Part 5

HERALD Alas—brief boon unto my friends it were, To flatter them, for truth, with falsehoods fair!

CHORUS Speak joy, if truth be joy, but truth, at worst— Too plainly, truth and joy are here divorced.

HERALD The hero and his bark were rapt away Far from the Grecian fleet? ’tis truth I say.

CHORUS Whether in all men’s sight from Ilion borne, Or from the fleet by stress of weather torn?

HERALD Full on the mark thy shaft of speech doth light, And one short word hath told long woes aright.

CHORUS But say, what now of him each comrade saith? What their forebodings, of his life or death?

HERALD Ask me no more: the truth is known to none, Save the earth-fostering, all-surveying Sun,

CHORUS Say, by what doom the fleet of Greece was driven? How rose, how sank the storm, the wrath of heaven?

HERALD Nay, ill it were to mar with sorrow’s tale The day of blissful news. The gods demand Thanksgiving sundered from solicitude. If one as herald came with rueful face To say, The curse has fallen, and the host Gone down to death; and one wide wound has reached The city’s heart, and out of many homes Many are cast and consecrate to death, Beneath the double scourge, that Ares loves, The bloody pair, the fire and sword of doom— If such sore burden weighed upon my tongue, ’Twere fit to speak such words as gladden fiends. But—coming as he comes who bringeth news Of safe return from toil, and issues fair, To men rejoicing in a weal restored— Dare I to dash good words with ill, and say How the gods’ anger smote the Greeks in storm? For fire and sea, that erst held bitter feud, Now swore conspiracy and pledged their faith, Wasting the Argives worn with toil and war. Night and great horror of the rising wave Came o’er us, and the blasts that blow from Thrace Clashed ship with ship, and some with plunging prow Thro’ scudding drifts of spray and raving storm Vanished, as strays by some ill shepherd driven. And when at length the sun rose bright, we saw Th’ Aegaean sea-field flecked with flowers of death, Corpses of Grecian men and shattered hulls. For us indeed, some god, as well I deem, No human power, laid hand upon our helm, Snatched us or prayed us from the powers of air, And brought our bark thro’ all, unharmed in hull: And saving Fortune sat and steered us fair, So that no surge should gulf us deep in brine, Nor grind our keel upon a rocky shore.

So ’scaped we death that lurks beneath the sea, But, under day’s white light, mistrustful all Of fortune’s smile, we sat and brooded deep, Shepherds forlorn of thoughts that wandered wild, O’er this new woe; for smitten was our host, And lost as ashes scattered from the pyre. Of whom if any draw his life-breath yet, Be well assured, he deems of us as dead, As we of him no other fate forebode. But heaven save all! If Menelaus live, He will not tarry, but will surely come: Therefore if anywhere the high sun’s ray Descries him upon earth, preserved by Zeus, Who wills not yet to wipe his race away, Hope still there is that homeward he may wend. Enough—thou hast the truth unto the end.

CHORUS Say, from whose lips the presage fell? Who read the future all too well, And named her, in her natal hour, Helen, the bride with war for dower? ’Twas one of the Invisible, Guiding his tongue with prescient power. On fleet, and host, and citadel, War, sprung from her, and death did lour, When from the bride-bed’s fine-spun veil She to the Zephyr spread her sail.

Strong blew the breeze—the surge closed o’er The cloven track of keel and oar, But while she fled, there drove along, Fast in her wake, a mighty throng— Athirst for blood, athirst for war, Forward in fell pursuit they sprung, Then leapt on Simois’ bank ashore, The leafy coppices among— No rangers, they, of wood and field, But huntsmen of the sword and shield.

Heaven’s jealousy, that works its will, Sped thus on Troy its destined ill, Well named, at once, the Bride and Bane; And loud rang out the bridal strain; But they to whom that song befel Did turn anon to tears again; Zeus tarries, but avenges still The husband’s wrong, the household’s stain! He, the hearth’s lord, brooks not to see Its outraged hospitality.

Even now, and in far other tone, Troy chants her dirge of mighty moan, Woe upon Paris, woe and hate! Who wooed his country’s doom for mate— This is the burthen of the groan, Wherewith she wails disconsolate The blood, so many of her own Have poured in vain, to fend her fate; Troy! thou hast fed and freed to roam A lion-cub within thy home!

A suckling creature, newly ta’en From mother’s teat, still fully fain Of nursing care; and oft caressed, Within the arms, upon the breast, Even as an infant, has it lain; Or fawns and licks, by hunger pressed, The hand that will assuage its pain; In life’s young dawn, a well-loved guest, A fondling for the children’s play, A joy unto the old and gray.

But waxing time and growth betrays The blood-thirst of the lion-race, And, for the house’s fostering care, Unbidden all, it revels there, And bloody recompense repays— Rent flesh of tine, its talons tare: A mighty beast, that slays and slays, And mars with blood the household fair, A God-sent pest invincible, A minister of fate and hell.

