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AGAMEMNON, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Leaving the dark abode of gods of hell
Last Line: Shall fall on thee.
Alternate Author Name(s): Seneca
Subject(s): Mythology - Greek; Tragedy


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

GHOST OF THYESTES.
AGAMEMNON.
ÆGISTHUS.
EURYBATES.
STROPHIUS.
ORESTES.
PYLADES.
CLYTEMNESTRA.
ELECTRA.
CASSANDRA.
NURSE OF CLYTEMNESTRA.
CHORUS OF TROJAN WOMEN
CHORUS OF ARGIVE WOMEN.

SCENE: Before the palace of Agamemnon.

ACT I

SCENE I

The Ghost of Thyestes.

LEAVING the dark abode of gods of hell,
I come from depths profound of Tartarus,
Uncertain which abode I hate the more;
Thyestes flees both heaven and hell. My soul
Is filled with dread, I tremble; lo, I see
My father's home—nay, more, my brother's home!
This is the portal of the ancient house
Of Pelops; here Pelasgia's kingly crown
Is consecrated; here upon their throne
They sit who wield the scepter, this the place
Where meets the great assembly, this the place
Of feasting. I am glad I have returned!
Were it not better by the mournful streams
To dwell? Were not the watch-dog of the Styx
That shakes his threefold necks and inky manes
Better? Where, bound upon the flying wheel,
That form is borne; where oft that useless toil
By the still backward rolling wheel is mocked;
Where on the heart that ever grows anew
The eager birds feed ever; where, consumed
With burning thirst, he stands amid the waves
Whose lips deceived still seek the flying stream,
Grim penalty for other feasts—how small
Compared with ours is that old man's crime!
Let us consider all those guilty ones
Who by the Gnosian judge have been condemned:
Thyestes overtops them all in crime.
By my own brother I was overcome,
With my three sons was sated, they in me
Have found a sepulcher; my flesh and blood
I ate. And not this only; Fortune stained
The father, but another, greater crime
Was added to that sin—Fate bade me seek
With my own daughter union infamous;
Nor did I, fearful, shrink from her behest,
I did the deed. So, that I might make use
Of flesh of all my children, she, my child,
Compelled by fate, bore fruit of me, her sire,
Most worthy. So is nature backward turned;
So have I by my crime confusion made,
Have father's father with the father blent,
The father with the husband, with the son
The grandson, day with night! But now, though late,
And coming after death to one long tried
With evil fortunes, the dark prophecy's
Uncertain promise is at length fulfilled.
The king of kings, the one of leaders lord,
Dread Agamemnon, following whose flag
A thousand vessels broidered with their sails
The Trojan seas, now, after ten long years,
Troy being conquered, is at home again,
About to give him to his wife's embrace.
Now shall the house in blood of vengeance swim:
I see sword, spear, and battle-ax; I see
The royal head divided by the blow
Of two-edged ax, already crimes are near,
Already guile, blood, slaughter; yea, and feasts
Are spread. Ægisthus, now the hour draws nigh
For which thou wast begot. Why droops the head
In shame? Why, doubtful, shrinks the trembling hand?
Why with thyself take counsel, turn away,
And ask if this is right for thee to do?
Behold thy mother; know that it is so.
Why suddenly does summer's fleeting night
Linger as does the winter's longer dark?
Why holds it in the sky the failing stars?
Do I delay the coming of the sun?
Let daylight to the world return again. [Goes out.]

SCENE II

Chorus of Argive Women.

O Fortune, how deceitful are thy gifts!
The lofty thou dost place in doubtful seats
And hazardous, the sceptered never know
A rest serene, nor can they for a day
Be certain of their power, care on care
Fatigues them, ever new storms vex their souls.
The waters of the Libyan Syrtes rage
Less wildly in the change of ebb and flood;
Less wildly from its lowest depths heaved up,
Surges the water of the Euxine sea,
Northward, where never dipped in waters blue
Boötes drives his starry wain, than turns
The headlong fate of kings on Fortune's wheel.
All things that make them fear, they long to have
Yet tremble to possess; refreshing night
Brings not to them repose, and conquering sleep
Frees not their breasts from care. What citadel
Has not by mutual treachery been o'erthrown,
Or vexed by impious war? Law, modesty,
The sacred faithfulness of marriage vows,
Forsake the court; with hand that thirsts for blood,
Bellona, baleful goddess, follows it,
And follows, too, that fury who inflames
The proud, attendant on those o'er-proud homes
That from their lofty height shall sometime fall.
If arms were idle and deceit should cease,
They yet would sink beneath their very weight,
And fortune underneath its own load fail.
The sails on which the favoring south wind blows
Too fiercely fear the breeze; the lofty tower
Whose summit pierces to the very clouds
Is beaten by the tempests, and the grove
That spreads abroad its heavy shadow sees
Its old oaks shattered; lofty halls are struck
By thunderbolts; great bodies are exposed
The more to sickness, when the lean herds roam
The arid pastures; 'tis the broadest back
That feels the wound.
Whatever Fortune to the heights has raised
Is lifted up but for a deeper fall,
But moderate possessions longer bide.
Happy the man contented with his lot
Among the common throng, who skirts the shore
Before safe winds, and, daring not to trust
His vessel to the open ocean, sails
Near land.

ACT II

SCENE I

Clytemnestra, Nurse.

