Agamemnon

Dramatis Personae

• Watchman
• Chorus of Argive Elders
• Clytaemnestra, wife of Agamemnon
• A Herald
• Agamemnon, King of Argos
• Cassandra, daughter of Priam and slave of Agamemnon
• Aegisthus, son of Thyestes, cousin of Agamemnon
• Attendants

Argos: The Atreidae’s Palace

Watchman

I have made suit to Heaven for release A twelvemonth long from this hard service, here At watch on the Atreidae’s roof to lie As if these arms were paws and I a dog. I know the nightly concourse of the stars And which of the sky’s bright regents bring us storm, Which summer; when they set, and their uprisings. Once more on guard I look for the signal brand, The flash of fire that shall bring news from Troy And bruit her fall: so absolute for hope Is woman’s heart strong with a man’s resolve. And, now the dewy, vast and vagrant night Is all my lodging, never visited By dreams; for Fear, not Slumber, stands fast by, So that sound sleep may never latch my lids; And would I sing or whistle, physicking The drowsy sense with music’s counter-charm, Tears in my voice, my song soon sinks to sighs For the changed fortunes of this house, no more, As whilome, ruled and wrought with excellence. Oh, that the hour were come for my release! Oh, for the gloom’s glad glow of herald-fire!

(The Beacon shines out on Mt. Arachne.)

Brave lantern! Out of darkness bringing bright Day! Jolly dance and jocund revelry To all broad Argos for this fair windfall! Oho! Below there! Ho! Mount, Agamemnon’s wife, starlike from sleep, Ascend, and wake the palace with thy rouse! For by this fiery courier Ilium Is taken! Heigh! but I will trip it first! This is king’s luck, but it shall vantage me! This bully brand hath thrown me sixes three! Oh, good to cherish my King’s hand in mine When he comes home and the household hath a head! But not a whisper more; the thresher-ox Hath trampled on my tongue. And yet these walls Could tell a plain tale. Give me a man that knows, And I’ll discourse with him; else am I mute And all my memory oblivion.

Exit. Enter chorus.

Chorus

Nine years have fled on Time’s eternal wings And now the tenth is well nigh flown, Since the Atreidae, of this two-fold throne, By grace of God, the double-sceptred kings— Prince Menelaus, Priam’s adversary, And Agamemnon—from our coast Weighed anchor with a thousand ships, Mustering the valour of the Argive host. Their hearts were hot within them, from their lips Thundered the battle-cry. Like eagles’ scream, when round and round they row, High o’er their nest in solitary woe, Because their eyasses are ta’en. And all their watch was vain, And all their labour lost. But One above, Apollo, Pan or Zeus Shall, at the voice of their despair, Pitying his co-mates of the cloudless air, Send the Destroying Angel, that pursues With penal pangs the feet that have transgressed. And so One mightier, Zeus of Host and Guest, The sons of Atreus ’gainst false Paris sent; And, for a wife of many husbands wooed Ordains War’s tourney in long-drawn prelude, Knapping of spears, knees in the dust down-bent, For Greek and Trojan, ere His wrath be spent. Now, as it may, the quarrel goes; Fate shapes the close; None shall appease with cups or fire to faggot laid For sacrifice unburnt the stubborn wrath unstayed.

We, with old limbs outworn, Were left behind, unworthy of the fray; A staff our stay, Our strength a babe’s newborn. For pith of young bones potent over all Is eld’s compeer, a puny chief; There is no room for Ares, stark and tall: And with the yellowing leaf Life’s last must tread the three-foot way; A babe, a dream stolen forth into the day.

But thou, Tyndareus’ daughter, Queen Clytaemnestra, what’s this stir? What news? What harbinger Hath thine intelligencer been, That thou hast passed the word for sacrifice? No altar, none, in all the City’s liberties, Whether to God of Sky or Earth or Street Or Entry vowed, But is ablaze with gifts. And, from all quarters, even to the abysm Of night, the dazzling cresset lifts An odorous cloud, Exceeding pure and comforting and sweet. With holy chrism Of nard and frankincense anointed o’er; The richest unguents of the royal store. If there is aught Thou canst or may’st declare, Speak on, and be physician to my thought, Which oft is sick, and oft When Hope from these brave altars leaps aloft, Biddeth good-bye to Cark and Care.

Now am I minstrel and master Of music to chant the Lay Of the Token, the Mighty Wonder, That met them on their way, These two kings ripe in manhood. I am old, but in me bloweth strong The wind of God, the rapture That girds me with valiance for song. Tell then, my tongue, of the omen That sped ‘gainst the Teucrian land The Achaeans’ twin-throned chieftains, With spear and vengeful hand. Lords of the Youth of Hellas, Right well did they agree, And the king of the birds these sea-kings Bade launch and put to sea.

Lo, a black eagle sheen; and, lo, With him an eagle pied, By the King’s tents, in royal show Lit on the spear-hand side. A hare their meat, all quick with young, Ta’en, her last doublings o’er. Be Sorrow, Sorrow’s burden sung, But crown Joy conqueror!

Thereat the wise war-prophet Right well applied his art; Knowing the sons of Atreus Were men of diverse heart, In the pair that devoured the trembler He read by his deep lore A symbol of the royal twain That led the host to war. And thus he spake: “Long leaguer, But Priam’s city shall fall At last, her cattle and commons Butchered without her wall; Come there from Heaven no wrath-cloud’s lour To dull with dark alloy The mighty bit that’s forged with power, The host that bridles Troy. For wrung with ruth is Artemis, White flower of maidenhood, Wroth with her Father’s winged hounds, That shed the trembler’s blood, Poor doe, that limped with wombèd young: That meat she doth abhor. Be Sorrow, Sorrow’s burden sung, But crown Joy conqueror!

Fair One, as thy love can bless Little whelps as weak as dew Of the ravening lioness; And at breast all beastlings small Shield through forests virginal; Winged weird that fair doth show, And yet darkly worketh woe, To some happy end ensue! And, O Healer, hear my prayer, Lest in wrath the Goddess rouse Baffling winds that will not change, All the Danaan fleet laid by; Speeding that unlawful, strange, Unfestal feast, that rite accursed, Of a quarrel inly nursed, To a true man perilous, The abhorred artificer. For, behold, within the house Coiled and fanged Conspiracy Turns to strike with forked tongue, Mindful of her murdered young.”

So thundered the voice of Calchas, From birds with doom in their wings, Encountered by the marching host, Telling the Fate of Kings. Tuned to the prophet’s bodeful tongue, Let your song sink and soar. Be Sorrow, Sorrow’s burden sung, But crown Joy conqueror!

Zeus—whosoe’er He be, Whose state excels All language syllables, Knowing not so much As whether He love that name or love it not; Zeus—while I put all knowledge to the touch, And all experience patiently assay, I find no other name to heave away The burden of unmanageable thought. The sometime greatest wrangler of them all Hath wrestled to his fall; His day is done, He hath no name, his glory’s lustreless. He that doth all outwrestle, all outrun, Hath whelmed the next that rose up huge and strong. But if Zeus’ triumph be thy victory-song, Thou shalt be founded in all Soothfastness. He maketh men to walk in Wisdom’s ways; In Suffering He lays Foundations deep Of Knowledge. At the heart remembered Pain, As of a wound that bleeds, waketh in sleep. Though we reject her, Wisdom finds a road. Then ’tis a gift untenderly bestowed By Throned Spirits that austerely reign.

So with the Elder Captain of the power Achaean in that hour; No blame he cast On prophet or seer, but bowed him to the blow; What time they had no meat to stay their fast, And all their ships lay idle, straitened sore, Where betwixt Chalcis and the hither shore The tides of Aulis battle to and fro. Strong winds from Strymon ill inaction brought, Lean fast and layings-up of little ease, With waste of ships and tackle; yea, there wrought In men’s minds wilderment of weltering seas; Day like to day, and hour on changeless hour Fretted of Argive chivalry the flower. But when was mooted to the Chiefs a way To work a calm more dread than tempest is, And clarion-voiced the Prophet in that day Thundered, unpityingly—“Artemis”— The Atreidae with their sceptres smote the earth, Nor could keep back their tears; and thus in birth The Elder spake, and gave their sorrow vent: “It were a heavy doom to disobey; And heavy, if my Child, the ornament And glory of my house, I needs must slay, A Father’s slaughterous hands foully imbrued, Hard by the altar, with her maiden blood.” “What choice is here, where all is ill?” he cried; “Am I to leave the vessels to their fate? Am I to lose the friends with me allied? Lo, now a sacrifice which shall abate Storm-winds with blood of victim virginal Law sanctions; they press hard; then God mend all!”

But, once he let Necessity make fast Her yoke, no longer chafing to be galled, His altered spirit, leaning to the blast, Swept on, unblest, unholy, unappalled. For a false wisdom first, Being indeed a madness of the mind, Tempts with a thought accursed, And then enures to wrong the wretch of human kind. Not backward now, but desperately bold, The slayer of his Child behold, That armed Vengeance woman’s rape chastise, And storm-stayed ships sail free for that rich sacrifice.

