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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A FRAGMENT FROM THE AGAMEMNON OF AESCHYLOS, by AESCHYLUS Poet's Biography First Line: Thy prophecies are but a lying tale Last Line: Is close at hand. I will not shirk the blow. Subject(s): Prophecy & Prophets | |||
CHORUS Thy prophecies are but a lying tale, For cruel gods have brought thee to this state, And of thyself, and thine own wretched fate, Sing you this song, and these unhallow'd lays, Like the brown bird of grief insatiate Crying for sorrow of its dreary days; Crying for Itys, Itys, in the vale -- The nightingale! the nightingale! KASSANDRA Yet I would that to me they had given The fate of that singer so clear, Fleet wings to fly up into heaven, Away from all mourning and fear; For ruin and slaughter await me -- the cleaving with sword and with spear. CHORUS Whence come these crowding fancies on thy brain, Sent by some god it may be, yet for nought? Why dost thou sing with evil-tongued refrain, -- Moulding thy terrors to this hideous strain With shrill sad cries, as if by death distraught? Why dost thou tread that path of prophecy, Where, upon either hand, Landmarks for ever stand, With horrid legend for all men to see? KASSANDRA O bitter bridegroom, who did'st bear Ruin to those that loved thee true! O holy stream Skamander, where With gentle nurturement I grew In the first days, when life and love were new. And now -- and now -- it seems that I must lie In the dark land that never sees the sun; Sing my sad songs of fruitless prophecy, By the black stream Kokutos, that doth run Through long low hills of dreary Acheron. CHORUS Ah, but thy word is clear! Even a child among men, Even a child, might see What is lying hidden here. Ah! I am smitten deep To the heart with a deadly blow! At the evil fate of the maid, At the cry of her song of woe; Sorrows for her to bear! Wonders for me to hear! KASSANDRA O my poor land, laid waste with flame and fire! O ruin'd city, overthrown by fate! Ah, what avail'd the offerings of my Sire To keep the foreign foemen from the gate! Ah, what avail'd the herds of pasturing kine To save my country from the wrath divine! Ah, neither prayer or priest availed aught, Nor the strong captains that so stoutly fought, For the tall town lies desolate and low. And I, the singer of this song of woe, Know by the fire burning in my brain, That Death, the healer of all earthly pain, Is close at hand. I will not shirk the blow. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEDITATION ON SAVIORS by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE PROPHET by LUCILLE CLIFTON THREE SONNETS by RICHARD WILBUR MERLIN'S PROPHESY by WILLIAM BLAKE SPELT FROM SIBYL'S LEAVES by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE NEW EZEKIEL by EMMA LAZARUS A WORM FED ON THE HEART OF CORINTH by ISAAC ROSENBERG SARAH'S CHOICE by ELEANOR WILNER THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION; A POEM. ENLARGED VERSION: BOOK 4 by MARK AKENSIDE |
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