Clytemnestra. Why waver, slow of heart? Why seek safe plans?
The better way is closed. Unstained I kept
My marriage vows, my widowed scepter held
In chaste fidelity; now, virtue, law,
Fidelity and honor, piety,
And modesty which gone comes not again,
All these have perished. Give the rein to lust,
Let loose thy passions, crime must make crime safe.
Whatever faithless wife, with secret love
Made mad, whatever stepdame's hand, has dared;
Whate'er that ardent and unnatural maid
Who fled from Colchis in Thessalian boat
Has dared: sword, poison.—With thy lover leave
Mycena and thy home in secret flight!
Why, timid one, of secrecy, and flight,
And exile, speak? Those things thy sister sought,
A greater crime is more befitting thee.
Nurse. O Argive queen, of Leda's race renowned,
Why broodest thou in silence? Of control
Impatient, why with swelling heart resolve
So fiercely? Thou art silent, but thy grief
Speaks in thy face; therefore, whate'er it be,
Give thyself time and space; delay oft heals
What reason cannot heal.
Clytemnestra. So great the pains
That torture me, I cannot brook delay.
The flames are burning up my heart and reins;
Fear, mingled with my grief, applies the scourge;
Hate drives me on, and base desire's yoke
Presses upon me, nor will be denied.
And midst the fires that thus besiege my soul,
Shame, wearied, sunken, conquered, once again
Rises. By varying tempests am I driven!
As when the winds and tides drive different ways
The depths of ocean, and the doubtful seas
Know not to whether evil they must bow,
So I have dropped the rudder from my hands,
And wheresoever rage, or hope, or grief
May bear me, thither do I go; my boat
Is given to the waves. When one knows not
The way, 'tis best to follow chance.
Nurse. Who seeks
In chance a leader, he is blindly rash.
Clytemnestra. He has no need to fear a doubtful chance,
Whose fortunes are at lowest ebb.
Nurse. Thy crime
Will be unknown and safe, if so thou wilt.
Clytemnestra. The sins of royal houses shine abroad.
Nurse. Repentest thou the old crime, planning yet
A new?
Clytemnestra. The man is fool indeed who keeps
A limit in his sinning.
Nurse. He, who hides
His crime with crime, increases what he fears.
Clytemnestra. The sword and fire are oft best medicine.
Nurse. But no one tries at first the uttermost.
Clytemnestra. In evil one must seize the quickest way.
Nurse. Ah, let the sacred name of wife deter.
Clytemnestra. For ten years looked I on my husband's face?
Nurse. The children that thou barest him call to mind.
Clytemnestra. My daughter's marriage torches I recall,
My son-in-law Achilles. Here, indeed,
Maternal faithfulness abides.
Nurse. She freed
From long delay the fleet becalmed, she stirred
The sluggish languor of the moveless sea.
Clytemnestra. O grief, O shame! A child of Tyndarus,
Of heavenly race, I bore a child to be
A lustral offering for the Doric fleet!
I think upon my daughter's marriage-bed,
Which, worthy Pelop's house, was then prepared
When he, her father, at the altar stood,
The sacrificing priest! What nuptial fires!
The prophet Calchas at his own response
Recoiled, the altars shrank away. O house,
Still overcoming crime with crime, with blood
We purchase favoring winds, buy war with death.
But were a thousand ships by her death freed,
The ships were not set free by favoring god,
'Twas Aulis drove the impious vessels forth.
With auspices like these he wages not
A warfare fortunate. A slave's slave made
By love, unmoved by prayers, that old man held
The booty from Apollo Smintheus torn,
Already burning for the sacred maid.
Dauntless Achilles could not with his threats
Bend him, nor he who saw (none else) earth's fate—
The prophet to us faithful, to the slave
Most mild, nor troubled people, nor the pyres
Relighted. Conquered, though by no foe's hand,
Midst the last ruins of the falling Greeks
He slept, had time for lust, renewed his loves.
Nor ever was his lonely couch unpressed
By barbarous mistress; he it was who took
The virgin of Lernessus, rightful spoil
Of great Achilles, not ashamed to seize
The maiden from the hero's bosom torn.
Lo, this is Priam's enemy! And now
He feels again the wounds of love, inflamed
With passion for the Phrygian prophetess;
The winner of the Trojan trophies turns
Again toward Ilium, husband of a slave,
And son-in-law of Priam! Up, my soul!
No easy war is that thou now wouldst wage!
Crime must be used. O weak and slow of heart,
What day dost thou await? Till Phrygian maid
Shall hold the scepter in great Pelop's house?
Do orphaned virgins keep thee still at home?
Or does Orestes keep thee, he so like
His father? All the ill about to come
Upon them, all the storms that overhang,
Shall move thee. Wretched one, why longer pause?
The raging stepdame of thy sons is here.
If thou canst do no otherwise, the sword
Shall pierce thy side, shal! slay both thee and him.
Now mingle blood with blood; in dying, kill
Thy husband; 'tis not misery to die,
When thou art with thy enemy destroyed.
Nurse. Queen, curb thy spirit, cease from wrath, recall
How great the day: he comes, the conqueror
Of savage Asia, Europe's punisher,
Who drags in triumph captured Pergamus
And Phrygians all too long victorious.
Wouldst thou with secret crime attack him now,
Whom Hercules, although his eager hand
Was grimly armed, touched not with cruel sword,
Nor Ajax, though he deemed that death was sure,
Nor Hector, to the Greeks the sole delay
In war, nor Paris' weapon surely aimed,
Nor Memnon black, nor Xanthus bearing down
Bodies and armor mingled in its waves,
Nor Simois' stream that flowed cncarnadined
With slaughter, nor the ocean god's white son,
Cygnus, nor Thracian phalanx led to war
By Rhesus, nor the bucklered Amazon
With ax and quiver? Dost thou think to slay
This one, returned? To stain with murder base
The altars? Will victorious Greece endure
This crime and not avenge? See now the steeds,
And weapons, and the sea thick strewn with ships,
The soil with blood of noble Greeks made wet,
And all the fate of Troy, turned back on us!
Restrain thy fiery passion, calm thy soul.

SCENE II

Ægisthus, Clytemnestra, Nurse.

