The House of Atreus Part 2

Even in this night that now brings forth the dawn.

CHORUS

Yet who so swift could speed the message here?

CLYTEMNESTRA

From Ida's top Hephaestus, lord of fire, Sent forth his sign; and on, and ever on, Beacon to beacon sped the courier-flame.

From Ida to the crag, that Hermes loves, Of Lemnos; thence unto the steep sublime Of Athos, throne of Zeus, the broad blaze flared.

Thence, raised aloft to shoot across the sea, The moving light, rejoicing in its strength, Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its way, In golden glory, like some strange new sun, Onward, and reached Macistus' watching heights.

There, with no dull delay nor heedless sleep, The watcher sped the tidings on in turn, Until the guard upon Messapius' peak Saw the far flame gleam on Euripus' tide, And from the high-piled heap of withered furze Lit the new sign and bade the message on.

Then the strong light, far flown and yet undimmed, Shot thro' the sky above Asopus' plain, Bright as the moon, and on Cithaeron's crag Aroused another watch of flying fire.

And there the sentinels no whit disowned, But sent redoubled on, the hest of flame-- Swift shot the light, above Gorgopis' bay, To Aegiplanctus' mount, and bade the peak Fail not the onward ordinance of fire.

And like a long beard streaming in the wind, Full-fed with fuel, roared and rose the blaze, And onward flaring, gleamed above the cape, Beneath which shimmers the Saronic bay, And thence leapt light unto Arachne's peak, The mountain watch that looks upon our town.

Thence to th' Atrides' roof--in lineage fair, A bright posterity of Ida's fire.

So sped from stage to stage, fulfilled in turn, Flame after flame, along the course ordained, And lo! the last to speed upon its way Sights the end first, and glows unto the goal.

And Troy is ta'en, and by this sign my lord Tells me the tale, and ye have learned my word.

CHORUS

To heaven, O queen, will I upraise new song: But, wouldst thou speak once more, I fain would hear From first to last the marvel of the tale.

CLYTEMNESTRA

Think you--this very morn--the Greeks in Troy, And loud therein the voice of utter wail!

Within one cup pour vinegar and oil, And look! unblent, unreconciled, they war.

So in the twofold issue of the strife Mingle the victor's shout, the captives' moan.

For all the conquered whom the sword has spared Cling weeping--some unto a brother slain, Some childlike to a nursing father's form, And wail the loved and lost, the while their neck Bows down already 'neath the captive's chain.

And lo! the victors, now the fight is done, Goaded by restless hunger, far and wide Range all disordered thro' the town, to s.n.a.t.c.h Such victual and such rest as chance may give Within the captive halls that once were Troy-- Joyful to rid them of the frost and dew, Wherein they couched upon the plain of old-- Joyful to sleep the gracious night all through, Unsummoned of the watching sentinel.

Yet let them reverence well the city's G.o.ds, The lords of Troy, tho' fallen, and her shrines; So shall the spoilers not in turn be spoiled.

Yea, let no craving for forbidden gain Bid conquerors yield before the darts of greed.

For we need yet, before the race be won, Homewards, unharmed, to round the course once more.

For should the host wax wanton ere it come, Then, tho' the sudden blow of fate be spared, Yet in the sight of G.o.ds shall rise once more

The great wrong of the slain, to claim revenge.

Now, hearing from this woman's mouth of mine, The tale and eke its warning, pray with me, _Luck sway the scale, with no uncertain poise.

For my fair hopes are changed to fairer joys._

CHORUS

A gracious word thy woman's lips have told, Worthy a wise man's utterance, O my queen; Now with clear trust in thy convincing tale I set me to salute the G.o.ds with song, Who bring us bliss to counterpoise our pain.

[_Exit Clytemnestra._

Zeus, Lord of heaven! and welcome night Of victory, that hast our might With all the glories crowned!

On towers of Ilion, free no more, Hast flung the mighty mesh of war, And closely girt them round, Till neither warrior may 'scape, Nor stripling lightly overleap The trammels as they close, and close, Till with the grip of doom our foes In slavery's coil are bound!

Zeus, Lord of hospitality, In grateful awe I bend to thee-- 'Tis thou hast struck the blow!

At Alexander, long ago, We marked thee bend thy vengeful bow, But long and warily withhold The eager shaft, which, uncontrolled And loosed too soon or launched too high, Had wandered bloodless through the sky.

Zeus, the high G.o.d!--whate'er be dim in doubt, This can our thought track out-- The blow that fells the sinner is of G.o.d, And as he wills, the rod

Of vengeance smiteth sore. One said of old, _The G.o.ds list not to hold A reckoning with him whose feet oppress The grace of holiness--_ An impious word! for whensoe'er the sire Breathed forth rebellious fire-- What time his household overflowed the measure Of bliss and health and treasure-- His children's children read the reckoning plain, At last, in tears and pain.

On me let weal that brings no woe be sent, And therewithal, content!

Who spurns the shrine of Right, nor wealth nor power Shall be to him a tower, To guard him from the gulf: there lies his lot, Where all things are forgot.

l.u.s.t drives him on--l.u.s.t, desperate and wild, Fate's sin-contriving child-- And cure is none; beyond concealment clear, Kindles sin's baleful glare.

