostile; now our saviour-god be thou,
Apollo, and our healer from much harm!n47
And you, all gods that guide the chance of fight,
I here revoke; and thee, my high protector,
Loved Hermes, of all heralds most revered.
And you, all heroes that sent forth our hosts,
Bring back, I pray, our remnant with good omens.
O kingly halls! O venerated seats!
O dear-loved roofs, and ye sun-fronting gods,n48
If ever erst, now on this happy day,
With these bright-beaming eyes, duly receive
Your late returning king; for Agamemnon
Comes, like the sun, a common joy to all.
Greet him with triumph, as beseems the man,
Who with the mattock of justice-bringing Jove
Hath dug the roots of Troy, hath made its altars
Things seen no more, its towering temples razed,
And caused the seed of the whole land to perish.
Such yoke on Ilium’s haughty neck the elder
Atridan threw, a king whom gods have blessed
And men revere, ’mongst mortals worthy most
Of honour; now nor Paris, nor in the bond
Partner’d with him, old Troy more crime may boast
Than penalty; duly in the court of fight,
In the just doom of rape and robbery damned,
His pledge is forfeited;n49his hand hath reaped
Clean bare the harvest of all bliss from Troy.
Doubly they suffer for a double crime.
Chorus.
Hail soldier herald, how farest thou?
Herald.
Right well!
So well that I could bless the gods and die.
Chorus.
Doubtless thy love of country tried thy heart?
Herald.
To see these shores I weep for very joy.
Chorus.
And that soul-sickness sweetly held thee?
Herald.
How?
Instruct my wit to comprehend thy words.
Chorus.
Smitten with love of them that much loved thee.
Herald.
Say’st thou? loved Argos us as we loved Argos?
Chorus.
Ofttimes we sorrowed from a sunless soul.
Herald.
How so? Why should the thought of the host have clouded
Thy soul with sadness?
Chorus.
Sorrow not causeless came;
But I have learned to drug all woes by silence.
Herald.
Whom should’st thou quail before, the chiefs away?
Chorus.
I could have used thy phrase, and wished to die.
Herald.
Die now, an’ thou wilt, for joy! The rolling years
Have given all things a prosperous end, though some
Were hard to bear; for who, not being a god,
Can hope to live long years of bliss unbroken?
A weary tale it were to tell the tithe
Of all our hardships; toils by day, by night,
Harsh harbourage, hard hammocks, and scant sleep.
No sun without new troubles, and new groans,
Shone on our voyage; and when at length we landed,
Our woes were doubled; ’neath the hostile walls,
On marshy meads night-sprinkled by the dews,
We slept, our clothes rotted with drenching rain,
And like wild beasts with shaggy-knotted hair.
Why should I tell bird-killing winter’s sorrows,
Long months of suffering from Idéan snows,
Then summer’s scorching heat, when noon beheld
The waveless sea beneath the windless air
In sleep diffused; these toils have run their hour.
The dead care not to rise; their roll our grief
Would muster o’er in vain; and we who live
Vainly shall fret at the cross strokes of fate.
Henceforth to each harsh memory of the past
Farewell! we who survive this long-drawn war
Have gains to count that far outweigh the loss.
Well may we boast in the face of the shining sun,
O’er land and sea our winged tidings wafting,
The Achæan host hath captured Troy; and now
On the high temples of the gods we hang
These spoils, a shining grace, there to remain
An heritage for ever.n50These things to hear
Shall men rejoice, and with fair praises laud
The state and its great generals, laud the grace
Of Jove the Consummator. I have said.
Chorus.
I own thy speech the conqueror; for a man
Can never be too old to learn good news,
And though thy words touch Clytemnestra most,
Joy to the Atridan’s halls is wealth to me.
Clytemnestra.
I lifted first the shout of jubilee,
Then when the midnight sign of the courier fire
Told the deep downfall of the captured Troy;
But one then mocked my faith, that I believed
The fire-sped message in so true a tale.
’Tis a light thing to buoy a woman’s heart
With hopeful news, they cried; and with these words
They wildered my weak wit. And yet I sped
The sacrifice, and raised the welcoming shout
In woman’s wise, and at a woman’s word
Forthwith from street to street uprose to the gods
Well-omened salutations, and glad hymns,
Lulling the fragrant incense-feeding flame.
What needs there more? The event has proved me right,
Himself—my lord—with his own lips shall speak
The weighty tale; myself will go make ready
With well-earned honour to receive the honoured.
What brighter bliss on woman’s lot may beam,
Than when a god gives back her spouse from war,
To ope the gates of welcome. Tell my husband,
To his loved home, desired of all, to haste.
A faithful wife, even as he left her, here
He’ll find expectant, like a watch-dog, gentle
To him and his, to all that hate him harsh.