Ægisthus. The time that ever with my heart and soul
I feared, is here indeed—for me the end.
Why turn away? Why, at the first attack,
Lay down thy arms? Thou mayest certain be
That vengeful gods prepare a fearful fate
And dread disaster for thee. Thy vile head
Make bare, Ægisthus, for all martyrdoms;
Receive with ready breast the sword and flame;
One finds in death so met no punishment.
My comrade oft in danger, Leda's child,
Be thou my ally now; that leader base,
That father harsh, shall give thee blood for blood.
But wherefore dost thou tremble? Wherefore flies
A pallor to thy cheeks? With drooping lids
Why stand amazed?
Clytemnestra. The love I owe as wife
Conquers and turns me back. To fealty
From which it was not ever right to turn
I'm brought again, again I seek chaste truth;
For never is the hour too late to seek
The path of virtue, who repents his sin
Is almost innocent.
Ægisthus. Thou art insane;
Dost thou believe or hope there yet remains
For thee, with Agamemnon, marriage truth?
Though nought within thy soul should make thee fear,
Yet, arrogant and by too strong a breath
Of favoring fortune borne, his pride would swell
Beyond control; while Troy yet stood, his men
Ill brooked his pride, why trust a nature fierce
Now Troy is his? He was Mycena's king;
He comes as tyrant, for prosperity
Increases pride. Surrounded by a throng
Of concubines, he comes; but midst the throng
The servant of the truth-foretelling god
Is eminent and holds Mycena's king.
If thou wouldst with another woman share
Thy husband's bed, yet she, perchance, would not.
The greatest ill a wife can know is this:
A concubine possessing openly
Her husband's home. Nor mistresses, nor kings
Can share their power.
Clytemnestra. Why wouldst thou drive me back,
Ægisthus, to the steep, why fan the rage
That lives already in the flame? Perchance
The victor has allowed himself to use
Some licence t'ward the captive maid—'tis meet
Neither for mistress of the house nor wife
To think on that. The throne has other laws
Than has the humbler couch. Of shameful crime
Conscious, my soul may not too harshly judge
My husband's sins. He readily forgives,
Who needs forgiveness.
Ægisthus. Is it so indeed?
Is mutual indulgence then allowed?
Are then the laws of kings unknown to thee,
Or new? To us harsh judges, to themselves
Most mild, they deem their greatest pledge of power
To be the right to do what is forbid
To others.
Clytemnestra. Helen's sin has been forgiven,
With Menelaus she returns again
Through whom on Europe and on Asia came
Like dangers.
Ægisthus. But no woman ever filled
With secret passion Menelaus' heart,
Nor made him faithless to his wife. This man
Seeks crime in thee, desires to find excuse;
And if, indeed, thou hadst done nothing base,
What profits innocence and blameless life?
When thy lord hates thee he inquires not—
Thou must be guilty. Exiled, fugitive,
Wouldst seek Eurotas, Sparta, and thy home?
Whom kings divorce are not allowed to flee,
With empty hopes thou wouldst allay thy fears.
Clytemnestra. None but the true have knowledge of my sin.
Ægisthus. None true e'er cross the threshold of a king.
Clytemnestra. With wealth I'll buy fidelity.
Ægisthus. The faith
That can with gold be bought, more gold can shake.
Clytemnestra. My former shame arises in my breast,
Why harass with thy words? With kindly voice
Why urge thy evil counsels? Dost thou think
The noble queen who braves the king of kings
Will marry thee, an exile?
Ægisthus. Why should I
Less noble seem to thee than Atreus' son,
I who was born Thyestes' son?
Clytemnestra. Say too
His grandson, if the son is not enough.
Ægisthus. I was begotten by Apollo's will;
I need not blush, since such my ancestry.
Clytemnestra. Dost call Apollo source of that base stock?
Thou drov'st him from the sky, night fell again,
And he recalled his steeds. Why make the gods
The sharers of dishonor? Taught by fraud
To steal the pleasures of another's bed,
Whom through illicit love alone we proved
A man, begone, and take from out my sight
My home's dishonor; leave the palace pure
For king and husband.
Ægisthus. I am used to ills,
And exile is not new; if thou, O queen,
Commandest. not alone from home I go
And Argos—I delay not at thy word
To pierce with steel this heart weighed down with grief.
Clytemnestra. A bloody child of Tyndarus, indeed,
Would I become should I allow this deed;
She owes thee fealty who sinned with thee.
Come with me, that together we may find
A means to free us from the threatening storm.

SCENE III

Chorus of Argives.

Sing songs in praise of Phœbus, noble youths!
For thee the festal throng enwreathe their hair,
For thee the unwed Argives wave the boughs
Of laurel and their tresses virginal
Unbind. O ye who drink the icy wave
Of Erasinus' or Eurotas' stream,
Or of Ismenus flowing silently
Between green banks; thou too, O Theban guest,
Join in our chorus; so Tiresias' child,
Foreknowing Manto, bade with sacred feasts
To venerate the gods, Latona's twins.
Victorious Phœbus, peace once more restored,
Unbend thy bow, and from thy shoulder loose
Thy quiver heavy with swift shafts, and smite
With fingers swift the tuneful lute, I would
That it may sound no stern or lofty strain,
But as thou usest to the gentle lyre
To modulate a simple melody,
When to the strain the skilful muse gave ear.
Sound too the graver chords as thou hast sung
When gods beheld the Titans overcome
By thunder; or when mountains superposed
On mountains built a pathway to the skies
For monsters fierce—Ossa on Pelion stood,
Pineclad Olympus weighed upon them both.
O sharer of the greater sovereignty—
Both wife and sister, J uno, queen, be near!
Thy chosen band who in Mycena dwell,
We honor thee. Thou only dost protect
Thy troubled Argos that now prays to thee.
Thou holdest peace and war within thy hand,
Take, Victress, Agamemnon's laurels now.
To thee the boxwood flute with many stops
Sounds now the sacred notes of praise; to thee
The maidens touch the tuneful strings in song
Of sweet accord; the Grecian matrons wave
To thee the votive torch; before thy shrine
Is slain the snow-white consort of the bull,
Untaught to plow, whose neck has never felt
The yoke. And thou, O child of mighty Jove,
Illustrious Pallas, thou who oft hast sought
The Trojan turrets with thy hostile spear,
Thee, in the woman's chorus, old and young
Adore; thy priestess, at thy coming, opes
The temple doors, the great procession comes.
Wearied and bent with years, the aged bring
To thee their thanks for wishes gratified,
And pour with trembling hand the wine to thee.
Thee too, as we are wont, we supplicate,
Diana of the crossways; thou didst first,
Lucina, bid thy native Delos stand,
That here and there among the Cyclades
Was driven by the winds, nor rooted fast—
Her land is fixed, she yields not to the winds
That once she followed, offers vessels now
Firm haven. Number now, victorious one,
The deaths that Niobe bewailed, she stands
A mournful rock on Sipylus' high top,
And from the ancient marble ever flow
New tears; both men and maids pay reverence due,
Twin goddess, to thy bright divinity.
O guide and father, with thy thunderbolt
Excelling, at whose nod the heavens bow,
O Jove, great author of our race, accept,
Thou more than all, the gifts we offer thee;
Look kindly on thy not degenerate sons.
But see, a soldier comes with hasty steps,
And bears the evidence of joy, for lo,
His spear is wreathed with laurel; he is here,
The ever-faithful servant of the king.

