IphigeniaBk.I.vv. 80-102
Bk.I.vv. 80-102
Think not I, and in Reason’s name, blasphemeHoly truths. Nay, for this would ill beseemMy purpose. To bring home impious deedsDone as for Religion—that is my theme.Who knows not of Aulis—the Chiefs arrayedAbout the Altar of the Trivian Maid—Lords, chosen of Achæa, kings of men,Reluctant murderers, ashamed, afraid.And lo! though startled, with no fear at all—For how suspect ill in her loved sire’s call!—A girl, young; yet ripe for marriage; perhaps,Summoned to adorn that high festival!What if some tremor? In her flow’r of days,Brought hither for the host of Greeks to gaze,And admire the Fair, a young hero’s bride.Hark! is not that the wedding chant they raise?Courage! Faint not; here are brave friends will bearThee to the Altar; all await thee there!“Who, and for what?” She knows not, but a steam,A blood offering, scents she in the air.In a trance she moves; round her a void space.Awed as if at Death’s halo on Youth’s grace,Warriors shrink as on the Princess comes,Abashed to look their victim in the face.A priest’s touch—the tresses in which maids bindTheir waving hair have found themselves confinedBy a sacrificial fillet, the endsCircling each cheek, and flowing down behind.She wakes. Flash on her soul—the Fleet’s delay—Her Mother’s despair as she went her way—The wrath of Artemis, Her gory rites—Basilisk glance as Calchas passed that day!And her sire—not once to have turned and smiledUpon his best beloved, his first-born child—The gleam from a ray on a Thing ill veiled—And a swell of sobs that could not be stilled!Her knees fail her; and how not? how sustainThe horror! her father to will to stainHis dagger with her blood! to breathe beneathA load of inextinguishable pain!So, shed Iphianassa her pure life,Borne in shuddering arms to a Sire’s knife:Printing with chaste blood incestuous stains,Re-dyed later by a foul, vengeful wife!The whole to verify a priest’s surmise,Prove privity with Heav’n in vulgar eyes!No matter how Gods’ credit was abused,Or sweet innocence sacrificed to lies.
Think not I, and in Reason’s name, blasphemeHoly truths. Nay, for this would ill beseemMy purpose. To bring home impious deedsDone as for Religion—that is my theme.Who knows not of Aulis—the Chiefs arrayedAbout the Altar of the Trivian Maid—Lords, chosen of Achæa, kings of men,Reluctant murderers, ashamed, afraid.And lo! though startled, with no fear at all—For how suspect ill in her loved sire’s call!—A girl, young; yet ripe for marriage; perhaps,Summoned to adorn that high festival!What if some tremor? In her flow’r of days,Brought hither for the host of Greeks to gaze,And admire the Fair, a young hero’s bride.Hark! is not that the wedding chant they raise?Courage! Faint not; here are brave friends will bearThee to the Altar; all await thee there!“Who, and for what?” She knows not, but a steam,A blood offering, scents she in the air.In a trance she moves; round her a void space.Awed as if at Death’s halo on Youth’s grace,Warriors shrink as on the Princess comes,Abashed to look their victim in the face.A priest’s touch—the tresses in which maids bindTheir waving hair have found themselves confinedBy a sacrificial fillet, the endsCircling each cheek, and flowing down behind.She wakes. Flash on her soul—the Fleet’s delay—Her Mother’s despair as she went her way—The wrath of Artemis, Her gory rites—Basilisk glance as Calchas passed that day!And her sire—not once to have turned and smiledUpon his best beloved, his first-born child—The gleam from a ray on a Thing ill veiled—And a swell of sobs that could not be stilled!Her knees fail her; and how not? how sustainThe horror! her father to will to stainHis dagger with her blood! to breathe beneathA load of inextinguishable pain!So, shed Iphianassa her pure life,Borne in shuddering arms to a Sire’s knife:Printing with chaste blood incestuous stains,Re-dyed later by a foul, vengeful wife!The whole to verify a priest’s surmise,Prove privity with Heav’n in vulgar eyes!No matter how Gods’ credit was abused,Or sweet innocence sacrificed to lies.
