The Agamemnon of Aeschylus Part 7

Quick! Loose me these bound slaves on which I tread, And while I walk yon wonders of the sea G.o.d grant no eye of wrath be cast on me From far!

[_The Attendants untie his shoes_.

For even now it likes me not To waste mine house, thus marring underfoot The pride thereof, and wondrous broideries Bought in far seas with silver. But of these Enough.--And mark, I charge thee, this princess Of Ilion; tend her with all gentleness.

G.o.d's eye doth see, and loveth from afar, The merciful conqueror. For no slave of war Is slave by his own will. She is the prize And chosen flower of Ilion's treasuries, Set by the soldiers' gift to follow me.

Now therefore, seeing I am constrained by thee And do thy will, I walk in conqueror's guise Beneath my Gate, trampling sea-crimson dyes.

[_As he dismounts and sets foot on the Tapestries_ CLYTEMNESTRA'S _women utter again their Cry of Triumph. The people bow or kneel as he pa.s.ses._

CLYTEMNESTRA.

There is the sea--its caverns who shall drain?-- Breeding of many a purple-fish the stain Surpa.s.sing silver, ever fresh renewed, For robes of kings. And we, by right indued, Possess our fill thereof. Thy house, O King, Knoweth no stint, nor lack of anything.

What trampling of rich raiment, had the cry So sounded in the domes of prophesy, Would I have vowed these years, as price to pay For this dear life in peril far away!

Where the root is, the leaf.a.ge cometh soon To clothe an house, and spread its leafy boon Against the burning star; and, thou being come, Thou, on the midmost hearthstone of thy home, Oh, warmth in winter leapeth to thy sign.

And when G.o.d's summer melteth into wine The green grape, on that house shall coolness fall Where the true man, the master, walks his hall.

Zeus, Zeus! True Master, let my prayers be true!

And, oh, forget not that thou art willed to do!

[_She follows_ AGAMEMNON _into the Palace. The retinues of both King and Queen go in after them._ Ca.s.sANDRA _remains_.

CHORUS.

What is this that evermore, [_Strophe 1._ A cold terror at the door Of this bosom presage-haunted, Pale as death hovereth?

While a song unhired, unwanted, By some inward prophet chanted, Speaks the secret at its core; And to cast it from my blood Like a dream not understood No sweet-spoken Courage now Sitteth at my heart's dear prow.

Yet I know that manifold Days, like sand, have waxen old

Since the day those sh.o.r.eward-thrown Cables flapped and line on line Standing forth for Ilion The long galleys took the brine

[_Antistrophe 1._ And in harbour--mine own eye Hath beheld--again they lie; Yet that lyreless music hidden Whispers still words of ill, 'Tis the Soul of me unbidden, Like some Fury sorrow-ridden, Weeping over things that die.

Neither waketh in my sense Ever Hope's dear confidence; For this flesh that groans within, And these bones that know of Sin, This tossed heart upon the spate Of a whirpool that is Fate, Surely these lie not. Yet deep Beneath hope my prayer doth run, All will die like dreams, and creep To the unthought of and undone.

[_Strophe 2._ --Surely of great Weal at the end of all Comes not Content; so near doth Fever crawl, Close neighbour, pressing hard the narrow wall.

--Woe to him who fears not fate!

'Tis the ship that forward straight Sweepeth, strikes the reef below; He who fears and lightens weight, Casting forth, in measured throw, From the wealth his hand hath got ...

His whole ship shall founder not, With abundance overfraught, Nor deep seas above him flow.

--Lo, when famine stalketh near, One good gift of Zeus again From the furrows of one year Endeth quick the starving pain;

[_Antistrophe 2._ --But once the blood of death is fallen, black And oozing at a slain man's feet, alack!

By spell or singing who shall charm it back?

--One there was of old who showed Man the path from death to day; But Zeus, lifting up his rod, Spared not, when he charged him stay.

--Save that every doom of G.o.d Hath by other dooms its way Crossed, that none may rule alone, In one speech-outstripping groan Forth had all this pa.s.sion flown, Which now murmuring hides away, Full of pain, and hoping not Ever one clear thread to unknot From the tangle of my soul, From a heart of burning coal.

[_Suddenly_ CLYTEMNESTRA _appears standing in the Doorway._

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Thou likewise, come within! I speak thy name, Ca.s.sandra;

[Ca.s.sANDRA _trembles, but continues to stare in front of her, as though not hearing_ CLYTEMNESTRA.

seeing the G.o.ds--why chafe at them?-- Have placed thee here, to share within these walls Our l.u.s.tral waters, 'mid a crowd of thralls Who stand obedient round the altar-stone Of our Possession. Therefore come thou down, And be not over-proud. The tale is told How once Alcmena's son himself, being sold, Was patient, though he liked not the slaves' mess.

And more, if Fate must bring thee to this stress, Praise G.o.d thou art come to a House of high report And wealth from long ago. The baser sort, Who have reaped some sudden harvest unforeseen, Are ever cruel to their slaves, and mean In the measure. We shall give whate'er is due.

[Ca.s.sANDRA _is silent._

LEADER.

To thee she speaks, and waits ... clear words and true!

Oh, doom is all around thee like a net; Yield, if thou canst.... Belike thou canst not yet.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

Methinks, unless this wandering maid is one Voiced like a swallow-bird, with tongue unknown And barbarous, she can read my plain intent.

I use but words, and ask for her consent.

LEADER.

Ah, come! Tis best, as the world lies to-day.

Leave this high-throned chariot, and obey!

CLYTEMNESTRA.

How long must I stand dallying at the Gate?

Even now the beasts to Hestia consecrate Wait by the midmost fire, since there is wrought This high fulfilment for which no man thought.

Wherefore, if 'tis thy pleasure to obey Aught of my will, prithee, no more delay!

If, dead to sense, thou wilt not understand...

Thou show her, not with speech but with brute hand!

[_To the Leader of the_ CHORUS.

LEADER.

The strange maid needs a rare interpreter.

She is trembling like a wild beast in a snare.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

'Fore G.o.d, she is mad, and heareth but her own Folly! A slave, her city all o'erthrown, She needs must chafe her bridle, till this fret Be foamed away in blood and bitter sweat.

I waste no more speech, thus to be defied.

[_She goes back inside the Palace_.

LEADER.