To those stern judges, absolute for war, Her prayers were nothing, nor her piteous cry, “Father, father,” pleading evermore, Nor womanhood nor young virginity: But after uttered prayer He bade who served the sacrifice be bold; In her long robe that flowed so fair Seize her amain, and high above the altar hold All laxed and drooping, as men hold a kid; And, that she might not curse his house, he bid Lock up her lovely lips and mew the sound Of her sweet voice with curb of dumbing bridle bound. Her saffron robe let fall, She smote her slayers all With eye-glance piteous, arrowily keen; And, still and fair as form in picture seen, Would speak. Oh, in her father’s hall, His guests among, When the rich board Was laden with good cheer, How often had she sung; And when the third thank-offering was poured, With girl’s voice virginal and clear Her father’s paean, hymned with holy glee, Had graced how often and how lovingly!

Thereafter what befell I saw not, neither tell; Only, the craft of Calchas cannot fail; For Justice, casting Suffering in the scale, Her balance-poise imponderable With Knowledge trims. What’s far away Thou’lt know when it is nigh; But greet not Sorrow, till she swims Full into ken, nor make fool’s haste to sigh; She comes, clear-seen with morning-ray. And yet I look to see a happier hour, As doth the wishful Queen, our Apia’s lone watch-tower.

Enter Clytaemnestra.

My duty, Clytaemnestra, brings me here, And that just awe which is his consort’s right When the king’s throne stands empty of its lord. ’Twould ease my old heart much might I but know The meaning of these sacrificial fires. Are they for good news had, or hope of good? I ask, but, if thou art not free to speak, I am no malcontent, I cavil not.

Clytaemnestra. You know the saw, “Good Night bring forth Good Morrow”; Well, here is happiness surpassing hope: The Argive power hath taken Priam’s city.

Ch. Have taken—troth, thy words have taken wing; I think my unfaith scared them.

Cl. Troy is taken; Troy—do you mark me?—in the Achaeans’ hands.

Ch. Oh, joy! too sweet, too sudden! It draws tears From these old eyes.

Cl. Indeed, they speak for thee; They vouch a loyal heart.

Ch. But is it true? And hast thou any proof?

Cl. Oh, proof enough— Or we are gulled by God.

Ch. Whether art thou In credulous mood under the power of dreams?

Cl. ’Tis not my way to noise abroad a nothing That nods to me in sleep.

Ch. Then has a tale Wing-swift made fat your hope?

Cl. You rate me low, You reckon me a giddy girl.

Ch. How long Is’t since the town was taken?

Cl. This same night That’s now in travail with the birth of day.

Ch. Who was the nimble courier that could bring The news so quickly?

Cl. Hephaestus; his light Shone out of Ida; onwards then it streamed, Beacon to beacon, like a fiery mail, Posting the news. Ida to Hermes’ Ridge In Lemnos; thence steep Athos, Zeus’ own hill, Caught from the isle the mighty brand. Uplift It decked the broad deep with a robe of light, Journeying in strength, journeying in joy. It smote, All golden-glancing, like the sun in Heaven, Makistos’ warder-towers. Whereat the watch, Nothing unready, nothing dazed with sleep, Over Euripus’ race its coming told To far Messapion’s sentinels. And they Sent up from crackling heather old and dry Answering glare, that flashed the tidings on. In speed unspent, in power undimmed, it sailed Across Asopus’ plain, like bright moon-beam; Then on Cithaeron’s precipice woke fresh Response of missive fire. The men on guard Hailed that far traveller and denied him not, Kindling the mightiest flare of all. It leaped Gorgopis’ Lake; swept Aegiplanctus; bade No dallying with its rescript, writ in fire. Instant shook out a great, curled beard of flame, Luxuriant, that flung a glow beyond The cape that looks on the Saronic Gulf. Then down it dropped; on near Arachne’s crag Its long flight stayed; till on this palace-roof Of Atreus’ line yon ray of glory fell, Of Ida’s parent beacon not unsired. This is my torch-race and the ordering of it; Rally on rally plenished with new fire. And he’s the winner who ran first, and last. Here’s proof for you, here is your warranty, The which my husband sent me out of Troy.

Ch. Lady, I’ll to my prayers; but satisfy My wonder first; then I will thank the Gods: Tell me, as thou know’st how, the tale again, Again and more at large.

Cl. The Achaeans hold Troy Town today; and there is heard within Her walls, methinks, sounds that are ill to mix. Pour oil and eisel in the selfsame crock And they will part unkindly. Even so, Two voices are there, each distinguishable, Both vocal of diversities of fate. Here there are fallings-down about the dead, Dead husbands and dead brothers; here are sires Unchilded now, old, sad, and free no more, Lifting the voice of grief for their best-beloved. And there night-straggling Rapine sits him down In after-battle weariness, and breaks His fast on what the town affords; not now Quartered by rote, but as fortune of war Deals each; in the homes of Troy, the captive-homes, They lie at ease: not under frosty stars, In dew-drenched bivouacs, how blest shall be Their sleep, no guard to mount, all the night long! Now, if they order them with reverence To the Gods of the fallen city and her shrines, They shall not spoil to be again despoiled. Let them not lust after forbidden prey; For it importeth much they come safe home, Now that their course bends hither. If they come Free from offence to Heaven, the wound yet green For those that we have lost shall dress itself In smiles to welcome them; except for Fate; Except there fall some sudden stroke of Fate. Well, now I have possessed you of my thoughts; A woman’s thoughts, but one who would have good Mount to her triumph, without let or stay. Much hath matured right well, and ’twere to me A delicate joy to gather in the fruit.

Ch. Lady, thou surely hast a woman’s heart But a man’s sense withal. I doubt no more, Nor longer will defer my thanks to Heaven; For all the toil and the long strain of war There hath been dealt right noble recompense.

Exit Clytaemnestra.

King Zeus, and Night, the friendly Night, Our Lady of the Stars, that dropped, With slow evanishing of light, A veil that Troy’s tall towers o’ertopped, Till, tangled in the fatal fold, The strong were as the weak and small, When Thraldom her deep drag-net trolled And Ruin at one draught took all. Because these mighty works He wrought ’Gainst Paris, who so sore transgressed, I bend, I bow in solemn thought To Zeus, the God of Host and Guest. Long time he bent his bow, nor sped A random shot that deals no scars, Of feeble length, or overhead Ranging among the untroubled stars. Now may men say “Zeus smote them”; from the deed On to the doom so plain God’s footprints lead, Thou canst not miss thy way. Now shines the event, His rescript graven in its accomplishment.

There is a place Inviolably fair; There is a Shrine thou shalt not enter; there Thrones the Immaculate Grace. “’Tush! Enter, tread it down,” quoth one unwise, “What list the Gods your lovely Sanctuaries?” Blasphemer! Shall not Death, Death by the Sword of God, Still the bold heart and stop the violent breath? Have not the bloody feet of Havoc trod Those marble mansions in the dust Where Glory swelled and overflowed Beyond the comely Mean and just? Oh, give me Wisdom, with such Wealth in store As I may safely hold, I will not ask for more.

He hath no ramp where he may turn That, drunkenly, in mere despite And wanton pride the seat of Justice stern, Even to the grunsel-edge eterne, Dings down and tramples out of sight. To force the plot That her dam, Death, hath hatched, Temptation cometh, that foul witch unmatched; Whoso resisteth not Her dangerous lure, There is no herb of grace can work his cure, Nor any shift To hide the gleaming woe; When that pale spot, that did so faintly show, With ever widening rift Of ruinous light, Glares to the gazing world, malignly bright. Then, as your pinchbeck brass The ring of gold assays, The rub of doom, with many a fateful pass, The black that specks his soul bewrays. Then is he judged; and God is none Will hear his prayer; yea, heaven lays On all his friends the evil done, When in his hey-day chase, a madcap boy, He hunts the gaudy bird that shall his realm destroy.

Such was Childe Paris when he came, Upon a day with Sorrow rife, To the Atreidae’s house and smutched their fame; Yea, for fair welcome left foul shame, And stole away the wedded wife. She left her land in evil hour On shore and ship grim war’s deep hum, And desolation was the dower She took with her to Ilium, When she went lightly through the gate And broke the bond inviolate. And voices in the palace cried, “Woe’s thee, high house! My princes, woe! Thou deep-sunk bed, whose down doth show Where love-locked limbs lay side by side!” And there were twain that nothing spake, But sat aloof, in mute heart-break, Of all their honour disarrayed, Mourning too deeply to upbraid. A phantom court, a phantom king, The loveless ghost of Love-longing: She beckons him yet, she bids him come Over the sea to Ilium. The fair, the large-limbed marbles to her lord Are loveliness abhorred; This penury, sans eyes love’s soul made bright, The end of all delight. And then the dream-bliss comes, the lure That bids us to her with a lie: Ah, when we think our heaven secure We are the fools of phantasy. The fleeting vision will not stay; Even in his arms it steals away Featly, on brisk, obedient wings That wait upon the paths of Sleep. These sorrows in the courts of kings, And worse, like shadows cower and leap Where the household altar burns. But there’s a general sorrow; yea, In every home all Hellas mourns The mustering of the war-array; Her time of heaviness is come For them that sailed to Ilium. And there is much in the tragic years To melt her heart and move her tears. Him whom they loved and bade go forth men know— A living soul; but, oh, There cometh back to home and Hellas shore His dust, the arms he bore. Ares on foughten field sets up his scales; Bodies of slain men, stark and cold, These are this merchant-moneyer’s bales, The which in faggot-fires at Ilium turned To finer dust than is the sifted gold And worth more tears, he sends Back to the dead men’s friends; For them that fell too light a freight, For them that mourn a grievous weight, All in a clay-cold jar so civilly inurned. And they mourn them, and praise them; and sadly one saith, “Ah, what a soldier was this! And he died nobly, dealing death”; And ever a mutter of surly breath— “For a woman that was not his.” And so, with public sorrow blent, Is heard the voice of discontent, That loved ones perish and sad hearts pine To right the wrongs of Atreus’ line. And some there be of shapely limbs and tall That come no more, but lie beneath the wall, There they possess the land for which they fought, Coffined in Ilium’s earth that loved them not!