The seals that knew his stamp, when hence he sailed,
Unharmed remain, untouched: and for myself
Nor praise nor blame from other man I know,
No more than dyer’s art can tincture brass.n51
Herald.
A boast like this, instinct with very truth,
Comes from a noble lady without blame.
Chorus.
Wise words she spake, and words that need no comment
To ears that understand. But say, good Herald,
Comes Menelaus safe back from the wars,
His kindly sway in Argos to resume?
Herald.
I cannot gloss a lie with fair pretence;
The best told lie bears but a short-lived fruit.
Chorus.
Speak the truth plainly, if thou canst not pleasantly;
These twain be seldom wedded; and here, alas!
They stand out sundered with too clear a mark.
Herald.
The man is vanished from the Achæan host,
He and his vessel. Thou hast heard the truth.
Chorus.
Sailed he from Ilium separate from the fleet?
Or did the tempest part him from his friends!
Herald.
Like a good marksman thou hast hit the mark,
In one short sentence summing many sorrows.
Chorus.
Alive is he or dead? What word hath reached you?
What wandering rumour from sea-faring men?
Herald.
This none can tell, save yon bright sun aloft,
That cherishes all things with his friendly light.
Chorus.
How came the storm on the fleet? or how was ended
The wrath of the gods?
Herald.
Not well it suits to blot
With black rehearsal this auspicious day.
Far from the honors of the blissful godsn52
Be grief’s recital. When with gloomy visage
An ugly tale the herald’s voice unfolds,
At once a general wound, and private grief,
An army lost, the sons of countless houses
Death-doomed by the double scourge so dear to Ares,f18
A twin-speared harm, a yoke of crimson slaughter:
A herald saddled with such woes may sing
A pæan to the Erinnyes. But I,
Who to this city blithe and prosperous
Brought the fair news of Agamemnon’s safety,
How shall I mingle bad with good, rehearsing
The wintry wrath sent by the gods to whelm us?
Fire and the sea, sworn enemies of old,n53
Made friendly league to sweep the Achæan host
With swift destruction pitiless. Forth rushed
The tyrannous Thracian blasts, and wave chased wave,
Fierce ’neath the starless night, and ship on ship
Struck clashing; beak on butting beak was driven;
The puffing blast, the beat of boiling billows,
The whirling gulph (an evil pilot) wrapt them
In sightless death. And when the shining sun
Shone forth again, we see the Ægean tide
Strewn with the purple blossoms of the dead,
And wrecks of shattered ships. Us and our bark
Some god, no man, the storm-tost hull directing,
Hath rescued scathless, stealing us from the fray,
Or with a prayer begging our life from Fate.
Kind Fortune helmed us further, safely kept
From yeasty ferment in the billowy bay,
Nor dashed on far-ledged rocks. Thus having ’scaped
That ocean hell,n54scarce trusting our fair fortune,
We hailed the lucid day; but could we hope,
The chance that saved ourselves had saved our friends?
Our fearful hearts with thoughts of them we fed,
Far-labouring o’er the loosely-driving main.n55
And doubtless they, if yet live breath they breathe,
Deem so of us, as we must fear of them,
That they have perished. But I hope the best.
And first and chief expect ye the return
Of Menelaus. If the sun’s blest ray
Yet looks on him, where he beholds the day
By Jove’s devising,n56not yet willing wholly
To uproot the race of Atreus, hope may be
He yet returns. Thou hast my tale; and I
Have told the truth untinctured with a lie. [Exit.
CHORAL HYMN.STROPHE I.
Who gave her a name
So true to her fame?
Does a Providence rule in the fate of a word?
Sways there in heaven a viewless power
O’er the chance of the tongue in the naming hour?
Who gave her a name,
This daughter of strife, this daughter of shame,
The spear-wooed maid of Greece?
Helen the taker!n57’tis plain to see
A taker of ships, a taker of men,
A taker of cities she.
From the soft-curtained chamber of Hymen she fled,
By the breath of giantn58Zephyr sped,
And shield-bearing throngs in marshalled array
Hounded her flight o’er the printless way,
Where the swift-plashing oar
The fair booty bore
To swirling Simois’ leafy shore,
And stirred the crimson fray.
ANTISTROPHE I.
For the gods sent a bride,
Kin but not kind,n59
Ripe with the counsel of wrath to Troy,
In the fulness of years, the offender to prove,
And assert the justice of Jove;
For great Jove is lord
Of the rights of the hearth and the festal board.
The sons of Priam sang
A song to the praise of the bride:
From jubilant throats they praised her then,
The bride from Hellas brought;
But now the ancient city hath changed
Her hymn to a doleful note.