ACT III

SCENE I

Eurybates, Clytemnestra.

Eurybates. O shrines and altars of the heavenly ones,
O lares of my fatherland, sore worn
And scarcely crediting myself, I stand
A suppliant, after many weary years,
And worship thee! Pay now thy vows to God,
The glory of Argolis comes at length,
The victor Agamemnon, to his own.
Clytemnestra. Glad words I hear. Through ten long years desired,
Where tarries he? Upon the land or sea?
Eurybates. Unharmed, with glory rich, with honor great,
He sets his foot upon the longed-for shore.
Clytemnestra. Let us with sacred offerings celebrate
This late-come, prosperous day, and reverence
Gods slow if favoring. Tell me, lives he yet—
My husband's brother? Say where now abides
My sister?
Eurybates. Better fate is theirs than ours,
I hope and pray, yet cannot surely tell,
Since most uncertain are the changing seas.
The scattered fleet was smitten by the waves,
Nor ship saw ship, and Atreus' son himself
Bore greater ills at sea than in the war.
The victor comes as vanquished, bringing back
Few ships of all his fleet and these half wrecked.
Clytemnestra. What chance befell our ships? Upon the deep
How were our leaders parted?
Eurybates. Bitter news
Thou askest. Thou wouldst have me mix with joy
Most grievous tidings, and my spirit fears
To tell the sorrows, trembles at the woe.
Clytemnestra. Yet tell me all. Who shuns to know his loss
Increases fear; the ills that torture most
Are those half known.
Eurybates. When Pergamus had fall'n
Before the Doric brands, and all the spoil
Had been divided, each one sought the sea
In haste; the soldier, wearied with the sword,
Unbound it from his side, through all the poop
The bucklers lay neglected; to the oar
The warriors put their hands, and each delay
Seemed long to those who hasted to be gone.
Again the standard on the royal ship
Shone out, again the trumpet's silver note
Recalled the joyful rowers, and again
The golden prow marked out the way, made plain
The pathway which a thousand ships should take.
At first a gentle air impels the ship,
Touching the sails, the tranquil waves scarce stir
Beneath light Zephyr's sighing breath. The sea
Is splendid with the fleet that covers it.
With joy we look on Troy's deserted shores,
With joy we leave behind Sigeum's waste.
The youths make haste to ply the ready oar
And aid the winds; they move their sinewy arms
With strokes alternate, and the furrowed waves
Flash up and strike against the vessel's sides,
The white foam covers up the ocean's blue.
But when a stronger breeze fills up the sails,
They lay aside the oars and to the winds
They trust the ships. The soldiers stretch themselves
Upon the rowing benches, or from far
They watch how fast the vessel leaves behind
The flying land, or tell the deeds of war:
Brave Hector's threats, the chariot, and the corpse
Brought back by Priam for the funeral pyre,
And Jupiter Herceus' altars, red
With blood of kings. Then dolphins on the foam
Sported and leaped across the swelling waves
With curving backs, and played about the sea,
And moved in circles, and beside the keel
Swam, joying now to follow, now to lead
The fleet, now capered round the first ship's beak
The choric band, now round the thousandth frisked.
Already all the coast had disappeared,
The shore was hidden and Mount Ida's top
Was dim with distance, and the smoke of Troy
Appeared an inky cloud which keenest sight
Alone could see. Already from the yoke
Was Titan setting free his weary steeds,
Already day was done, and mid the stars
The daylight was departing; a light cloud,
Increasing ever from an inky spot,
Made dim the bright rays of the setting sun;
The many colored sunset made us fear
A storm. At first, night showed a starry sky,
The sails, deserted by the wind, dropped loose.
Then from the summits of the hills there fell
A murmur deep that threatened graver things,
And the long shore and rocky headlands groaned,
The waves rolled up before the coming wind;
Then suddenly the moon is hid, the stars
Vanish, and to the skies the deep is tossed,
The heavens disappear. 'Tis doubly night,
A thick mist hides the darkness, all light flees,
And sea and sky are mingled. From all sides
The winds together blow upon the sea
And hurl the waters from their lowest depths—
The east and west winds strive, the north and south,
Each sends his darts, and all in hostile wise
Stir up the straits, a whirlwind sweeps the sea.
The Thracian northwind whirls the snow about,
The Libyan southwind drives along the sands,
Nor holds the south wind; Notus blows along
Dense rain clouds, adds its waters to the waves,
And Eurus shakes the orient, stirs the realm
Of Nabathæa and the eastern straits.
How from the sea wild Corus lifts his head!
You would believe the world to be hurled down
From every quarter and the gods themselves
To be from out their inner heavens torn,
And in the night of Chaos all things lost.
The stormy sea attacks the stormy sky,
The winds hurl back the waves, the ocean's bed
Is all too small, the rain clouds and the waves
Mingle their floods. In such calamity
This comfort even fails: to see, at least,
And know, the evil by whose means we die;
For darkness weighs upon us, and the night
Of Hades, and ill-omened Styx is there.
Yet fires shine forth and from the rent clouds gleams
The baneful lightning; to our burdened hearts
This fearful light is sweet, its glare desired.
The fleet destroys itself, prow batters prow,
And side 'gainst side is driven. Opening wide,
The yawning ocean swallows up a ship,
Then spews it forth again upon the deep;
Here sinks a vessel with its freight, and here
One to the waters yields its shattered hulk;
A great wave covers one, one floats despoiled
Of all its rigging, neither sails nor oars
Nor upright masts that bear the lofty yards
Remain, it tosses on th' Icarian sea
A broken wreck. Experience brings no aid,
Nor reason; skill avails not in such ills.
Cold terror seizes all, the sailors leave
Their post of duty, stupefied with fear;
The hand lets fall the oar; the dread of death
Compels the wretched ones to pay their vows
To heaven, and Greeks and Trojans make one prayer.
What may not fate accomplish! Pyrrhus now
Envies his father; great Ulysses feels
Envy of Ajax; Atreus' younger son
Of Hector; Agamemnon fain would share
The lot of Priam. Whoso fell at Troy
Is now called happy, who at honor's post
Deserved to die, who lives to fame and lies
Beneath the conquered soil. 'Shall sea and waves
O'erwhelm us where no noble deed is dared,
And shall a coward's fate consume the brave?
Must death be useless? Whatsoever god
Thou art who art not yet, with all our ills,
Appeased, calm now at length thy face divine;
Troy even would have tears for our distress.
If still thy wrath endures and thou wouldst send
The Doric race to ruin, why must these
On whose account we perish, with us die?
Oh, calm the hostile sea! This fleet contains
Both Greeks and Trojans.' So they cried, nor more
Were able, for the waters drowned their words.
Behold another woe: Athena comes
Armed with the thunderbolt of angry Jove,
And threats with all the power her spear may claim,
Her ægis and the Gorgon's wrath, or fire
Of Jove, her father; tempests blow anew.
Ajax alone is still invincible,
And wrestles with the storm; while yet he strives
With straining rope to guide his vessel's sails,
The lightning strikes him; then another bolt
Is levelled: Pallas, imitating Jove,
With hand drawn back lets drive with all her force
This well-aimed bolt, it passes through the ship
And Ajax, and bears down both it and him;
He, nothing moved, firm as the rugged cliff,
Rises half burned from out the briny deep,
Divides the boisterous sea, and breasts the waves,
And seizing with his hand the vessel's side,
He seems to draw the flame, and Ajax stands
Shining above the dark expanse of sea
Which mirrors back his glory. When at length
A rock is reached, he madly cries aloud:
'Glad am I to have conquered sea and flame,
Glad am I to have vanquished sky and sea,
The thunderbolt and Pallas; I fled not
In fear before the war god, nor drew back
Before the darts of Phœbus. I o'ercame
These with the Phrygians, shall I now know fear?
Thou sent'st another's weapon with weak hand.
But what if he himself should send a dart?'
Further he in his madness would have dared,
When Father Neptune, lifting up his head
Above the waters, with his trident smote
The cliff and overturned it, broke away
The crag, and he who in its fall was crushed
Lies overwhelmed by earth and sea and fire.
Another greater trouble waits for us,
Poor shipwrecked ones. There is a shallow sea,
With rough shoals treach'rous, where false Caphareus
Covers her hidden rocks with whirlpools swift;
The waters boil against the cliffs, the waves
Seethe ever with alternate change. Above,
A fortress frowns, it overlooks both seas;
Thy Pelops' shores on one side and, curved back,
The isthmus which divides th' Ionian seas
From Phryxus' waves; upon the other lies
Lemnos, by crime made great, Chalcedon too,
And Aulis which so long delayed the fleet.
This fortress Palamedes' father holds,
Upon its highest pinnacle he sets,
With impious hand, a blazing torch, whose light
Draws to the treacherous cliffs the Grecian fleet.
The ships are caught upon the pointed rocks,
Part go to pieces in the shoals, a part
Cling to the rocks, their prows are torn away;
One vessel strikes another as it turns,
And by the wrecked ship is the other wrecked.
They fear the land, prepare for open sea.
Toward dawn the storm's rage fell away; for Troy
Due satisfaction had been rendered back;
Phœbus returned and daylight showed the wreck
Of that sad night.
Clytemnestra. Shall I be sad or glad
For husband given back? In his return
I take delight, but I am forced to weep
The heavy losses of our realm. Give back,
O father, shaking with thy thunderbolts
The realms sublime, give back the favoring gods
To Greece. [To the Chorus.] Now bind the brows with festal wreaths,
And let the sacred flute pour forth sweet tones,
Before great altars let white victims fall.
But see the Trojans come, a mournful band,
With hair unkempt, while high above them all
Apollo's untamed prophetess waves high
The laurel of the god.