A people’s voice on the deep note of wrong Grates harshly, it becomes a curse; Nor shall Destruction tarry long, It falls, as with loud thunder leaps the levin. Something remains behind of dark, adverse And night-involved, and I Listen forbodingly; And in this black, unquiet mood I call to mind, men deep in blood Shall not live out their days, hid from the sight of Heaven. Yea, for a season man’s thoughts wax bold, And he draweth lawless breath; But anon the dark Furies from Hell’s hold Chafe and change his tinsel gold To the huelessness of death. And there’s no help where dead men lie; Great glory hath such jeopardy; Zeus’ eye-glance scathes, his lightning scars The soaring peaks that touch the stars. Give me the ease of an unenvied lot; To be hailed “Conqueror” delights me not; But let me ne’er so far from Fortune’s favour fall As live life’s abject and my master’s thrall.

1. Rumour runs fast through every street, As fire the tidings bloweth; If true—or a divine deceit— Where is the man that knoweth?
2. Oh, who so fond, in wit so lame, That kindling through him flashes News, that one gust can fan to flame, Another turns to ashes?
3. All’s fair that takes a woman’s eye; A breath—a spark—she blazes; But swift, and passing swift, to die The glory Woman praises.

Chorus Leader

Soon shall we know this torch-race, these relays Of bickering brands and rallies of red fire, If they be true; or like the stuff of dreams Delight comes dazzling to delude our sense. A herald hastens hither from the shore All branched about with olive-boughs. The dry And droughty dust, mire’s twin-born sister, tells He hath a voice; his message he’ll not vent In flame, with smoke of fire from hill-top pines; But either cry aloud our joy’s increase, Or else—but I am out of love with words That contradict our hopes. May this fair show Find fair addition; and, who wills not so, But for his country’s ruin maketh suit, Of his misprision reap the bitter fruit.

Enter a herald.

Herald

O parent earth! Sweet Argos! Past are the years, Ten weary years—dawn breaks—and I am home. Some hopes have parted since, but this hope holds. I never thought to have in this Argive earth A fathom of ground to be my wished-for grave. A blessing on thee, earth; on thee, bright sun, And Zeus, our High Lord, and the Pythian King No more to loose on us his arrow-blasts. Wast wroth enough along Scamander’s bank; Now be our Saviour, our Physician be, Kingly Apollo! Greetings to the Twelve Great Gathering-Gods! To Hermes, my Defence, Herald of Heaven whom earthly heralds worship. Heroes, whose blessing holp our setting forth, Receive these remnant ranks, the spear hath spared! And you, high house of kings, halls ever dear, Majestic thrones, Godheads the sun salutes, If in old time returning majesty Your bright looks graced, beam now on a royal man After long years restored. Day after night To you, to us and all in presence here, Comes Agamemnon King. Oh, greet him well— For it becomes you well—that hewed down Troy With the great cross-axe of Justice-dealing Zeus; Broke up her soil and wasted all her seed. Such grievous bondage fastened on Troy’s neck Cometh the King, old Atreus’ son first-born; A happy man! Of all men now alive Most worthy to be had in honour. Not Lord Paris, nor the guilty city, dare Boast they dealt us measure more bountiful Than we requited unto them with tears. Judged guilty both of rape and larceny, His spoil is forfeit; he hath harvested The total ruin of his father’s house. So Priam’s sons pay twofold for his crimes.

Ch. Joy to thee, herald of the Achaean host!

He. My joy is at the full; now let me die; I’ll not complain to the Gods, death comes too soon.

Ch. I see how ’tis with thee: love of thy land Proved a sore exerciser of thy heart.

He. So sore, that now mine eyes are wet with tears In joy’s revulsion.

Ch. Then ’twas a sweet distemper.

He. Was it so sweet? You must expound me that Or I shall never master it.

Ch. ’Twas love For love, longing for longing.

He. You would say That all your heart went with the army, all Our thoughts were turned towards home.

Ch. Ay, oftentimes I groaned aloud for dim disquietude.

He. But why so ill at ease? Why such black thoughts About the war?

Ch. Pardon me; I have found Long since silence lays balm to a bruised heart.

He. Why, the princes gone, were there ill-doers here Ye stood in dread of?

Ch. In so much that now— Said ye not so?—’twere joy to die.

He. In truth We have done well; but take it all in all, A man may say that, as the years went by, We had our good times and our bad times. Who, Except the Gods, lives griefless all his days? Our sorry lodging and our seldom rest— And we lay hard—with all our miseries, Would furnish forth a tale—why, is there aught Costs men a groan we knew not every day? These were sea hardships; but ’twas worse ashore. There we must lie down under enemy walls. The sky dropped rain, the earth did ceaselessly Distil from the low-lying fields her damps And rotting mildews, drenching our coats of hair, Which soon grew verminous. Or what of winter That froze the birds, so perishingly cold It came from Ida blanketed in snow? Or the hot months, when on his noon-day bed Windless and waveless, sank the swooning sea? Why moan all this? ’Tis past; and for the dead Is past the need ever to rise again. Or, why tell o’er the count of those cut off, Or call to mind that to survive is still To live obnoxious to calamity? Farewell, a long farewell, to all misfortune! For us, the remnant of the Argive power, Gain conquers, and no grief that good outweighs. Therefore, in this bright sun, over broad seas And the wide earth flying on wings of Fame, Well may we make our boast, “Takers of Troy, Hard won, but won at last, the Argive power

To the Gods of Hellas nailed these trophies up To be the glory of their temples old.”

Then shall men hear, and sing our country’s laud And her great captains’, and extol the grace Of Zeus that wrought these things. Sir, I have done.

Ch. This wins me; I deny no more; for age Still leaves us youth enough to learn.

Enter Clytaemnestra. But this Touches the house and Clytaemnestra most, Though its largesse withal enriches me.

Cl. Oh, ages since I raised my jubilant shout, When the first fiery messenger of night Told Ilium was taken, and her stones Rased, ruined and removed. And one of you Did gird me then, saying, “Dost think Troy sacked Because men set a match to wood? — By God, A woman’s heart is lightly lifted up.” So they supposed me crazed; and still I made Oblation; and a general cry of joy — Most womanly! — rent the air; and in the shrines

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They fed sweet spices to the hungry flame. And now I will not hear thee more at large; I shall know all from the king’s lips. There’s much Asks swift despatch, that my most sacred lord May have noblest of welcomes. Sweet the day, Sweetest of all days in a woman’s life, When for her husband she flings wide the gates And he comes back from service, saved by God! Take back this message; that he come with speed, For his land loves him; tell him he will find A true wife waiting when he comes, as true As her he left; the watch-dog of his house, Loyal to him, but savage to his foes; In nothing changed; one that has broke no seal, Nor known delight in other’s arms, nor felt The breath of censure more than she has dipped Cold steel in blood. Exit.

He. Strange how she boasts! Is’t not Though charged with truth, and something overcharged, Scarce decent in a high-born lady’s mouth?

Ch. Well, she has done; you heard her, and I think You understood her; noble rhetoric For wise interpreters. But, tell me, herald, Comes Menelaus with you? Is he safe, Our realm’s dear majesty?

He. What’s fair and false Is soon enjoyed; ’tis fruit that will not keep.

Ch. I would give much, couldst thou speak fair and true; For true and fair dissevered and at strife, The secret is soon out.

He. Why, not to glose And lie to thee, we have no trace at all Of the man or the ship whereon he sailed.

Ch. Alack And did he put to sea from Ilium In sight of all? Or, caught in the track of storm That jeopardied the fleet, part company?

He. Dextrously thou aim’st; indeed you sum great grief In little space.

Ch. And other mariners— Do they report him dead or living?

He. None Knows, nor can certainly resolve our doubts, Save Helios, the nurturer of all life Through the vast world.

Ch. Tell me, how rose the storm And how it ended, with the wrath of Heaven?