As an ill coin beneath the wearing touch Betrays by stain and s.m.u.tch Its metal false--such is the sinful wight.

Before, on pinions light, Fair Pleasure flits, and lures him childlike on, While home and kin make moan Beneath the grinding burden of his crime; Till, in the end of time, Cast down of heaven, he pours forth fruitless prayer To powers that will not hear.

And such did Paris come Unto Atrides' home, And thence, with sin and shame his welcome to repay, Ravished the wife away-- And she, unto her country and her kin Leaving the clash of shields and spears and arming ships, And bearing unto Troy destruction for a dower, And overbold in sin, Went fleetly thro' the gates, at midnight hour.

Oft from the prophets' lips Moaned out the warning and the wail--Ah woe!

Woe for the home, the home! and for the chieftains, woe Woe for the bride-bed, warm Yet from the lovely limbs, the impress of the form Of her who loved her lord, a while ago!

And woe! for him who stands Shamed, silent, unreproachful, stretching hands That find her not, and sees, yet will not see, That she is far away!

And his sad fancy, yearning o'er the sea, Shall summon and recall Her wraith, once more to queen it in his hall.

And sad with many memories, The fair cold beauty of each sculptured face-- And all to hatefulness is turned their grace, Seen blankly by forlorn and hungering eyes!

And when the night is deep, Come visions, sweet and sad, and bearing pain Of hopings vain-- Void, void and vain, for scarce the sleeping sight Has seen its old delight, When thro' the grasps of love that bid it stay It vanishes away On silent wings that roam adown the ways of sleep.

Such are the sights, the sorrows fell, About our hearth--and worse, whereof I may not tell.

But, all the wide town o'er, Each home that sent its master far away From h.e.l.las' sh.o.r.e, Feels the keen thrill of heart, the pang of loss, to-day.

For, truth to say, The touch of bitter death is manifold!

Familiar was each face, and dear as life, That went unto the war, But thither, whence a warrior went of old, Doth nought return-- Only a spear and sword, and ashes in an urn!

For Ares, lord of strife, Who doth the swaying scales of battle hold, War's money-changer, giving dust for gold, Sends back, to hearts that held them dear, Scant ash of warriors, wept with many a tear, Light to the hand, but heavy to the soul; Yea, fills the light urn full With what survived the flame-- Death's dusty measure of a hero's frame!

_Alas!_ one cries, _and yet alas again!

Our chief is gone, the hero of the spear, And hath not left his peer!

Ah woe!_ another moans--_my spouse is slain, The death of honour, rolled in dust and blood, Slain for a woman's sin, a false wife's shame!_ Such muttered words of bitter mood Rise against those who went forth to reclaim; Yea, jealous wrath creeps on against th' Atrides' name.

And others, far beneath the Ilian wall, Sleep their last sleep--the goodly chiefs and tall, Couched in the foeman's land, whereon they gave Their breath, and lords of Troy, each in his Trojan grave.

Therefore for each and all the city's breast Is heavy with a wrath supprest, As deep and deadly as a curse more loud Flung by the common crowd; And, brooding deeply, doth my soul await Tidings of coming fate, Buried as yet in darkness' womb.

For not forgetful is the high G.o.ds' doom Against the sons of carnage: all too long Seems the unjust to prosper and be strong, Till the dark Furies come, And smite with stern reversal all his home, Down into dim obstruction--he is gone, And help and hope, among the lost, is none!

O'er him who vaunteth an exceeding fame, Impends a woe condign; The vengeful bolt upon his eyes doth flame, Sped from the hand divine.

This bliss be mine, ungrudged of G.o.d, to feel-- To tread no city to the dust, Nor see my own life thrust Down to a slave's estate beneath another's heel!

Behold, throughout the city wide Have the swift feet of Rumour hied, Roused by the joyful flame: But is the news they scatter, sooth?

Or haply do they give for truth Some cheat which heaven doth frame?

A child were he and all unwise, Who let his heart with joy be stirred, To see the beacon-fires arise, And then, beneath some thwarting word, Sicken anon with hope deferred.

The edge of woman's insight still Good news from true divideth ill; Light rumours leap within the bound That fences female credence round, But, lightly born, as lightly dies The tale that springs of her surmise.

Soon shall we know whereof the bale-fires tell, The beacons, kindled with transmitted flame; Whether, as well I deem, their tale is true.

Or whether like some dream delusive came The welcome blaze but to befool our soul.

For lo! I see a herald from the sh.o.r.e Draw hither, shadowed with the olive-wreath-- And thirsty dust, twin-brother of the clay, Speaks plain of travel far and truthful news-- No dumb surmise, nor tongue of flame in smoke, Fitfully kindled from the mountain pyre; But plainlier shall his voice say, _All is well,_ Or--but away, forebodings adverse, now,

And on fair promise fair fulfilment come!

And whoso for the state prays otherwise, Himself reap harvest of his ill desire!

_Enter_ HERALD