SCENE II

Chorus of Trojan Captives, led by Cassandra.

Alas, how sweet a woe to man is given
In love of life, when open lies the way
To flee from all misfortunes, when free death,
That haven tranquil with eternal calm,
Invites the wretched—there no terrors fright,
No storms of fortune rage, nor thunderbolts
Of mighty Jove; its deep peace fears no league
Of restless citizens, nor angry threats
Of foes victorious, nor the stormy seas
When Corus blows, nor hostile battle line,
Nor dust cloud raised before the coming ranks
Of savage horsemen, nor a city's fall
Or nation's, when the hostile flames lay waste
The walls, nor savage war.
Disdainful of the fickle god, he breaks
All bondage, who can unafraid behold
Black Acheron and gloomy Styx, and dares
To put an end to life—that man to kings
Is equal, yea is equal to the gods.
How wretched he who knows not how to die!
We saw our country's fall on that dread night,
When ye, O Doric flames, laid hold on Troy.
Not overcome by war nor arms she fell;
As once before, Herculean arrows smote.
Not Thetis' son and Peleus', not the friend
Too well beloved by Peleus' warlike son,
Conquered, when feigned Achilles glorious shone
In borrowed armor; not Achilles' self
When in his fiery heart he suffered grief,
And on the ramparts Trojan women feared
His swift attack. In evil case she lost
Misfortune's utmost honor: to go down,
By brave deeds vanquished. Twice five years she stood,
To perish by the treach'ry of a night.
We saw the seeming gift, the mighty mole
The Grecians left, and, credulous, we brought
Within the city walls, with our right hands,
The fatal offering. At the gateway oft
The great horse trembled, bearing in its womb
Leaders and war concealed. It might have been
That we had turned their guile against themselves,
So that the Greeks had died by their own fraud.
Oft rang the shaken shields, and on our ears
A gentle murmur smote as Pyrrhus groaned,
Slow to submit him to Ulysses' will.
Secure from fear the Trojan youths rejoice
To touch the sacred ropes. Astyanax
Leads here a company, his peers in age;
The maiden to Thessalian funeral pyre
Betrothed advances with another band—
These maids, those youths; glad mothers bring the gods
Their votive offerings; to the altars go
Glad fathers; through the city, on each face
One look is seen, and—what has never been
Since Hector's funeral pyre—sad Hecuba
Rejoices. O unhappy grief, what first,
What last, dost thou make ready to bewail?
The city walls which hands of gods built up,
But thy hand overthrew? The temples burned
Above their gods? There is no time to weep
Those ills! The Trojan women weep thy fate,
Great Father! In the old man's throat I saw,
I saw the sword of Pyrrhus, the slow blood
Scarce tinged the steel.

