The Agamemnon of Aeschylus Part 13

But, oh, they had their guerdon as they died!

For he lies thus, and she, the wild swan's way, Hath trod her last long weeping roundelay, And lies, his lover, ravisht o'er the main For his bed's comfort and my deep disdain.

CHORUS. (_Some Elders_.)

Would G.o.d that suddenly With no great agony, No long sick-watch to keep, My hour would come to me, My hour, and presently Bring the eternal, the Unwaking Sleep, Now that my Shepherd, he Whose love watched over me, Lies in the deep!

ANOTHER.

For woman's sake he endured and battled well, And by a woman's hand he fell.

OTHERS.

What hast thou done, O Helen blind of brain, O face that slew the souls on Ilion's plain, One face, one face, and many a thousand slain?

The hate of old that on this castle lay, Builded in l.u.s.t, a husband's evil day, Hath bloomed for thee a perfect flower again And unforgotten, an old and burning stain Never to pa.s.s away.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Nay, pray not for the hour of death, being tried Too sore beneath these blows Neither on Helen turn thy wrath aside, The Slayer of Men, the face which hath destroyed Its thousand Danaan souls, and wrought a wide Wound that no leech can close.

CHORUS.

--Daemon, whose heel is set On the House and the twofold kin Of the high Tantalidae, A power, heavy as fate, Thou wieldest through woman's sin, Piercing the heart of me!

--Like a raven swoln with hate He hath set on the dead his claw, He croaketh a song to sate His fury, and calls it Law!

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Ah, call upon Him! Yea, call-- And thy thought hath found its path-- The Daemon who haunts this hall, The thrice-engorged Wrath;

From him is the ache of the flesh For blood born and increased; Ere the old sore hath ceased It oozeth afresh.

CHORUS.

--Indeed He is very great, And heavy his anger, He, The Daemon who guides the fate Of the old Tantalidae: Alas, alas, an evil tale ye tell Of desolate angers and insatiable!

--Ah me, And yet 'tis all as Zeus hath willed, Doer of all and Cause of all; By His Word every chance doth fall, No end without Him is fulfilled; What of these things But cometh by high Heaven's counsellings?

[_A band of Mourners has gathered within the House_.

MOURNERS.

Ah, sorrow, sorrow! My King, my King!

How shall I weep, what word shall I say?

Caught in the web of this spider thing, In foul death gasping thy life away!

Woe's me, woe's me, for this slavish lying, The doom of craft and the lonely dying, The iron two-edged and the hands that slay!

CLYTEMNESTRA.

And criest thou still this deed hath been My work? Nay, gaze, and have no thought That this is Agamemnon's Queen.

'Tis He, 'tis He, hath round him wrought This phantom of the dead man's wife; He, the old Wrath, the Driver of Men astray, Pursuer of Atreus for the feast defiled; To a.s.soil an ancient debt he hath paid this life; A warrior and a crowned King this day Atones for a slain child.

CHORUS.

--That thou art innocent herein, What tongue dare boast? It cannot be, Yet from the deeps of ancient sin The Avenger may have wrought with thee.

--On the red Slayer crasheth, groping wild For blood, more blood, to build his peace again, And wash like water the old frozen stain Of the torn child.

MOURNERS.

Ah, sorrow, sorrow! My King, my King!

How shall I weep, what word shall I say?

Caught in the web of this spider thing, In foul death gasping thy life away.

Woe's me, woe's me, for this slavish lying, The doom of craft and the lonely dying, The iron two-edged and the hands that slay!

CLYTEMNESTRA.

And what of the doom of craft that first He planted, making the House accurst?

What of the blossom, from this root riven, Iphigenia, the unforgiven?

Even as the wrong was, so is the pain: He shall not laugh in the House of the slain, When the count is scored; He hath but spoiled and paid again The due of the sword.

CHORUS.

I am lost; my mind dull-eyed Knows not nor feels Whither to fly nor hide While the House reels.

The noise of rain that falls On the roof affrighteth me, Was.h.i.+ng away the walls; Rain that falls bloodily.

Doth ever the sound abate?

Lo, the next Hour of Fate Whetting her vengeance due On new whet-stones, for new Workings of hate.

MOURNERS.

Would thou hadst covered me, Earth, O Earth, Or e'er I had looked on my lord thus low, In the palled marble of silvern girth!

What hands may shroud him, what tears may flow?

Not thine, O Woman who dared to slay him, Thou durst not weep to him now, nor pray him, Nor pay to his soul the deep unworth Of gift or prayer to forget thy blow.

--Oh, who with heart sincere Shall bring praise or grief To lay on the sepulchre Of the great chief?

CLYTEMNESTRA.

His burial is not thine to array.

By me he fell, by me he died, I watch him to the grave, not cried By mourners of his housefolk; nay,

His own child for a day like this Waits, as is seemly, and shall run By the white waves of Acheron To fold him in her arms and kiss!

CHORUS.

Lo, she who was erst reviled Revileth; and who shall say?