He. So fair a day we must not with foul news Distain; we owe the Gods far other service. No; when with looks abhorred a herald brings Calamitous news, of armies overthrown; When the general heart aches with one wound, and each Bleeds for his own, by thousands made accursed, Scourged from their homes by Ares’ double lash, Two-handed havoc, couplings of bloody death, Well may he sing Erinys’ Song, poor man, Bowed down to earth ’neath that sore load. But when

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All’s well, and he comes bringing joyful news To a land that maketh merry, well at ease, How mix things good and ill, speak of this storm That, not without Heaven’s wrath, smote the Achaeans? Water and Fire forgat their ancient quarrel And sware a league together; and, to prove How well they kept it, brake the Argive power. Upon a night there rose a naughty sea; And presently the roaring Thracian gale Drave ship on ship. Tossed by the horned typhoon, With spray of salt-sea sleet and drumming rain In that wild piping they were lost to view. And, when the bright sun rose, the Aegean wave Was lilied o’er with drowned men and wreck of ships. But our taut hull a Power privily Conveyed away, or interceded for us. A God it was, no man, that took the helm. Fortune, our Saviour, stationed her aboard Of grace, so that at anchor in the swell We shipped no seas nor swung upon the rocks. And from the watery abyss of Death Preserved, incredulous of our good hap, In the white dawn, sad food for thought we found, So sudden was the blow, our men so spent, Our fleet so shattered. And, if any of them Is alive to-day, certes, they give us up For lost, as we think them.

Hope for the best.

And yet of Menelaus your first thought Must be that he is sore distressed. Howbeit, If any ray of the sun bring note of him, His leaf unwithered and his eye unclosed, There is a hope, that by some artifice Of Zeus, not minded yet to destroy his house, He may come home again. Now you have heard My story, and may warrant all is true. Exit.

Chorus

Tell me who it was could frame So unerringly her name? Was’t not one we cannot see, Prophet of Futurity? Did not Fate his tongue inspire, Calling on her naming day Her, world’s strife, and world’s desire, Bride of Battle, “Helena”? Helen! Ay, Hell was in her kiss For ships and men and polities, When, from behind her amorous veil, She sallied forth with proud, full sail, And Love’s dallying wind blew fair, That Iris to earth-born Zephyr bare. Then followed after, in full cry, As hounds and huntsmen take the field, Of gallants a fair company, That pressed their suit with lance and shield. Over the blue, undimpled wave, That told not of her oar-blade’s track, Hard upon Simoeis’ strand they drave, All overhung with leafy wood; And she whose hands are red with blood, Eris, was master of the pack.

Wrath, that can nor will remit Nothing of its purpose, knit Bonds that Ilium shall find More than kin and less than kind. And, for an example, lest Men in ages yet unborn Break the bread and foully scorn Sanctities ’twixt host and guest, Zeus, who guardeth hearth and bed, Hath in anger visited Them that led the merry din, Over-bold to welcome in With revel high and Hymen’s strain, Sung of all the marriage-kin, Bride and groom and bridal train. But the tide of Fate had turned ’Gainst Priam’s city, ere she learned A new song of sadder measure, Marrying her complaining breath To the dirge of dismal death, Where is neither love nor pleasure Then was Paris “evil-wed,” When long years she mourned her dead, And their blood was on his head.

Once on a time there lived a man, a herd; And he took home, finding it motherless, To be his foster-child, all fanged and furred, A lion-cub, a little lioness. Still wishful of the warm and milky dug, It was a gentle beast while tender yet; Made friends with children, they would kiss and hug The baby limbs, and ’twas the old folks’ pet. Many a time and oft the wean, bright-eyed, Like to a child-in-arms they carried; And, when for meat the lion-belly cried, ’Twould cringe and fawn and coax them to be fed.

Then it grew up; and from what race was sprung Proved, when as recompense for care and keep (Ravage let loose the folded flocks among) It made a supper of the silly sheep. Then was the homestead soaked in blood, and they That dwelt there, mastered by this unmatched ill, Knew they had bred a Mischief born to slay, A priest of Havoc sent them by God’s will.

When first she came to Ilium Town The windless water’s witchery Was hers; a jewel in the Crown Of Wealth that sparkles soft was she; An eye to wound with melting fire, The rose of ravishing desire.

But wearing now an altered grace Love’s sweet solemnities she soured; In Priam’s house a hated face, A curse with settled sorrow dowered; On Zeus the Guest-God’s word swift-borne Erinys that makes brides to mourn.

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I know how well the saying wears, Stricken in years, but still held wise, That boundless Wealth is blest with heirs And Grandeur not unchilded dies; Boon Fortune’s bud and branch is she, The hungry-hearted Misery.

False doctrine; though I stand alone, I hold that from one wicked deed A countless family is sown, And, as the parent, so the seed. But Justice hands fair Fortune on And godly sire hath goodly son.

Yea, that old beldame, Pride Who to her lustful side Draws evil men, anon, or else anon, When Fate with hand of power Beckons the destined hour Brings forth young Pride, her Mother’s minion; Daughter of Darkness, sabled-hued As the Tartarean pit, for vengeance armed and hewed.

A Power no stroke can fell, Nor stubborn warfare quell, A hag, a goblin, an unholy form, The Soul of hardihood, Swift to shed guiltless blood, Dark Angel of Destruction’s whirling storm, She dances on the roofs of kings, And by her shape men know from what foul loins she springs.

Oh, in the smoky air Of poor men’s homes, how fair, How like a star the lamp of Justice shines! Justice, that most approves The faithful life, that moves In the fixed path her Providence assigns; And constant to that strict control, Forceful as Fate, pursues the orbit of his soul.

But, where in Splendour’s halls, Gold glitters on the walls, And on men’s hands is filth and foul offence, With looks averse and cold She quits the gates of gold, And hails the hut of humble Innocence. Wealth’s coin of spurious die, Usurping Sovereignty, No image bears whereto she bends; She guides and governs all, and all begun she ends.

Enter Agamemnon, with Cassandra and his train, seated in chariots.

Hail to thee, monarch! Conqueror of Troy! Offspring of Atreus! How shall I content Thy spirit in thy triumph and thy joy? Rise to the height of honour’s argument, And yet a chastened gratulation give?

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There are of rogues enough, ay, and to spare, Who in the shows of things are pleased to live, And thrive on falsehood as their native air. There’s little faith in man; scarce one that breathes But with misfortune will heave up a sigh; And yet the cruel sting sorrow unsheathes, ’Fore God, his tender parts it comes not nigh. And other some, be sure of this, O king, Can simulate a joy they do not feel; Come with forced smiles and fulsome welcoming; And crafty faces cruel thoughts conceal. But him whose business is with droves and herds The gipsy’s arts can captivate no whit; Not easy duped with warrantable words And protestations fair in water writ. Sir, in all honesty, when thou didst arm In Helen’s cause, to save her launch thy ships, My portrait of thee lacked the Muses’ charm, And “Wisdom’s helm,” I said, “a madman grips.” “She doth consent thrice o’er, the wanton! Why For her make sacrifice of heroes’ blood?” Now from the bottom of my heart I cry, “Grief, thou wast welcome, since the end is good.” Howbeit, Time hath something yet to say (Though now he clap a finger to his lip), Touching this land, when you were far away; Who well, who ill, discharged his stewardship.

Agamemnon. To Argos and her Gods let me speak first, Joint authors with me of our safe return And of that justice I did execute On Priam’s city. Not by the tongues of men, But by their deaths have the Gods judged our cause, Nor haltingly, ’twixt two opinions, cast, For Ilium’s overthrow, their suffrages Into the urn of blood: the other Hope Drew nigh, but not a pebble dropped. And now Her smoke discovereth her; death’s whirlblasts live; Her ashes dying with her gasp her wealth In unctuous evanishings away. Long should our memory be and large our thanks To Heaven, for humbled pride and rape revenged; A kingdom for a wench ground up sand-small; Whenas the broody horse hatched out her young, Our basilisk, our Argive bucklermen, Vaulting to earth, what time the Pleiads sank; And Argos’ Lion, ravening for meat, Leapt tower and wall, and lapped a bellyful Of tyrant blood.

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So have I opened me Unto the Gods. And yet I call your words To mind; your counsel squares with my own thoughts. How rare it is in nature, when a man Can spare his friend, if he stands well with Fortune, Ungrudging honour! Nay, himself grown sick In his estate, jealousy lays to his heart A poison that can make his burden double; He hath his own griefs, yet must heave more sighs To see a neighbour happy! Ah, I know That which I speak; I am too well acquaint With friendship’s glass, the reflex of a shadow; I mean my professed friends. There was not one Except Odysseus, the most loth to sail, That like a horse of mettle pulled his weight, And whether he be dead or alive, God knows. Enough of this. We purpose presently To call a Council touching the state of the realm And the service of the Gods. What’s sound, we shall Take measures to perpetuate, but where There’s need of physic, we shall in all kindness Use cautery or the knife, till we have rid The land of mischief.

Now let me pass within; And in my high house, mine own hearth, stretch out My right hand to the Gods, that sent me forth And brought me safely home. So victory That followed in my train attend me still.