ACT IV

SCENE I

Cassandra, Chorus of Trojan Women.

Cassandra. O Trojan women, check thy tears that flow,
Demanded ever by the passing hours;
Or weep your own misfortunes, mine reject
Companion, cease laments for my distress;
I may myself suffice for all our ills.
Chorus. Whom secret griefs disturb, they sorrow most;
We joy to mingle tears with tears, to weep
Together for our own, nor canst thou weep
Such ruin worthily, though thou art brave,
Heroic, and hast suffered many woes.
Not the sad song which from the vernal boughs
The mournful nightingale in varying strains
To Itys sings, not that in which laments
The Thracian swallow, who in querulous tones
Tells from the roofs her husband's impious loves,
Could worthily bewail thy fallen house;
Should shining Cygnus, 'mongst the snow-white swans
Abiding on the Ister and the Don,
His death-song sound; or halcyons join lament
For the lost Ceyx with the murmuring waves,
When to the tranquil deep they trust again
And anxiously above their wavering nests
Cherish their young; or, should the mournful throng
Of Cybele which, by the shrill flute stirred,
Smite on their breasts and Phrygian Atys mourn—
Should these lament and lacerate their arms
'Twere not enough. Our tears no limit have,
Cassandra, since our suffering knows no bounds.
Why from thy forehead tear the sacred bands?
I think the wretched most should fear the gods.
Cassandra. Misfortunes now have conquered every fear,
Nor lift I any prayer to those in heaven;
Should they desire, they have no way to harm.
Fortune has robbed herself of all her power.
No father, land, or sister now is mine,
The graves and altars drank my people's blood.
Where is that joyous band of brothers now?
The palace of the sad old king is left
Empty; among so many marriage-beds
All save the Spartan woman's now are seen
Widowed; the mother of so many kings,
The fruitful Thracian queen, who furnished forth
So many fires of death, sad Hecuba,
Using new laws, assumes an aspect wild;
Madly she howls around her ruined home,
Outliving Hector, Priam, Troy, herself.
Chorus. Apollo's priestess suddenly is still,
Her cheeks are pale, a trembling strikes her limbs,
Her fillet bristles, her soft locks rise up
In horror, with a stifled murmur sounds
Her throbbing heart, uncertain is her glance,
Her eyes turn to and fro or gaze unmoved;
Higher than is her wont she holds her head
Toward heaven, and moves along with haughty step;
Now the wild Mænad, raging with the god,
Unlocks her struggling lips or strives in vain
To close them on the message of the god.
Cassandra. Why dost thou to Parnassus' sacred height
Impel me, goaded by the stinging lash
Of inspiration new, beside myself?
Depart, O Phœbus, I am thine no more.
Quench the prophetic fire in my breast.
For whom now shall I rove in holy rage?
For whom now celebrate the bacchanal?
Now Troy is fallen, why should I remain
A seer whose prophecies are not believed?
Where am I? Sweet light flies and night obscures
My sight, the sky lies hidden in the dark.
But see, day brightens with a twofold sun,
And Argos rises double. Ida's woods
I see; the shepherd, fatal arbiter,
Between the potent goddesses as judge
Is seated. Fear, ye kings, I warn ye fear
The bastard child; that nursling of the woods
Shall be the one to overthrow your home.
Why bears that mad one in her woman's hand
The hostile spear? With Amazonian sword
Whom seeks the Spartan woman's murderous hand?
What other face is that which draws my eyes?
The lion of Marmorica lies low,
The conqueror of wild beasts, his lofty neck
Brought down by tooth of an inglorious foe;
The daring lioness' bloodthirsty bite
He has endured. O shades of those I loved,
Why call ye me, the only one unharmed
Of all my race? O father, thee I seek,
I who have seen the burial of Troy.
O brother, terror of the Greeks, Troy's aid,
I see no more thy former grace, see not
Those hands made hot by burning of the fleet,
But lacerated limbs and grievous wounds,
Torn by the heavy chain: I follow thee,
O Troilus! Too soon thou didst engage
In battle with Achilles! Thou didst bear,
Deiphobus, a face of fear, 'twas given
By thy new bride. My soul is glad to pass
The Stygian fens, to see the savage dog
Of Tartarus, the realm of eager Dis!
To-day the boat of gloomy Phlegethon
Carries across the river royal souls,
The victor and the vanquished. O ye shades,
To you I pray; thou flood by which the gods
Make oath, to thee I pray no less; draw back
The covering of the dusky world awhile,
That toward Mycenæ Phrygia's spirit horde
May turn their eyes. Behold, unhappy ones,
The fates are put to flight.
The squalid sisters threat, they wildly lash
Their bloody whips, the left hand swings the brand,
Around their shrunken limbs the sable robe
Of mourning clings, and terrors of the night
Are heard, and giant bones through time corrupt
Lie in the slimy fen. The worn old man,
Who mourns the murders that shall be, forgets
His thirst, nor strives to drink the wanton stream;
And father Dardanus in solemn dance
Exults.
Chorus. Already is her passion spent,
She falls on bended knee, as falls the bull
Before the altars, bearing in its neck
A heavy wound. Her drooping form lift up.
But lo, where Agamemnon comes at length,
With victor laurels crowned, to venerate
His gods; his wife went forth with joyous steps
To meet him, and as one with him returns.