Think not I, and in Reason’s name, blasphemeHoly truths. Nay, for this would ill beseemMy purpose. To bring home impious deedsDone as for Religion—that is my theme.
Think not I, and in Reason’s name, blaspheme
Holy truths. Nay, for this would ill beseem
My purpose. To bring home impious deeds
Done as for Religion—that is my theme.
Who knows not of Aulis—the Chiefs arrayedAbout the Altar of the Trivian Maid—Lords, chosen of Achæa, kings of men,Reluctant murderers, ashamed, afraid.
Who knows not of Aulis—the Chiefs arrayed
About the Altar of the Trivian Maid—
Lords, chosen of Achæa, kings of men,
Reluctant murderers, ashamed, afraid.
And lo! though startled, with no fear at all—For how suspect ill in her loved sire’s call!—A girl, young; yet ripe for marriage; perhaps,Summoned to adorn that high festival!
And lo! though startled, with no fear at all—
For how suspect ill in her loved sire’s call!—
A girl, young; yet ripe for marriage; perhaps,
Summoned to adorn that high festival!
What if some tremor? In her flow’r of days,Brought hither for the host of Greeks to gaze,And admire the Fair, a young hero’s bride.Hark! is not that the wedding chant they raise?
What if some tremor? In her flow’r of days,
Brought hither for the host of Greeks to gaze,
And admire the Fair, a young hero’s bride.
Hark! is not that the wedding chant they raise?
Courage! Faint not; here are brave friends will bearThee to the Altar; all await thee there!“Who, and for what?” She knows not, but a steam,A blood offering, scents she in the air.
Courage! Faint not; here are brave friends will bear
Thee to the Altar; all await thee there!
“Who, and for what?” She knows not, but a steam,
A blood offering, scents she in the air.
In a trance she moves; round her a void space.Awed as if at Death’s halo on Youth’s grace,Warriors shrink as on the Princess comes,Abashed to look their victim in the face.
In a trance she moves; round her a void space.
Awed as if at Death’s halo on Youth’s grace,
Warriors shrink as on the Princess comes,
Abashed to look their victim in the face.
A priest’s touch—the tresses in which maids bindTheir waving hair have found themselves confinedBy a sacrificial fillet, the endsCircling each cheek, and flowing down behind.
A priest’s touch—the tresses in which maids bind
Their waving hair have found themselves confined
By a sacrificial fillet, the ends
Circling each cheek, and flowing down behind.
She wakes. Flash on her soul—the Fleet’s delay—Her Mother’s despair as she went her way—The wrath of Artemis, Her gory rites—Basilisk glance as Calchas passed that day!
She wakes. Flash on her soul—the Fleet’s delay—
Her Mother’s despair as she went her way—
The wrath of Artemis, Her gory rites—
Basilisk glance as Calchas passed that day!
And her sire—not once to have turned and smiledUpon his best beloved, his first-born child—The gleam from a ray on a Thing ill veiled—And a swell of sobs that could not be stilled!
And her sire—not once to have turned and smiled
Upon his best beloved, his first-born child—
The gleam from a ray on a Thing ill veiled—
And a swell of sobs that could not be stilled!
Her knees fail her; and how not? how sustainThe horror! her father to will to stainHis dagger with her blood! to breathe beneathA load of inextinguishable pain!
Her knees fail her; and how not? how sustain
The horror! her father to will to stain
His dagger with her blood! to breathe beneath
A load of inextinguishable pain!
So, shed Iphianassa her pure life,Borne in shuddering arms to a Sire’s knife:Printing with chaste blood incestuous stains,Re-dyed later by a foul, vengeful wife!
So, shed Iphianassa her pure life,
Borne in shuddering arms to a Sire’s knife:
Printing with chaste blood incestuous stains,
Re-dyed later by a foul, vengeful wife!
The whole to verify a priest’s surmise,Prove privity with Heav’n in vulgar eyes!No matter how Gods’ credit was abused,Or sweet innocence sacrificed to lies.
The whole to verify a priest’s surmise,
Prove privity with Heav’n in vulgar eyes!
No matter how Gods’ credit was abused,
Or sweet innocence sacrificed to lies.