Clytaemnestra comes to meet him. Cl. Good citizens, our Argive seigniory, I think no shame to speak of the dear love I bear my lord. Our blushes wear not well; They pale with time, and I need little schooling To tell you life to me was weariness Those years when he beleaguered Ilium. Merely to sit at home without her lord Is for a woman to know fearful sorrow. Scarce hath one crack-voiced kill-joy cried his news Than comes his fellow, clamouring far worse. An if this mould of manhood, where he stands, Had gotten wounds as many as Rumour digged Channels to be the conduits of his blood And help it home, he were as full of holes

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As, with your leave, a net. Had he but died As often as men’s tongues reported him, Another triple-bodied Geryon, Three cloaks of earth’s clay — not to pry too deep And talk of under-strewments — three fair cloaks Of clay for coverlid — thrice over dead And buried handsomely as many times — Conceive his boast — three corpses, a grave apiece! Well, but these crabbed rumours made me mad; And many times the noose was round my neck, Had not my people, much against my will, Untied the knot. And this will tell you why, When looked for most, Orestes is not here, Lord of our plighted loves to him impawned. You must not think it strange. Your sworn ally, Strophius the Phocian, hath charged him with The nurture of the child, foreshadowing A double jeopardy; yours before Ilium, And here, lest many-throated Anarchy Should patch a plot; since ’tis a vice in nature To trample down the fallen underfoot. This was his argument, and I believe Honestly urged. For me the fount of weeping Hath long run dry, and there’s no drop left. Oh! These eyes, late watchers by the lamp that burned For thee, but thou kept’st not thy tryst, are sore With all the tears they shed, thinking of thee. How often from my sleep did the thin hum And thresh of buzzing gnat rouse me! I dreamed More sorrows for thy sake than Time, that played The wanton with me, reckoned minutes while I slept. All this have I gone through; and now, Care-free I hail our mastiff of the fold, Our ship’s great mainstay, pillar pedestalled To bear a soaring roof up, only son, Landfall to sailors out of hope of land! These are the great additions of his worth! And, I pray God ’tis no offence to Heaven To make them heard. We have had many sorrows, And would provoke no more.

Dear Heart, come down; Step from thy car, but not on the bare ground; Thy foot that desolated Ilium, Thou royal man, must never stoop so low! Spread your rich stuffs before him, girls; make haste! That he may walk the purple-paved way Where Justice leads him to his undreamed home. My sleepless care shall manage all the rest As Justice and the Heavenly Will approve.

Ag. Offspring of Leda, keeper of my house, You match your much speech to my absence, both Are something long; the rather that fine words Come best from others’ lips. Woman me not, Nor like an eastern slave grovel before me With your wide-mouthed, extravagant exclaim. Away with all these strewments! Pave for me No highway of offence! What can we more When we would deify the deathless Gods! But Man to walk these sacramental splendours, It likes me not, and I do fear it. No, Honour me as the mortal thing I am, Not as a God! A foot-cloth, that will pass; But think how ill will sound on the tongues of men These veilings of the precincts! God’s best gift Is to live free from wicked thoughts; call no man Happy, till his contented clay is cold. Now I have told thee how I mean to act, And keep my conscience easy.

Cl. Tell me this, And speak thy mind to me.

Ag. My mind’s made up; I’ll not rase out mine own decree.

Cl. Would’st thou, Faced with some fearful jeopardy, have made

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A vow to Heaven to do what now I ask thee?

Ag. If some wise doctor had prescribed the rite, I would have vowed to do it.

Cl. What dost thou think Priam had done, if Priam had achieved The victory that’s thine?

Ag. Oh, he had trod Your sacrilegious purples.

Cl. Then fear not thou Man’s censure.

Ag. In the general voice resides A power not to be contemned.

Cl. Good lack! Unenvied never yet was fortunate!

Ag. This is a war of words, a woman’s war; And yet a woman should not take delight In battle.

Cl. ’Tis a virtue that becomes Glory, in his triumphant hour to yield.

Ag. While we stand here at odds, wilt thou pretend Thou carest for a victory so won?

Cl. Nay, but thou shalt indulge me; thy consent Leaves thee my master still.

Ag. Have thine own way, Since nothing else contents thee. One of you Undo these latchets. Hark ye; loose me quick These leathern underlings: and when I set My foot on yon sea-purples, let no eye Throw me a dart of jealousy from far! I am heartily ashamed to waste my stuff, Walking on wealth and woof good money buys. But I’ll waste no more words. Lead in the lady; Be tender with her, for the Gods above Look gently down when earthly power is kind. None loves the bondman’s yoke; and she’s the flower Of all our spoils, the army’s gift, a part Of my great train. Now, I’ll contend no longer; Let me pass on under my palace-roof, Treading your purples.

He descends from his chariot. Cl. There’s the wide sea, and who Shall drain it dry? Purple! There’s more of it In Mediterranean waves; for ever fresh, Worth silver ounces, the right juice to wring Your royal robes withal. And, God be thanked, We’ve plenty of them within; we do not know What ’tis to lack. I would have vowed to tread Raiment in heaps, if oracles had bid me, When I was at my wits’ end to contrive How to win back the half of mine own heart!

Now springs the root to life; the climbing leaf, Tile-high, against Dog Sirius spreads a shade!

And, in thy home-coming, our weather-wise Winter reads signs of warm days fully come.

Yet, in God’s wine-press, when the unripe grape Is trampled out into the blood-red wine, Then for the perfect man about the house There comes a wintry coolness to his cheek. Zeus, Zeus, Perfecter, perfect now my prayer, And of Thine own high will be Perfecter!

Agamemnon and Clytaemnestra enter the Palace.

Chorus

Spirit of Fear, and all Unrest, Will thy wings never tire? Song that waitest no man’s hest, Nor askest any hire, Why this prophetic burden keep? What Ghost no power can lay, Not like the cloudy shapes of Sleep, Heaved with a breath away, Haunts me with evermore despair,— Sad phantom still unflown; And Courage high no more speaks fair, Lord of my bosom’s throne?

The laggard years have told their sum, The cables are outworn, Since, to beleaguer Ilium, Went up the host, sea-borne. And now I see that host’s return, By witness of these eyes; Yet in my hand is no cithern; My soul accompanies The song that Angry Spirits sing, The dirge of Vengeance dread: My confidence hath taken wing, And my dear hope is dead.

But still ’gainst hope my prayer I press, The event may yet belie My fears, and bring to nothingness My soul’s dark prophecy.

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Goodman Health for his great train Findeth his bounds too small, For the lazar-house of Neighbour Pain Leaneth against his wall. Though calm the winds and smooth the wake And Fortune’s ship sail free, There are Rocks she shall strike where no seas break. There are shoals of Misery.

Sailor, be yare! Be wise! Out of her deep hold heave Of her rich merchandise With rope and block and sheave. So you shall save your craft, Your ship shall founder not, Though she be of great draught And perilously fraught.

For the bounty of Zeus shall repair The ravage of yesterday,

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And a season’s tilth with the furrowing share Chase Famine and Want away.

But the blood of life once shed Shall come to no man’s call. He that could raise the dead And the flocking Shadows all, Did not Zeus stop his breath And bring him to his pause, Lest who would heal the wound of death Strike at Eternal Laws?

Oh, we are straitened sore; If by strict rule dispensed, Jealous of less or more, Heaven’s liberties be fenced, What wish dare mortal frame? Else had my hot heart flung All out, and put to shame This inexpressive tongue.

Now I’ve no hope to unwind The clew of Heart’s desire; To think is pain when thought is blind, The smoke of a soul on fire.

Enter Clytaemnestra. Cl. How now, Cassandra? I must have thee too; Get in, since Zeus — oh, surely not in wrath! Hath made thee one of us, asperged with all Our lustral sprinklings, at our household altar Stood in thy place with other bondwomen. Step from thy waggon then and be not proud. Alcmena’s son, thou know’st, was sold for a price And did endure to eat slave’s barley-bread. He that must call Wealth lord may bless his stars When ’tis of honourable antiquity. Who look for nothing and reap affluence Are cruel masters, stand upon no law; But here thou shalt be used as use prescribes.

Ch. She waits thine answer; being caught and caged Yield, if thou meanest to yield; but, it may be, Thou’lt not.

Cl. Speaks she some barbarous babblement, Some chittering swallow-talk, that she’s so slow To take my meaning?

Ch. Lady, ’twere best submit; She offers all that thy extremity Gives room to hope for: leave thy waggon-throne, And follow her, poor princess.

Cl. While she sticks Fast at my door, I waste my precious time; The dumb beasts stand about the central hearth Waiting the knife, and there’s to be great slaughter. Meet for a boon vouchsafed beyond our hope. Make no more halt, an thou wilt bear a part. Come, mistress, if you cannot murder Greek, Make your hand talk and do your jargoning.

Ch. One should interpret for her, she looks wild; A hunted deer new-taken in the toils.

Cl. Mad, sirrah, mad, and listening to her own Contrarious heart; a captive newly caught, Champing the bit, until her puny strength She foam away in blood. Enough of this: I’ll waste no more words to be so disdained. Exit.

Ch. My heart’s too full of pity to be wroth. Sad lady, leave thy car; there is no way But this, come down and take thy yoke upon thee.

Cassandra. Woe! Woe! Woe! Apollo! Apollo!

Ch. Why dost thou mourn for Loxias? Is he Natured like us to ask a threnody?

Ca. Woe! Woe! Woe! Apollo! Apollo!

Ch. Again! She doth affront the God; not so Must we draw nigh him, wailing, wailing woe.

Ca. Apollo! Apollo! God of the great Wide ways of the world, my path is made strait! Not twice shall I shun thee, my Foe and my Fate!

