The Agamemnon of Aeschylus Part 3

May G.o.d but grant there fall not on that host The greed of gold that maddeneth and the l.u.s.t To spoil inviolate things! But half the race Is run which windeth back to home and peace.

Yea, though of G.o.d they pa.s.s unchallenged, Methinks the wound of all those desolate dead Might waken, groping for its will....

Ye hear A woman's word, belike a woman's fear.

May good but conquer in the last incline Of the balance! Of all prayers that prayer is mine.

LEADER.

O Woman, like a man faithful and wise Thou speakest. I accept thy testimonies And turn to G.o.d with praising, for a gain Is won this day that pays for all our pain.

[CLYTEMNESTRA _returns to the Palace. The_ CHORUS _take up their position for the Second Stasimon._

AN ELDER.

0 Zeus, All-ruler, and Night the Aid, Gainer of glories, and hast thou thrown Over the towers of Ilion Thy net close-laid, That none so nimble and none so tall Shall escape withal The snare of the slaver that claspeth all?

ANOTHER.

And Zeus the Watcher of Friend and Friend I also praise, who hath wrought this end.

Long since on Paris his shaft he drew, And hath aimed true, Not too soon falling nor yet too far, The fire of the avenging star.

CHORUS.

(_This is G.o.d's judgement upon Troy. May it not be too fierce! Gold cannot save one who spurneth Justice_.)

The stroke of Zeus hath found them! Clear this day The tale, and plain to trace.

He judged, and Troy hath fallen.--And have men said That G.o.d not deigns to mark man's hardihead, Trampling to earth the grace Of holy and delicate things?--Sin lies that way.

For visibly Pride doth breed its own return On prideful men, who, when their houses swell With happy wealth, breathe ever wrath and blood.

Yet not too fierce let the due vengeance burn; Only as deemeth well One wise of mood.

Never shall state nor gold Shelter his heart from aching Whoso the Altar of Justice old Spurneth to Night unwaking.

(_The Sinner suffers in his longing till at last Temptation overcomes him; as longing for Helen overcame Paris._)

The tempting of misery forceth him, the dread Child of fore-scheming Woe!

And help is vain; the fell desire within Is veiled not, but shineth bright like Sin: And as false gold will show Black where the touchstone trieth, so doth fade His honour in G.o.d's ordeal. Like a child, Forgetting all, he hath chased his winged bird, And planted amid his people a sharp thorn.

And no G.o.d hears his prayer, or, have they heard, The man so base-beguiled They cast to scorn.

Paris to Argos came; Love of a woman led him; So G.o.d's altar he brought to shame, Robbing the hand that fed him.

(_Helen's flight; the visions seen by the King's seers; the phantom of Helen and the King's grief._)

She hath left among her people a noise of shield and sword, A tramp of men armed where the long ships are moored; She hath ta'en in her goings Desolation as a dower; She hath stept, stept quickly, through the great gated Tower, And the thing that could not be, it hath been!

And the Seers they saw visions, and they spoke of strange ill: "A Palace, a Palace; and a great King thereof: A bed, a bed empty, that was once pressed in love: And thou, thou, what art thou? Let us be, thou so still, Beyond wrath, beyond beseeching, to the lips reft of thee!"

For she whom he desireth is beyond the deep sea, And a ghost in his castle shall be queen.

Images in sweet guise Carven shall move him never, Where is Love amid empty eyes?

Gone, gone for ever!

(_His dreams and his suffering; but the War that he made caused greater and wider suffering._)

But a shape that is a dream, 'mid the phantoms of the night, Cometh near, full of tears, bringing vain vain delight: For in vain when, desiring, he can feel the joy's breath --Nevermore! Nevermore!--from his arms it vanisheth, On wings down the pathways of sleep.

In the mid castle hall, on the hearthstone of the Kings, These griefs there be, and griefs pa.s.sing these, But in each man's dwelling of the host that sailed the seas, A sad woman waits; she has thoughts of many things, And patience in her heart lieth deep.

Knoweth she them she sent, Knoweth she? Lo, returning, Comes in stead of the man that went Armour and dust of burning.

(_The return of the funeral urns; the murmurs of the People._)

And the gold-changer, Ares, who changeth quick for dead, Who poiseth his scale in the striving of the spears, Back from Troy sendeth dust, heavy dust, wet with tears, Sendeth ashes with men's names in his urns neatly spread.

And they weep over the men, and they praise them one by one, How this was a wise fighter, and this n.o.bly-slain-- "Fighting to win back another's wife!"

Till a murmur is begun, And there steals an angry pain Against Kings too forward in the strife.

There by Ilion's gate Many a soldier sleepeth, Young men beautiful; fast in hate Troy her conqueror keepeth.

(_For the Shedder of Blood is in great peril, and not unmarked by G.o.d. May I never be a Sacker of Cities!_)

But the rumour of the People, it is heavy, it is chill; And tho' no curse be spoken, like a curse doth it brood; And my heart waits some tiding which the dark holdeth still, For of G.o.d not unmarked is the shedder of much blood.

And who conquers beyond right ... Lo, the life of man decays; There be Watchers dim his light in the wasting of the years; He falls, he is forgotten, and hope dies.

There is peril in the praise Over-praised that he hears; For the thunder it is hurled from G.o.d's eyes.

Glory that breedeth strife, Pride of the Sacker of Cities; Yea, and the conquered captive's life, Spare me, O G.o.d of Pities!

DIVERS ELDERS.

--The fire of good tidings it hath sped the city through, But who knows if a G.o.d mocketh? Or who knows if all be true?

'Twere the fashion of a child, Or a brain dream-beguiled, To be kindled by the first Torch's message as it burst, And thereafter, as it dies, to die too.

--'Tis like a woman's sceptre, to ordain Welcome to joy before the end is plain!

--Too lightly opened are a woman's ears; Her fence downtrod by many trespa.s.sers, And quickly crossed; but quickly lost The burden of a woman's hopes or fears.

[_Here a break occurs in the action, like the descent of the curtain in a modern theatre. A s.p.a.ce of some days is a.s.sumed to have pa.s.sed and we find the Elders again a.s.sembled_.

LEADER.

Soon surely shall we read the message right; Were fire and beacon-call and lamps of light True speakers, or but happy lights, that seem And are not, like sweet voices in a dream.

I see a Herald yonder by the sh.o.r.e, Shadowed with olive sprays. And from his sore Rent raiment cries a witness from afar, Dry Dust, born brother to the Mire of war, That mute he comes not, neither through the smoke Of mountain forests shall his tale be spoke; But either shouting for a joyful day, Or else.... But other thoughts I cast away.

As good hath dawned, may good shine on, we pray!

--And whoso for this City prayeth aught Else, let him reap the harvest of his thought!

[_Enter the_ HERALD, _running. His garments are torn and war-stained. He falls upon his knees and kisses the Earth, and salutes each Altar in turn._

HERALD.

Land of my fathers! Argos! Am I here ...

Home, home at this tenth shining of the year, And all Hope's anchors broken save this one!

For scarcely dared I dream, here in mine own Argos at last to fold me to my rest....

But now--All Hail, O Earth! O Sunlight blest!

And Zeus Most High!