Even so to Ilion’s city came by stealth A spirit as of windless seas and skies, A gentle phantom-form of joy and wealth, With love’s soft arrows speeding from its eyes— Love’s rose, whose thorn doth pierce the soul in subtle wise.

Ah, well-a-day! the bitter bridal-bed, When the fair mischief lay by Paris’ side! What curse on palace and on people sped With her, the Fury sent on Priam’s pride, By angered Zeus! what tears of many a widowed bride!

Long, long ago to mortals this was told, How sweet security and blissful state Have curses for their children—so men hold— And for the man of all-too prosperous fate Springs from a bitter seed some woe insatiate.

Alone, alone, I deem far otherwise; Not bliss nor wealth it is, but impious deed, From which that after-growth of ill doth rise! Woe springs from wrong, the plant is like the seed— While Right, in honour’s house, doth its own likeness breed.

Some past impiety, some gray old crime, Breeds the young curse, that wantons in our ill, Early or late, when haps th’ appointed time— And out of light brings power of darkness still, A master-fiend, a foe, unseen, invincible;

A pride accursed, that broods upon the race And home in which dark Atè holds her sway— Sin’s child and Woe’s, that wears its parents’ face; While Right in smoky cribs shines clear as day, And decks with weal his life, who walks the righteous way.

From gilded halls, that hands polluted raise, Right turns away with proud averted eyes, And of the wealth, men stamp amiss with praise, Heedless, to poorer, holier temples hies, And to Fate’s goal guides all, in its appointed wise.

Hail to thee, chief of Atreus’ race, Returning proud from Troy subdued! How shall I greet thy conquering face? How nor a fulsome praise obtrude, Nor stint the meed of gratitude? For mortal men who fall to ill Take little heed of open truth, But seek unto its semblance still: The show of weeping and of ruth To the forlorn will all men pay, But, of the grief their eyes display, Nought to the heart doth pierce its way. And, with the joyous, they beguile Their lips unto a feigned smile, And force a joy, unfelt the while; But he who as a shepherd wise Doth know his flock, can ne’er misread Truth in the falsehood of his eyes, Who veils beneath a kindly guise A lukewarm love in deed. And thou, our leader—when of yore Thou badest Greece go forth to war For Helen’s sake—I dare avow That then I held thee not as now; That to my vision thou didst seem Dyed in the hues of disesteem. I held thee for a pilot ill, And reckless, of thy proper will, Endowing others doomed to die With vain and forced audacity! Now from my heart, ungrudgingly, To those that wrought, this word be said— Well fall the labour ye have sped— Let time and search, O king, declare What men within thy city’s bound Were loyal to the kingdom’s care, And who were faithless found.

AGAMEMNON First, as is meet, a king’s All-hail be said To Argos, and the gods that guard the land— Gods who with me availed to speed us home, With me availed to wring from Priam’s town The due of justice. In the court of heaven The gods in conclave sat and judged the cause, Not from a pleader’s tongue, and at the close, Unanimous into the urn of doom This sentence gave, On Ilion and her men, Death: and where hope drew nigh to pardon’s urn No hand there was to cast a vote therein. And still the smoke of fallen Ilion Rises in sight of all men, and the flame Of Atè’s hecatomb is living yet, And where the towers in dusty ashes sink, Rise the rich fumes of pomp and wealth consumed. For this must all men pay unto the gods The meed of mindful hearts and gratitude: For by our hands the meshes of revenge Closed on the prey, and for one woman’s sake Troy trodden by the Argive monster lies— The foal, the shielded band that leapt the wall, What time with autumn sank the Pleiades. Yea, o’er the fencing wall a lion sprang Ravening, and lapped his fill of blood of kings.

Such prelude spoken to the gods in full, To you I turn, and to the hidden thing Whereof ye spake but now: and in that thought I am as you, and what ye say, say I. For few are they who have such inborn grace, As to look up with love, and envy not, When stands another on the height of weal. Deep in his heart, whom jealousy hath seized, Her poison lurking doth enhance his load; For now beneath his proper woes he chafes, And sighs withal to see another’s weal. I speak not idly, but from knowledge sure— There be who vaunt an utter loyalty, That is but as the ghost of friendship dead, A shadow in a glass, of faith gone by. One only—he who went reluctant forth Across the seas with me—Odysseus—he Was loyal unto me with strength and will, A trusty trace-horse bound unto my car. Thus—be he yet beneath the light of day, Or dead, as well I fear—I speak his praise.

Lastly, whate’er be due to men or gods, With joint debate, in public council held, We will decide, and warily contrive That all which now is well may so abide: For that which haply needs the healer’s art, That will we medicine, discerning well If cautery or knife befit the time.

Now, to my palace and the shrines of home, I will pass in, and greet you first and fair, Ye gods, who bade me forth, and home again— And long may Victory tarry in my train!