Ch. Ha! Her own grief’s her theme; the God-given Mind Bondage can break not, no, nor fetters bind!

Ca. Apollo! Apollo! God of the Ways, What road is this, thou darkener of my days? What house that bends on me so stern a gaze?

Ch. Oh, this is the Atreidae’s royal home; Ay, truly to their high house thou art come.

Ca. Horrible dungeon! House of Sin! These stones have secrets, drenched in blood of kin! Out, human shambles, stifling halls, The red rain trickling down your walls!

Ch. A huntress-hound! Yea, and by all that’s ill, I fear this find will follow to a kill!

Ca. I know it, by this wailing cry, These shrieks of slaughtered infancy, Ta’en from their dam and roast with fire, Set in a dish, served up for their sire!

Ch. We know thou art a soothsayer; natheless, It skills not now; we seek no prophetess.

Ca. God, what’s conspiring here? What new And nameless horror cometh into view, To overtop and pale with bolder hue Ghosts of old crime that walk this bloody stage, Making Love weep and wring her anguished hands? There is no physic can this ache assuage, And from this woe far off all succour stands.

Ch. Oh, they are published sorrows, griefs that have been; But I know not what these dark sayings mean.

Ca. Miscreant, what make you there? Why dost Thou brim Yon cauldron for thy lord? On breast and limb The cool stream glitters. Ah, mine eyes grow dim; The dreadful consummation, the swift close, Makes my lips dumb, and stops my breath; With such a ceaseless hail of savage blows A white arm flashes, doubling death on death.

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Ch. This thick-occulted darkness grows more dense; Riddles and runes, confounding sound and sense! Ca. Oh, horrible! What’s this? A net as bottomless as hell? A net — a snare — ha! And what else is she That wound him in her arms in love’s embrace And now conspires to murder him! Dogs of the chase, Devils, still hungry for the blood of Atreus’ race, Over the hideous rite shout, shout with jubilee!

Ch. What’s this Avenger thou bidd’st shriek Within the house? Night sinks Upon my soul to hear thee; faint and weak, Drop by drop, the slow blood shrinks Back to my heart, to sickly pallor blenched; So pales some fallen warrior, his life’s ray Low down the sky in sallow sunset quenched;

Agamemnon

Then with swift stride comes Death with the dying day.

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Ca. (With a piercing shriek) Ah-h-h-h! Look! Look! Keep The Bull from the Cow! Hell-dark and deep As death her horn: she strikes; and he is caught, Caught in his long robe—falling—falling—dead In the warm bath with murder brimming red! Oh, what a tale is here! A damned plot With bloody treason bubbling in the pot!

Ch. I have small skill in oracles, But something evil I divine; And troth, who ever heard that he who meddles With them learnt anything of good at grotto or shrine? No; all the answers prophet ever framed, All his high-sounding syllables, when the seer Speaks with the Voice of God, are evil, aimed To exercise us in a holy fear.

Ca. O death! O doom! Mine own In the cursed cauldron thrown! Wherefore hast brought me here! Ah, well I know I am to follow whither he must go.

Ch. Thou art crazed, on gusts of God-sent madness borne! Thyself the theme of thy sad ecstasy! There is nor law nor measure in thy strain; Like the brown nightingale that still doth mourn, As if song sought but could not find relief; ’Itys—Itys’—a never-ending cry, Her life of sorrow telling o’er again In her undying bower of fadeless grief.

Ca. Ah, happy nightingale! Sweet singer; little, frail Form God gave wings to—sweet to live—sans tears! For me the edge of doom! How fast it nears!

Ch. Whence come these Heaven-sent transports, whence come they? The meaning of thine anguish none of us knows. Wherefore dost body forth in melody These terrors that thou canst not put away? These notes, they pierce, they are exceeding shrill, And bodingly thy passionate utterance flows; Who made so strait thy path of prophecy And taught thy tongue to utter only ill?

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Ca. Wooing of Paris, thou hast won us woe! Wedding of Paris, thou hast made us weep! Native Scamander, where thy waters flow, I waxed to womanhood; Now by Acherontian gorges deep, Or where Cocytus pours his wailing flood, My boding heart foretells I presently shall chant my oracles.

Ch. Oh, what is this dark meaning leaps to light? A child could understand thee, thy keen pangs Stab through and through me, like the venomous bite Of serpent’s tooth, when he fleshes his fangs; And I am broken by the wailing cry, So passing piteous is thine agony.

Ca. Oh, lost, lost labour! Low the city lies, A wreck, a ruin; rased are tower and wall; Vainly my father lavished sacrifice With holocausts of kine, Poor, pastoral beasts, that nothing stayed her fall! Oh, heart of flame, Oh, fiery heart of mine, Go, burn among the dead! I come—I come—for me the net is spread.

Ch. Still harping on that chord of coming fate! An Evil Spirit, bidding thee despair, Sweeps through thy soul with insupportable weight, And calls from thee this wild and wailful air, Sorrow and Death making one melody; And, oh, I know not what the end shall be!

Ca. Now shall mine oracle no more look forth Out of a dim veil like new-wedded bride, But put on brightness as a wind that blows Towards the sun’s uprising, ’gainst the light Hurl, like a hissing wave, a horror far Huger than this. I’ll riddle you no more. Ye shall take up the chase and bear me out Whilst I hark back upon the scent of crime. Oh, there are music-makers in this house That quit it never; a symphonious Choir, Yet ill to hear; for evil is their theme. Being in drink, the more to make them bold, They will not budge, these Revellers of the race Of Furies; they sit late, their drunken rouse The original sin; ay, that incestuous beast, Mounted on lust, that trampled his brother’s bed. Went that shaft wide, or have I struck the deer? Or am I but a lying prophetess That raps at street doors, gabbling as she goes? Now give me the assurance of your oaths I know the iniquity of this ancient house.

Ch. What’s in an oath, though in all honour sworn, To help or heal? But I do marvel much That, bred beyond the seas, thou canst discourse Of foreign horrors, alien to thy blood, As if thou hadst stood by.

Ca. Prophet Apollo Ordained me to this office.

Ch. Is’t not true He loved thee, though a God?

Ca. There was a time When I had blushed to own it.

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Ch. We are nice When Fortune’s kind, ’tis nothing singular.

Ca. He was a stormy wooer and wrought hard To win me.

Ch. Was’t e’en so? And came ye then, As is the way of love, to getting children?

Ca. I did consent with Loxias and broke My promise.

Ch. Hadst thou then the divine gift Of prophecy?

Ca. Even then I told my people All that they had to suffer.

Ch. How couldst escape The wrath of Loxias?

Ca. This was my doom; That none to whom I spake believed on me.

Ch. But we have heard thee speak, and we believe Thy words are truth.

Ca. Ah-h,—God! Again The pang—the rocking blast—the reeling brain, And the clear vision through the pain! Look there! They sit—they have come home to roost These babes, the sorry semblance of sick dreams! Dead children, dead—butchered by their own kin! Their hands are full of meat; their mess; their own Bowels and inward parts; out on the sight! The lamentable dish—their father supped! For this, I tell you, one hath planned revenge; The craven lion tumbling in his bed To keep it warm, woe’s me, till he should come Who is my master—oh, a slave am I! The Sea-king, Ravisher of Ilium, Knows not her false and slavering tongue, thrust out, Lewd bitch, to lick and fawn and smile and be The secret soul of unforgiving hell! Dare it, She-devil! Unsex thyself, and be His murderess! O monster, bloody monster, Thou hast no name! Thou asp, Amphisbaena, Scylla of the Rocks, that is the seaman’s grave! Hell’s Mother-Bacchant, vowing truceless war Against thine own! Deep in all guilt how loud She shouted (as when the tide of battle turns), Seeming to joy for her lord’s home-coming! Believe me or believe not, ’tis all one, What is to be will come; a little while And you shall see it. Then you’ll pity me, And say that I was a true prophetess.

Ch. The babes’ flesh served for the Thyestean feast I know, and shudder at the dreadful tale In undisguised and naked horror told. But as for all the rest my thoughts run wild Clean from the course.

Ca. I tell thee thou shalt see The death of Agamemnon.

Ch. Peace! Oh, peace! Fair words, unhappy lady!

Ca. There’s no art Can mend my speech.

Ch. Not, if the thing must be; But God forbid.

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Ca. Thou makest prayer to God, But they make ready to kill.

Ch. Name me the man!

Ca. Thou dost not understand me.

Ch. Troth, I know No way at all to compass the king’s death.

Ca. And yet I speak good Greek, your tongue I know Too well.

Ch. So doth the Pythian oracle, Yet are his divinations wondrous dark.