She weeps bitter tears; she curses the head
Of the woe-wedded Paris; she curses the bed
Of the beautiful bride
That crossed the flood,
And filched the life of her sons, and washed
Her wide-paved streets with blood.
STROPHE II.
Whoso nurseth the cub of a lion
Weaned from the dugs of its dam, where the draught
Of its mountain-milk was free,
Finds it gentle at first and tame.
It frisks with the children in innocent game,
And the old man smiles to see;
It is dandled about like a babe in the arm,
It licketh the hand that fears no harm,
And when hunger pinches its fretful maw,
It fawns with an eager glee.
ANTISTROPHE II.
But it grows with the years; and soon reveals
The fount of fierceness whence it came:
And, loathing the food of the tame,
It roams abroad, and feasts in the fold,
On feasts forbidden, and stains the floor
Of the house that nursed it with gore.
A curse they nursed for their own undoing,
A mouth by which their own friends shall perish;
A servant of Até, a priest of Ruin,n60
Some god hath taught them to cherish.
STROPHE III.
Thus to Troy came a bride of the Spartan race,
With a beauty as bland as a windless calm,
Prosperity’s gentlest grace;
And mild was love’s blossom that rayed from her eye,
The soft-winged dart that with pleasing pain
Thrills heart and brain.
But anon she changed: herself fulfilled
Her wedlock’s bitter end;
A fatal sister, a fatal bride,
Her fateful head she rears;
Herself the Erinnys from Jove to avenge
The right of the injured host, and change
The bridal joy to tears.
ANTISTROPHE III.
’Twas said of old, and ’tis said to-day,
That wealth to prosperous stature grown
Begets a birth of its own:
That a surfeit of evil by good is prepared,
And sons must bear what allotment of woe
Their sires were spared.
But this I rebel to believe: I know
That impious deeds conspire
To beget an offspring of impious deeds
Too like their ugly sire.
But whoso is lust, though his wealth like a river
Flow down, shall be scathless: his house shall rejoice
In an offspring of beauty for ever.
STROPHE IV.
The heart of the haughty delights to beget
A haughty heart.n61From time to time
In children’s children recurrent appears
The ancestral crime.
When the dark hour comes that the gods have decreed,
And the Fury burns with wrathful fires,
A demon unholy, with ire unabated,
Lies like black night on the halls of the fated:
And the recreant son plunges guiltily on
To perfect the guilt of his sires.
ANTISTROPHE IV.
But Justice shines in a lowly cell;
In the homes of poverty, smoke-begrimed,
With the sober-minded she loves to dwell.
But she turns aside
From the rich man’s house with averted eye,
The golden-fretted halls of pride
Where hands with lucre are foul, and the praise
Of counterfeit goodness smoothly sways:
And wisely she guides in the strong man’s despite
All things to an issue ofright.
Chorus.
But, hail the king! the city-taking
Seed of Atreus’ race.
How shall I accost thee! How
With beseeming reverence greet thee?
Nor above the mark, nor sinking
Beneath the line of grace?
Many of mortal men there be,
’Gainst the rule of right preferring
Seeming to substance; tears are free
In the eye when woe its tale rehearseth,
But the sting of sorrow pierceth
No man’s liver; many force
Lack-laughter faces to relax
Into the soft lines traced by joy.
But the shepherd true and wise
Knows the faithless man, whose eyes,
With a forward friendship twinkling,
Fawn with watery love.n62
For me, I nothing hide. O King,
In my fancy’s picturing,
From the Muses far I deemed thee,
And thy soul not wisely helming
When thou drew’st the knife
For Helen’s sake, a woman, whelming
Thousands in ruin, rushing rashly
On unwelcome strife.
But now all’s well. No shallow smiles
We wear for thee, thy weary toils
All finished. Thou shalt know anon
What friends do serve thee truly,
And who in thy long absence used
Their stewardship unduly.
EnterAgamemnonwith attendants;Cassandrabehind.
Agamemnon.
First Argos hail! and ye, my country’s gods,
Who worked my safe return, and nerved my arm
With vengeance against Priam! for the gods,
Taught by no glozing tongue, but by the sight
Of their own eyes knew justice; voting ruin
And men-destroying death to ancient Troy,
Their fatal pebbles in the bloody urn
Not doubtingly they dropt; the other vase,
Unfed with hope of suffrage-bearing hand,
Stood empty. Now the captured city’s smoke
Points where it fell. Raves Ruin’s storm; the winds
With crumbled dust and dissipated gold
Float grossly laden. To the immortal gods
These thanks, fraught with rich memory of much good,
We pay; they taught our hands to spread the net
With anger-whetted wit; a woman’s frailty
Laid bare old Ilium to the Argive bite,
And with the setting Pleiads outleapt a birth
Of strong shield-bearers from the fateful horse.