SCENE II

Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, Cassandra, Chorus of Argive Women.

Agamemnon. At length, unharmed, I find my native land.
Hail, soil beloved! To thee has spoil been given
By countless foreign nations, unto thee
Submits at last great Asia's Troy, so long
Successful. [Sees Cassandra.] Why stretched out upon the earth
With drooping head lies here Apollo's maid?
Slaves, lift her up; with water cool restore
Her strength. With shrinking glance she lifts her lids.
Lift up thy heart! That longed-for port of rest
Is here. It is a day of solemn joy.
Cassandra. There was a day of solemn joy for Troy.
Agamemnon. Before the altars reverence due we pay.
Cassandra. Before the altars has my father died.
Agamemnon. We pray alike to Jove.
Cassandra. Hercean Jove?
Agamemnon. Thinkst thou, thou seest Ilium once again?
Cassandra. And Priam.
Agamemnon. 'Tis not Troy.
Cassandra. Where Helen is
Is Troy.
Agamemnon. Fear not the lady, hapless slave.
Cassandra. My freedom waits.
Agamemnon. No danger threatens thee.
Cassandra. Great danger thee.
Agamemnon. What can a victor fear?
Cassandra. What fears he not?
Agamemnon. O faithful band of slaves,
Restrain her till the god departs from her,
Lest in her helpless raving she should sin.
O father, who dost hurl the lightning's wrath,
Who drivest in thy train the clouds, who reignst
In earth and heaven, to whom the victor brings
His spoil in triumph, thee I venerate;
And thee, Argolic Juno, sister, wife
Of mighty Jove, with votive offerings
And gifts from Araby, on bended knee,
I gladly worship.

SCENE III

Chorus of Argive Women.

O Argos, by thy noble citizens
Ennobled, Argos ever well beloved
By angry stepdame, thou dost foster still
Great nurslings. Once unequal, thou dost now
Equal the gods: thy glorious Hercules
Has by his twelve great labors won a place
In heaven; for him Jove, shattering nature's laws,
Doubled the hours of the dewy night,
And bade the sun to drive his flying car
Later, and bade thy steeds to turn again
Slowly, O pale Diana. That bright star,
Whose name alternately is changed, returned
And marveled to be called the evening star.
Aurora stirred at the accustomed hour,
But sinking back she laid her drowsy head
Upon her aged husband's breast. The east
Felt, and the west, that Hercules was come.
Not in a single night was such an one
Begotten. The swift moving world stood still
For thee, O child, inheritor of heaven.
The lion of Nemæa, by thy arm
Pressed earthward, knew thee as the Thunderer's son;
And the Parrhasian stag, that so laid waste
Arcadia's meadows, knew thee; the fierce bull,
That groaning left Dictæan pastures, knew;
Killed by Alcides was the fruitful snake,
He bade it ne'er again to rise from death.
With taunts he crushed beneath his falling club
The brothers twain and the three monsters dread,
From one breast borne, and to the east he brought
His Spanish spoil—the three-formed Geryon.
He drove the Thracian steeds; the tyrant fed
Not with the grass that grows by Strymon's stream
Or Hebrus' banks his herd; that cruel one
Offered his savage beasts the blood of guests;
The ruler's blood at last made red those jaws.
Untamed Hippolyte beheld the spoil
Snatched from her breast; the fierce Stymphalian birds
Fell smitten from the clouds; the tree, that bore
The golden apples never plucked before,
Feared greatly, and fled back into the air
With lightened boughs. The sleepless guardian heard
With fear the rattling of the golden fruit
Only when Hercules, enriched with spoil,
Of yellow gold, had left the orchards bare.
Dragged to the light of day by triple chain,
The dog of hell was silent and barked not
From any mouth—he feared the unknown day.
The lying house of Dardanus succumbed
Before thee, learned thy bow was to be feared.
When thou wast leader, in as many days
Troy fell, as it had taken years before.

ACT V

SCENE I

Cassandra, Chorus.

Cassandra. Great deeds are being done within; not less
Than those of Troy's ten years. Ah, what is this?
Up, up, my soul! take thou the seer's reward:
We conquered Phrygians conquer! It is well!
Troy rises from its ashes! In thy fall,
Great parent, thou hast dragged Mycenæ down,
Thy conqueror flees. To my foreseeing eye
Ne'er came a clearer vision: lo, I see,
Am present, in the vision I rejoice.
No doubtful dream deceives me now, I see!
Tables are spread within the kingly halls,
As once the Phrygian's last feast was spread;
The couch with Ilian purple shines, they drink
From gold the wine of old Assaracus.
Lo, decked in broidered suit the proud one lies,
He wears the kingly robe that Priam wore;
His wife entreats him now to put aside
The garments of his foes and wear instead
The toga woven by his faithful spouse.
I fear, my spirit at the vision shrinks;
Will he, the exile and adulterer, slay
The king and husband? Vengeance comes at last!
The festival shall see the master's death,
And blood shall be commingled with the wine;
The garment at the murderer's wish put on
Shall give him over, bound by treachery,
To death; its meshes bind his hands, his head
Its loose impenetrable folds surround;
Manlike she stabs his side, but with a hand
That trembles, nor stabs deep, the dagger stops
Midway the wound. But as in lofty wood
The bristling boar, when captured, strives in vain
For freedom and in struggling tighter draws
His chains and rages vainly, so he strives
To loose the flowing folds that everywhere
Imprison, seeks to find his enemy.
The child of Tyndarus in madness grasps
The two-edged ax; as sacrificing priest
Before the altar fixes with his eyes
The bullock's neck before he strikes the blow,
So either way she aims her weapon's stroke.
It falls, 'tis done. His partly severed head
Hangs by a slender thread, here from his trunk
Gushes the blood, there fall his groaning lips.
Not yet the murderers cease, the lifeless form
He seeks and mangles, she adds needless stabs;
Each in such crime is worthy of his own,
He is Thyestes' son, the sister she
Of Helen. Lo, the sun uncertain stands
Whether he pass along his wonted way,
Whether the Thyestean path he take.