Ca. Oh, misery! I burn! I burn! I am on fire with thee, Apollo! Wolf-Slayer! Woe is me! The lioness that wantoned with the wolf, The kingly lion being from her side, Shall take away my life; for she hath sworn To add my wages to the hell-broth she Brews; while she whets a dagger for her lord Means in my blood to pay my coming here. Why do I wear this motley? Why these wands? These wreaths about my neck for prophecy? Your death for mine, vile gauds! To Hell with you, And I will follow after! Go, make rich Another with damnation! Look, ’tis Apollo Strips off my godly robes! I am to him A spectacle, grinned on by friends and foes. They called me stroller, beggar, mountebank, Poor drab, poor half-dead starveling; evil names And ill to bear! But that was not enough; The prophet who made me a prophetess Has brought me here to die a violent death! And, for my father’s altar, waits for me The block warm-reeking with the blood of him That’s butchered first! But we’ll not die for naught We too shall have our champion, the child For mother’s murder born and sire’s revenge. A fugitive, a wandering outlaw, he, To crown this fatal pyramid of woe, Shall surely come! The Gods have sworn an oath His father’s curse shall bring him back again! Why do I shrink? Why do I wail? Since I Have seen what hath befallen Ilium, And Ilium’s captors come to this bad end, By the judgment of the Gods, I will go in And meet my death. Ye Gates of Hell, I greet ye! Pray God that I may get a mortal stroke, Without a struggle, dying easily; A spurt of blood, and then these eyes fast-closed.

Ch. Lady of many sorrows, and in much Most wise, thou hast discoursed at length; but if Thou hast indeed foreknowledge of thy death, How canst thou walk as boldly to the grave As goes to the altar the God-driven ox?

Ca. Sirs, I must die; delay can stead me not.

Ch. Yet death deferred is best.

Ca. My hour is come: To fly would nothing profit me.

Ch. Thou hast A patient and a valiant spirit.

Ca. You praise Not as men praise the happy.

1304-1349

Ch. Yet to die Nobly is to have honour among men.

Ca. Oh, father, father, I am woe for thee And all thy noble children.

She moves to the door of the palace, but recoils.

Ch. Ha! Why dost thou start? What terror waves thee back?

Ca. Foh! Foh!

Ch. What’s this offends thy nostrils? Or is’t the mind That’s sick with fear?

Ca. Pah! The house smells of blood.

Ch. Nay, nay, it is the smell of sacrifice.

Ca. It reeks like an open grave.

Ch. No Syrian nard, God wot!

Ca. Hush! I’ll go in; and there too I’ll Wail for my death and Agamemnon’s; what I had of life must be sufficient for me. O Sirs! Alack! I am no bird that shrills a wild alarm Scared at a bush. Bear witness what I am Hereafter, when, for this my death shall die Another of my sex, another man, For one most woefully ill-mated, fall. And this I ask you on the edge of death.

Ch. Oh! for thy doom foretold I am struck to the heart!

Ca. But one word more, or, rather, my last word, The dirge of mine own death. I pray the sun, Now in this last of light, that my avengers Pay home upon mine enemies the death I die—a slave despatched with one swift blow!

She enters the palace.

Ch. Oh, state of man! Thy happiness is but The pencilling of a shadow,—Misery With a wet sponge wipes out the picture! Ay, And this is the more pitiable by far. Oh, maw and ravin of Prosperity! Hunger, that lives of men can never appease! There’s none stands guard o’er gorgeous palaces, Bidding thee enter not, neither draw nigh! Here is a man, the Gods in bliss alway Gave Priam’s Town for spoil, and he hath come, With divine honours, back to his own home. But if, for blood he shed not, he must pay, If, for old crimes, he presently must die, That of death’s glory not a beam be shorn, Who that hath ears to hear can boast him born Under a star of scatheless destiny?

Ag. (Within the palace) Oh, I am wounded with a mortal wound!

Ch. Hush! Who is he that crieth out? Who shrieks Wounded unto the death?

Ag. Again! O God!

Ch. Now by the crying of the king I know The deed is done; but what shall we do?

1. Oh, Summon the citizens!

2. Break in! Break in! And put to proof this horrible sin At the sword’s point!

3. There thou and I are one, What is to do, let it be quickly done.

4. It leaps to light; now is their signal flown; This flourish sets oppression on its throne.

5. Yes, for, while we are trifling with the time, Procrastination the armed heel of Crime Treads under; neither doth their sword-hand sleep!

6. My wit is out: who dares the dangerous leap Let him advise.

7. Ay, truly; that’s well said; I have no art with words to raise the dead.

8. Are we, for the sake of a few sorry years, To crook the knee before these murderers? Are they that shame the house to lead us?

9. No! Better lie down in death than stoop so low! Death is not half so curst as tyranny.

10. Here’s too much haste; because we heard a cry Are we to argue that the king is slain?

11. You’re in the right on’t! Give not wrath therein Until thou hast assurance of the deed. Haphazard surmise and certitude are twain.

12. Why, then as most would have it let’s proceed; And, first, ere fears to acted folly run, We’ll know what hath befallen Atreus’ son.

The scene opens and discloses Clytemnestra standing over the bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra.

Cl. If I spoke much in terms of policy, Why should I scruple to recant them now? If Love be a close traitor, shall not Hate Dissemble too, environing her prey In toils too high for Desperation’s leap? This is the finish of an ancient quarrel, Long brooded, and late come, but come at last. I stand upon mine act—yea, where I struck. And, I confess it, I did use such craft, He could nor fly nor fend him against death. I caught him in a net as men catch fish; No room, no rat-hole in his loopless robe. I struck him twice; and once and twice he groaned; He doubled up his limbs; and, where he dropped, I struck him the third time; and with that stroke Committed him to Zeus, that keeps the dead! Then he lay still and gasped away his life, And belching forth a stinging blast of blood Spattered me with a shower of gory dew; And I was blithe as with the balm of Heaven The young corn in the birth-time of the ear. Wherefore, my very worshipful, good masters, Be merry, an it like you—I exult! Would you a decent draught to drench his corpse, ’Tis ready for him, and we’ll stint no drop. The bowl he filled with sorrow in his house, Now he’s come home, he shall suck out to the dregs.

1448-1501

Ch. Inhuman monster! Oh thou wicked tongue Wilt thou insult over thy murdered lord!

Cl. I am no fool; you cannot touch me there; This shakes me not; I do but tell you that You know already. Whether you praise or blame Matters no jot. Look! This is Agamemnon; My sometime husband. Here’s the hand that hewed him; Was’t not well done? Is’t not a masterpiece Of Justice? Ay, admire it how you will, This is the fashion of it.

Ch. Woman, hast eaten some evil root, Or brewed thee drink of the bubbling sea, That thou hast nerved thee for this rite? A thousand voices shall hiss and hoot, A thousand curses thy soul shall blight, For the deed thou hast done this day! Thou hast cut off, cast down, and thou shalt be Thyself a castaway, A thing exorcised, excommunicate, A monster, loaded with thy people’s hate.

Cl. Now, in the name of Justice thou hurl’st down Damnation and abhorrence on my dead; But when need was, durst cast no stone at him, Who, with no more concern than for a beast Taken and slaughtered from a thousand flocks, Slew his own child, the darling of my womb, For witchery against the Thracian blow. Oughtst not thou rather for his wicked deed To have thrust him forth? You hear what I have done, And scowl, the truculent justicer! I’ll tell you This; I am ready for your threats; ’tis odds But we’ll cry quits; or, if you better me, Do you bear rule; but, if that’s not God’s way, Late learner though thou art, I’ll teach thee wisdom.

Ch. Thou boastest much and art great to devise; But when I see thee in thy fury, yea, When thy heart is a plashing fount of blood, I think what a foil to thy blazing eyes Will be that crimson flush at flood Sealing thy sockets in their own gore, In the day of God, in that great day, When thy scarlet sins run o’er; How comely then these gules will show, When thy lovers forsake thee, and blow quits blow!

Cl. Now hear the unswerving tenor of mine oath: By Justice, that did fully venge my child, By Ate and Erinys, whose he is, Theirs by this sword, my onward-treading hope Shall never stumble through the courts of Fear, So long as there is fire on my hearth Aegisthus lights; so long as he’s my friend, My ample buckler, my strong heart’s true shield. He’s dead that had his lust of her; the dear Of every Chryseid under Ilium; And so’s this baggage of his, his fortune-teller, He hugged abed with him, sooth prophetess, And trustiest strumpet, she that with him rubbed The rowers’ bench smooth. They have their wage; thou seest How ’tis with him; and she, that like the swan Has dirged her last, lies with him, where he lies; And this poor chewet, nibbled in my bed, Sets on my board rich diet’s sanspareil.

1502-1550

Ch. Come, some quick death, but rack me not with pain, Nor keep me long abed; Let me thy opiate drain That brings the eternal sleep! My lord is dead, And I care not for other company; My keeper graced with kingliest courtesy, Who for a woman warred on a far strand And now lies fallen by a woman’s hand. Oh, Helen, Helen, conscienceless and cursed! How many souls of men under Troy’s wall Didst thou cut off from life and light! Now thou hast done thy worst, And in this blood, no water can wash white, With the most perfect, memorablest of all The last rose in thy garland twined, Thou corner-stone of strife; thou woe of human kind!

Cl. Call not on Death, cast down by what ye see, Neither on Helen turn your wrath aside, As if none else were deep in blood but she; Nor think, because for her our Danaans died, There is no other hurt past surgery.

Ch. Spirit that on these battlements, plumb-down, Dost drop on iron wings, To pluck away the two-fold crown And double sceptre of the Tantalid kings, Thou didst raise up two Queens, and give the twain Twin Souls, to deal my heart a deadly wound; Now, like a carrion-bird perched on the slain. Thou sing’st thy song, to an ill descant crooned.