A fierce flesh-tearing lion leapt their wails,
And licked a surfeit of tyrannic blood.
This prelude to the gods. As for thy words
Of friendly welcome, I return thy greeting,
And as your thought, so mine; for few are gifted
With such rich store of love, to see a friend
Preferred and feel no envy; ’tis a disease
Possessing mortal men, a poison lodged
Close by the heart, eating all joy away
With double barb—has own mischance who suffers
And bliss of others sitting at his gate,
Which when he sees he groans. I know it well;
They who seemed most my friends, and many seemed,
Were but the mirrored show, the shadowy ghost
Of something like to friendship, substanceless.
Ulysses only, most averse to sail,
Was still most ready an the yoke with me
To bear the harness; living now or dead,
This praise I frankly give him. For the rest,
The city and the gods, we will take counsel
In full assembly freely. What is good
We will give heed that it be lasting; where
Disease the cutting or the caustic cure
Demands, we will apply it. I, meanwhile,
My hearth and home salute, and greet the gods,
Who, as they sent me to the distant fray,
Have brought me safely back. Fair victory,
Once mine, may she dwell with me evermore!
Clytemnestra.
Men! Citizens! ye reverend Argive seniors,
No shame feel I, even in your face, to tell
My husband-loving ways. Long converse lends
Boldness to bashfulness. No foreign griefs,
Mine own self-suffered woes I tell. While he
Was camping far at Ilium, I at home
Sat all forlorn, uncherished by the mate
Whom I had chosen; this was woe enough
Without enforcement; but, to try me further,
A host of jarring rumours stormed my doors,
Each fresh recital with a murkier hue
Than its precedent; and I must hear all.
If this my lord, had borne as many wounds
In battle as the bloody fame recounted,
He had been pierced throughout even as a net;
And had he died as oft as Rumour slew him,
He might have boasted of a triple coiln63
Like the three-bodied Geryon, while on earth
(Of him below I speak not), and like him
Been three times heaped with a cloak of funeral dust.
Thus fretted by cross-grained reports, oft-times
The knotted rope high-swung had held my neck,
But that my friends with forceful aid prevented.
Add that my son, pledge of our mutual vows,
Orestes is not here; nor think it strange.
Thy Phocian spear-guest,n64the most trusty Strophius,
Took him in charge, a twofold danger urging
First thine beneath the walls of Troy, and further
The evil likelihood that, should the Greeks
Be worsted in the strife, at home the voice
Of many-babbling anarchy might cast
The council down, and as man’s baseness is,
At fallen greatness insolently spurn.
Moved by these thoughts I parted with my boy,
And for no other cause. Myself the while
So woe-worn lived, the fountains of my grief
To their last drop were with much weeping drained;
And far into the night my watch I’ve kept
With weary eyes, while in my lonely room
The night-torch faintly glimmered. In my dream
The buzzing gnat, with its light-brushing wing,
Startled the fretful sleeper; thou hast been
In waking hours, as in sleep’s fitful turns
My only thought. But having bravely borne
This weight of woe, now with blithe heart I greet
Thee, my heart’s lord, the watch-dog of the fold,
The ship’s sure mainstay, pillared shaft whereon
Rests the high roof, fond parent’s only child,
Land seen by sailors past all hope, a day
Lovely to look on when the storm hath broken,
And to the thirsty wayfarer the flow
Of gushing rill. O sweet it is, how sweet
To see an end of the harsh yoke that galled us!
These greetings to my lord; nor grudge me, friends,
This breadth of welcome; sorrows we have known
Ample enough. And now, thou precious head,
Come from thy car; nay, do not set thy foot,
The foot that trampled Troy, on common clay.
What ho! ye laggard maids! why lags your task
Behind the hour? Spread purple where he treads.
Fitly the broidered foot-cloth marks his path,
Whom Justice leadeth to his long-lost home
With unexpected train. What else remains
Our sleepless zeal, with favour of the gods,
Shall order as befits.
Agamemnon.
Daughter of Leda, guardian of my house!
Almost thou seem’st to have spun thy welcome out
To match my lengthened absence; but I pray thee
Praise with discretion, and let other mouths
Proclaim my pæans. For the rest, abstain
From delicate tendance that would turn my manhood
To woman’s temper. Not in barbaric wise
With prostrate reverence base, kissing the ground,
Mouth sounding salutations; not with purple,
Breeder of envy, spread my path. Such honors
Suit the immortal gods; me, being mortal,
To tread on rich-flowered carpetings wise fear
Prohibits. As a man, not as a god,
Let me be honored. Not the less my fame
Shall be far blazoned, that on common earth
I tread untapestried. A sober heart
Is the best gift of God; call no man happy
Till death hath found him prosperous to the close.
For me, if what awaits me fall not worse