SCENE II

Orestes, Cassandra, Electra, Chorus.

Electra. O one avenger of thy father's death,
Fly, fly, and shun thy foes' death-dealing hands;
Our house is ruined and the kingdom falls!
What guest is this that drives his flying car?
O brother, in my garments hide thyself.
Yet, fool, why fly? A stranger dost thou fear?
Fear those at home. Orestes, put aside
Thy fears, it is a friend whom I behold,
A sure and faithful friend.

SCENE III

Strophius, Pylades, Orestes, Electra, Cassandra, Chorus.

Strophius. I, Strophius, am from Phocis come again;
Honored at Elis with the victor's crown,
I come to welcome back with joy the friend
By whose hand smitten, after ten long years,
At last has Ilium fallen. Who is this
Whose mournful face is numbed with sorrow's tears?
What sorrowful and fearful maid is this?
I know the royal child; what cause to weep,
Electra, in this house of joy?
Electra. Alas!
My father, by my mother's crime destroyed,
Lies dead, and now to share his father's death
The son is sought. Ægisthus now controls
The palace, where he came with base desires.
Strophius. Alas! No happiness abides for long!
Electra. I pray thee, by my father's memory,
And by the scepter known through all the world,
And by the fickle gods, take far away
Orestes; hide him, 'tis a pious theft.
Strophius. Though Agamemnon's murder makes me fear
Like slaughter, I will hide thee willingly,
Orestes. From my forehead take the crown,
The decoration of Olympic games;
And in thy right hand take the victor's palm,
Hiding thy head behind the leafy branch,
And may this palm, gift of Pisæan Jove,
Offer at once an omen and a shield.
And thou, Pylades, in thy father's car
Sitting as comrade, of thy father learn
The faithfulness that friendship ever owes.
Ye steeds whom Greece has testified are swift,
Flee, flee this dreadful spot, in headlong flight.

SCENE IV

Electra, Cassandra Chorus.

Electra. He goes, he has escaped, the flying car
Already disappears before my gaze.
My enemies I now can safely wait;
Freely I offer now my hand to death.
The bloody conqueror of her husband comes,
Her garments dyed with slaughter, even now
Her hands are red with recent blood, her face
Is dark with murder. To the altars' foot
I go. Cassandra, priestess, let me kneel
With thee, since equally with thee I fear.

SCENE V

Ægisthus, Clytemnestra, Electra, Cassandra, Chorus.

Clytemnestra. Foe of thy mother, bold and impious child,
What custom is it bids a virgin seek
This public place?
Electra. A virgin, I have fled
The dwelling of adulterers.
Clytemnestra. Who believes
In thy virginity?
Electra. Because thy child?
Clytemnestra. Be humble with thy mother.
Electra. Dost thou teach
Thy daughter duty?
Clytemnestra. Thou hast manly force,
A haughty heart, but thou shalt learn to show,
Subdued by torture, all thy woman's soul.
Electra. Perchance I am deceived, yet seems the sword
A woman's weapon.
Clytemnestra. Mad one, dost thou think
That thou with us art equal?
Electra. Sayest thou, us?
What other Agamemnon hast thou found?
Speak as a widow, husband hast thou none.
Clytemnestra. An impious maid's unbridled tongue the queen
Will tame. Make answer swift, where is my son?
Thy brother, where?
Electra. Beyond Mycenæ gone.
Clytemnestra. Now give me back my son.
Electra. Give back to me
My father.
Clytemnestra. Tell me where he is concealed.
Electra. In safety; calm, and fearing no new reign.
For honorable mother 'tis enough.
Clytemnestra. Not for an angry one. To-day thou diest.
Electra. Yet die I by thy hand. Behold I leave
The altars, if it pleases thee to plunge
Within my heart the steel, I face the blow;
Or wouldst thou, as one smites the sacrifice,
My bowed neck smite? Ready it waits the wound.
All things have been made ready for the crime;
In this blood wash that foul right hand made wet
With husband's murder.
Clytemnestra. Sharer of my realm
And of my danger, come; Ægisthus, come.
Undutifully does my child insult
And wound her mother, and she hides my son.
Ægisthus. Mad girl, no more assail thy mother's ears
With words insulting and with hateful speech.
Electra. Will even one most skilled in basest crimes,
One born through crime, of name ambiguous,
At once his father's grandchild, sister's son,
Instruct?
Clytemnestra. Ægisthus, dost thou hesitate
To shear away her impious head with steel?
Let her give up her brother or her life.
Ægisthus. In a dark prison shall she pass her years,
And torn by every torture shall desire,
Perchance, to render up the one she hides.
Helpless, imprisoned, poor, and sunk in filth,
Before her marriage widowed, and by all
Hated, an exile, heaven's air denied,
Though late, she will at last succumb to ills.
Electra. Grant death.
Ægisthus. If thou wouldst shun it, I would grant.
Who puts an end to punishment by death
Is skill-less tyrant.
Electra. Is aught worse than death?
Ægisthus. Life, if thou long'st for death. Slaves, seize the
maid
And having carried her afar from here,
Beyond Mycenæ, to the realm's last bound,
Chain her within a cavern fenced about
With gloomy night, that so imprisonment
May finally subdue the restless maid.
Clytemnestra. The captive mistress, the king's concubine,
Shall pay the penalty of death; away!
Drag her away, that she may follow still
The husband torn from me.
Cassandra. Nay drag me not,
I will myself precede thee, for I haste
To be the first who to my Phrygian friends
Shall bear the news: the sea with wreckage strewn,
Mycenæ taken, and the king who led
A thousand leaders dead by his wife's hand,
Cut down by lust and fraud. I would not stay.
Oh, snatch me hence! I thank you and rejoice
That I have lived so long beyond the fall
Of dear-loved Troy.
Clytemnestra. Peace, raging one.
Cassandra. Like rage
Shall fall on thee.






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