Cl. Now is thy judgment just, when thou dost cry To that cursed Spirit, that thrice-fatted Doom, A Lust Incarnate, Death that cannot die, That makes all Tantalids murderers in the womb, Athirst for fresh blood ere the old be dry.

Ch. ’Tis a Destroying Angel, angered sore Against this house; a Spirit, great and strong And evil and insatiable, woe’s me! That stands at Zeus’ right hand, to Whom belong Power and Dominion, now and evermore. What do we, or what suffer, of good or ill, But, doing, suffering, we enact His Will? Ay, without God, none of these things could be. King, my king, how shall I weep for thee? What shall my fond heart say? Thou liest in spider’s web-work; gaspingly In hideous death the fleet life ebbs away. Woe, woe, that thou shouldst bow thy head On this unkingly bed, By dagger-hand despatched and treason’s felony!

Cl. Nay, sink thy proud boast; Call not this my deed; Never suppose me Agamemnon’s Spouse; A spectre in my likeness drew the knife; The old, the unforgiving Ghost, Not I that was this piece of carrion’s wife. And his assassination feed Black Atreus of the Bloody Rouse, The Revel Grim. She hath the altar dressed With brawn of manhood for the tender limb Of weanling infants taken from the breast.

1551-1595

Ch. Go to: that thou art innocent of this blood What witness will avouch? Though, it may be, That Old Destroyer wove with thee the mesh. This bloody deluge, like an oncoming sea That may not halt until it makes the flood, Rolls its rough waves, with kindred-murder red, Till Justice lave the rank corruption bred Of that foul, cannibal roast of childish flesh. King, my king, how shall I weep for thee? What shall my fond heart say? Thou liest in spider’s web-work; gaspingly In hideous death, the fleet life ebbs away! Woe, woe, that thou shouldst bow thy head On this unkingly bed! By dagger-hand despatched and treason’s felony!

Cl. Is he guile-free? Hath he not slain His own, even my branch, raised up from him, Iphigeneia, wept with all my tears? Ah, to the traitor, treachery! He hath discharged in blood his long arrears; The measure he dealt is meted him again. Then, let his big voice, in the dim Darkness of Hell, Sink low and sadly breathed; He hath his just quietus; this great quell Ripostes his stroke, who first the sword unsheathed.

Ch. Now like a weary wrestler My fainting heart contends; Now that the house is falling, Where shall I find me friends? But, oh, I fear, to whelm it Red Ruin roars amain; For the first shower is over, The early, morning rain. Yea, Fate that forges Sorrow Now a new grindstone sets; There, for fresh hurt, her dagger The Armourer, Justice, whets. Oh, Earth, Earth, Earth! Would God I had lain dead, Deep in thy mould, Ere on his silver-sided pallet-bed I saw my lord lie cold! Oh, who will bury him, dirge him to his rest? Wilt thou sing his death-song, Murderess of thine own man; wail and beat breast For thy most grievous wrong? Mock his great spirit with such comfort cold? Oh, for a voice to sound The hero’s praise, with passionate weeping knolled Over his low grave-mound!

1598-1645

Cl. Let that alone; it matters not to thee: For by our hand he fell, he dropped down dead, And we will dig him deep in earth. Let be; We’ll have no wailers here; but, in their stead, His child, Iphigeneia, with soft beck, Where the rapid waves of the Ford of Sorrows hiss. Shall come; and fling her arms about his neck, And greet her loving father with a kiss.

Ch. So taunt meets taunt; but Judgment Is bitter hard to gain. Now spoiled is the despoiler, Now is the slayer slain. For Zeus abides upon His Throne, And, through all time, all tides, The Law that quits the Doer, The changeless Law abides. Who will cast out the accursed stuff, Bone of thee, breath of thy breath? Thy very stones, thou bloody house, Are bonded in with Death!

Cl. Now is thine oracle come to the fountainhead Of bitter Truth. As God lives, I would swear Great oaths to that cursed Spirit, Whose ghostly tread Haunteth the House of Pleisthenes, to bear What’s past endurance, and take heart of grace To pluck these rooted sorrows from my mind, Would he avaunt, and harry some other race With the Soul of Murder that seeks out his kind. Then, with that Horror from this house cast forth Which mads their blood with mutual butchery, Oh, what were all its golden treasure worth? A poor man’s portion were enough for me.

Enter Aegisthus, with his guards.

Aegisthus. Oh, day of grace, meridian of Justice! Now may I say the Gods are our Avengers And from on high behold the crimes of earth; For now I have my wish; I see yon man, Wound up in raiment of Erinys’ woof; The shroud that shrives his father’s handiwork. Atreus, his sire, who here bare rule, because His power was challenged, did his father’s son Thyestes, my dear father—dost thou mark me?— Outlaw and ban from home and kingdom both. Himself, poor man, a suitor for his life, Recalled from exile, found fair terms enough; No death for him, no staining with his blood This parent soil. But, for his entertainment, Atreus, this man’s cursed father, with more heat Than heart towards mine, with a pretended stir Of welcome—oh, a high-day of hot joints! Dished up for him a mess of his own babes. The hands and feet he chopped and put aside; The rest, minced small and indistinguishable, Served at a special table. So he ate Knowing not what he ate; but, purge thine eyes, And own ’twas sauced with sorrow for his seed. And, when he saw what wickedness was done, He groaned; fell back, and spewed the gobbets up, Clamouring damnation down on Pelops’ line. Yea, kicking over board and banquet, cried,

“So perish all the house of Pleisthenes!” And with that push great Agamemnon fell. My grudge in this employed some stitchery; I was my poor sire’s third son and sole hope; And he thrust me out with him; in cradle-clothes; But I grew up and Justice called me home. Outside these walls I grappled with yon man, Yea, had a privy part in the whole plot. And for all this I am content to die Now that in Vengeance’ toils I see him snared.

1645-1673

Ch. Aegisthus, I hold him a caitiff who Insults o’er sorrow. You do stand confessed A murderer; you say you sole conspired This sorry deed. I say to thee, thou too Shalt not escape damnation; they shall cast Stones at thee; ay, heap curses on thy grave!

Ae. You drudge, you Jack that paddles in the bilge, Say you e’en so, your betters on the bench Of guidance and command? Your study is Humility, old man, and you will find ’Tis hard for dullard age to mind his book: But even for eld prison and hunger-pinch Are rare physicians. Hast no eyes for that? Kick not against the pricks lest thou go lame.

Ch. You woman that brings infamy on men Fresh from the field; ay, bolted safe indoors Cuckolds a king and plots to strike him down.

Ae. This shall be father to a world of woe! Oh, Orpheus had a voice, but not like thine: For, where he caroled, jocund Nature danced! Plague on thy howlings! Thou shalt dance to them Whither thou wouldst not, and, by God, once caught We’ll put some tameness in thee.

Ch. You, “my lord,” You to be king in Argos! Plotting murder, But not the man to do it!

Ae. Was not the wife The readiest way to gull him? Was not I Smoked and suspect, his ancient enemy? It shall go ill with me, but this man’s gold Shall make me master. He that fights the rein Shall feel the bit, and I will make it heavy! No corn-fed colt for me! Hunger that keeps House with the hateful dark shall humble him.

Ch. Why was thy craven soul not man enough To slay him in fair fight? Why did a woman, Wherewith the land reeks and her Gods are sick, Kill him? Orestes yet beholds the light, And he shall come in happy hour, and be The master and destroyer of you both.

Ae. Wilt rave, wilt rant, wilt fall to deeds? Why, then, Blockhead, thou shalt learn wisdom! Forward, men! Come, stir, good fellows! Faith, you need not trudge Far for this fray.

Ch. Out swords!

Ae. As God’s my judge, My sword to yours, I fear not death, not I.

Ch. Not? Then we take the omen, thou shalt die!

Cl. Sweetheart! I charge thee, do no villainy! Nay, do no more! What’s sown is yet to reap; It is a harvest where the corn stands deep, And we must carry home full loads of care. Without our blood, here’s trouble and to spare! Good gentlemen, I pray you, to your homes! Bend to the hour, when fraught with Fate it comes, Lest worse befall ye. That which we have done ’Twas fated we should do. Therefore, begone! Ah, might this prove the end-all of our woe; How happy should we be to have it so! So heavy on us is the bloody spur Of a dread Spirit, Destiny’s minister Here is a woman’s counsel, will ye heed

Ae. And shall these crop all rankness tongue can breed; Drive their own fortune to the hazard; brook No rein; call no man master?

Ch. When I crook The knee to evil you may call me hound; I am no son of this free Argive ground.

Ae. I’ll be revenged upon ye yet.

Ch. Not so If Fate bring back Orestes.

Ae. Tush! I know The exile’s wallet is with hope well-lined.

Ch. Enjoy thy fortune do! Is not Fate kind? Go on in sin; wax fat; make the strong power Of Justice reek to heaven; this is thine hour.

Ae. Wild words, but they are reckoned to thy score.

Ch. Ay, strut and crow, a cock his dame before!

Cl. Nay, never heed their howlings! Masterdom And kingly state are ours, come what may come. So in the palace thou and I will dwell And order all things excellently well.

Exeunt.