Part 10

CASSANDRA Once more one utterance, but not of wail, Though for my death—and then I speak no more.

Sun! thou whose beam I shall not see again, To thee I cry, Let those whom vengeance calls To slay their kindred’s slayers, quit withal The death of me, the slave, the fenceless prey.

Ah state of mortal man! in time of weal, A line, a shadow! and if ill fate fall, One wet sponge-sweep wipes all our trace away— And this I deem less piteous, of the twain.

CHORUS Too true it is! our mortal state With bliss is never satiate, And none, before the palace high And stately of prosperity, Cries to us with a voice of fear, Away! ’tis ill to enter here!

Lo! this our lord hath trodden down, By grace of heaven, old Priam’s town, And praised as god he stands once more On Argos’ shore! Yet now—if blood shed long ago Cries out that other blood shall flow— His life-blood, his, to pay again The stern requital of the slain— Peace to that braggart’s vaunting vain, Who, having heard the chieftain’s tale, Yet boasts of bliss untouched by bale!

VOICE OF AGAMEMNON O I am sped—a deep, a mortal blow.

CHORUS Listen, listen! who is screaming as in mortal agony?

VOICE OF AGAMEMNON O! O! again, another, another blow!

CHORUS The bloody act is over—I have heard the monarch’s cry— Let us swiftly take some counsel, lest we too be doomed to die.

ONE OF THE CHORUS ’Tis best, I judge, aloud for aid to call, “Ho! loyal Argives! to the palace, all!”

ANOTHER Better, I deem, ourselves to bear the aid, And drag the deed to light, while drips the blade.

ANOTHER Such will is mine, and what thou say’st I say: Swiftly to act! the time brooks no delay.

ANOTHER Ay, for ’tis plain, this prelude of their song Foretells its close in tyranny and wrong.

ANOTHER Behold, we tarry—but thy name, Delay, They spurn, and press with sleepless hand to slay.

ANOTHER I know not what ’twere well to counsel now— Who wills to act, ’tis his to counsel how.

ANOTHER Thy doubt is mine: for when a man is slain, I have no words to bring his life again.

ANOTHER What? e’en for life’s sake, bow us to obey These house-defilers and their tyrant sway?

ANOTHER Unmanly doom! ’twere better far to die— Death is a gentler lord than tyranny.

ANOTHER Think well—must cry or sign of woe or pain Fix our conclusion that the chief is slain?

ANOTHER Such talk befits us when the deed we see— Conjecture dwells afar from certainty.

LEADER OF THE CHORUS I read one will from many a diverse word, To know aright, how stands it with our lord!

CLYTEMNESTRA Ho, ye who heard me speak so long and oft The glozing word that led me to my will— Hear how I shrink not to unsay it all! How else should one who willeth to requite Evil for evil to an enemy Disguised as friend, weave the mesh straitly round him, Not to be overleaped, a net of doom? This is the sum and issue of old strife, Of me deep-pondered and at length fulfilled. All is avowed, and as I smote I stand With foot set firm upon a finished thing! I turn not to denial: thus I wrought So that he could nor flee nor ward his doom, Even as the trammel hems the scaly shoal, I trapped him with inextricable toils, The ill abundance of a baffling robe; Then smote him, once, again—and at each wound He cried aloud, then as in death relaxed Each limb and sank to earth; and as he lay, Once more I smote him, with the last third blow, Sacred to Hades, saviour of the dead. And thus he fell, and as he passed away, Spirit with body chafed; each dying breath Flung from his breast swift bubbling jets of gore, And the dark sprinklings of the rain of blood Fell upon me; and I was fain to feel That dew—not sweeter is the rain of heaven To cornland, when the green sheath teems with grain,

Elders of Argos—since the thing stands so, I bid you to rejoice, if such your will: Rejoice or not, I vaunt and praise the deed, And well I ween, if seemly it could be, ’Twere not ill done to pour libations here, Justly—ay, more than justly—on his corpse Who filled his home with curses as with wine, And thus returned to drain the cup he filled.

CHORUS I marvel at thy tongue’s audacity, To vaunt thus loudly o’er a husband slain.

CLYTEMNESTRA Ye hold me as a woman, weak of will, And strive to sway me: but my heart is stout, Nor fears to speak its uttermost to you, Albeit ye know its message. Praise or blame, Even as ye list,—I reck not of your words. Lo! at my feet lies Agamemnon slain, My husband once—and him this hand of mine, A right contriver, fashioned for his death. Behold the deed!

CHORUS Woman, what deadly birth, What venomed essence of the earth Or dark distilment of the wave, To thee such passion gave, Nerving thine hand To set upon thy brow this burning crown, The curses of thy land? Our king by thee cut off, hewn down! Go forth—they cry—accursèd and forlorn, To hate and scorn!

CLYTEMNESTRA O ye just men, who speak my sentence now, The city’s hate, the ban of all my realm! Ye had no voice of old to launch such doom On him, my husband, when he held as light My daughter’s life as that of sheep or goat, One victim from the thronging fleecy fold! Yea, slew in sacrifice his child and mine, The well-loved issue of my travail-pangs, To lull and lay the gales that blew from Thrace. That deed of his, I say, that stain and shame, Had rightly been atoned by banishment; But ye, who then were dumb, are stern to judge This deed of mine that doth affront your ears. Storm out your threats, yet knowing this for sooth, That I am ready, if your hand prevail As mine now doth, to bow beneath your sway: If God say nay, it shall be yours to learn By chastisement a late humility.

CHORUS Bold is thy craft, and proud Thy confidence, thy vaunting loud; Thy soul, that chose a murd’ress’ fate, Is all with blood elate— Maddened to know The blood not yet avenged, the damnèd spot Crimson upon thy brow. But Fate prepares for thee thy lot— Smitten as thou didst smite, without a friend, To meet thine end!