Part 8

CASSANDRA Ah well-a-day! the cup of agony, Whereof I chant, foams with a draught for me. Ah lord, ah leader, thou hast led me here— Was’t but to die with thee whose doom is near?

CHORUS Distraught thou art, divinely stirred, And wailest for thyself a tuneless lay, As piteous as the ceaseless tale Wherewith the brown melodious bird Doth ever Itys! Itys! wail, Deep-bowered in sorrow, all its little life-time’s day!

CASSANDRA Ah for thy fate, O shrill-voiced nightingale! Some solace for thy woes did Heaven afford, Clothed thee with soft brown plumes, and life apart from wail— But for my death is edged the double-biting sword!

CHORUS What pangs are these, what fruitless pain, Sent on thee from on high? Thou chantest terror’s frantic strain, Yet in shrill measured melody. How thus unerring canst thou sweep along The prophet’s path of boding song?

CASSANDRA Woe, Paris, woe on thee! thy bridal joy Was death and fire upon thy race and Troy! And woe for thee, Scamander’s flood! Beside thy banks, O river fair, I grew in tender nursing care From childhood unto maidenhood! Now not by thine, but by Cocytus’ stream And Acheron’s banks shall ring my boding scream.

CHORUS Too plain is all, too plain! A child might read aright thy fateful strain. Deep in my heart their piercing fang Terror and sorrow set, the while I heard That piteous, low, tender word, Yet to mine ear and heart a crushing pang.

CASSANDRA Woe for my city, woe for Ilion’s fall! Father, how oft with sanguine stain Streamed on thine altar-stone the blood of cattle, slain That heaven might guard our wall! But all was shed in vain. Low lie the shattered towers whereas they fell, And I—ah burning heart!—shall soon lie low as well.

CHORUS Of sorrow is thy song, of sorrow still! Alas, what power of ill Sits heavy on thy heart and bids thee tell In tears of perfect moan thy deadly tale? Some woe—I know not what—must close thy piteous wail.

CASSANDRA List! for no more the presage of my soul, Bride-like, shall peer from its secluding veil; But as the morning wind blows clear the east, More bright shall blow the wind of prophecy, And as against the low bright line of dawn Heaves high and higher yet the rolling wave, So in the clearing skies of prescience Dawns on my soul a further, deadlier woe, And I will speak, but in dark speech no more. Bear witness, ye, and follow at my side— I scent the trail of blood, shed long ago. Within this house a choir abidingly Chants in harsh unison the chant of ill; Yea, and they drink, for more enhardened joy, Man’s blood for wine, and revel in the halls, Departing never, Furies of the home. They sit within, they chant the primal curse, Each spitting hatred on that crime of old, The brother’s couch, the love incestuous That brought forth hatred to the ravisher. Say, is my speech or wild and erring now, Or doth its arrow cleave the mark indeed? They called me once, The prophetess of lies, The wandering hag, the pest of every door— Attest ye now, She knows in very sooth The house’s curse, the storied infamy.

CHORUS Yet how should oath—how loyally soe’er I swear it—aught avail thee? In good sooth, My wonder meets thy claim: I stand amazed That thou, a maiden born beyond the seas, Dost as a native know and tell aright Tales of a city of an alien tongue.

CASSANDRA That is my power—a boon Apollo gave.

CHORUS God though he were, yearning for mortal maid?

CASSANDRA Ay! what seemed shame of old is shame no more.

CHORUS Such finer sense suits not with slavery.

CASSANDRA He strove to win me, panting for my love.

CHORUS Came ye by compact unto bridal joys?

CASSANDRA Nay—for I plighted troth, then foiled the god.

CHORUS Wert thou already dowered with prescience?

CASSANDRA Yea—prophetess to Troy of all her doom.

CHORUS How left thee then Apollo’s wrath unscathed?

CASSANDRA I, false to him, seemed prophet false to all.

CHORUS Not so—to us at least thy words seem sooth.

CASSANDRA Woe for me, woe! Again the agony— Dread pain that sees the future all too well With ghastly preludes whirls and racks my soul. Behold ye—yonder on the palace roof The spectre-children sitting—look, such things As dreams are made on, phantoms as of babes, Horrible shadows, that a kinsman’s hand Hath marked with murder, and their arms are full— A rueful burden—see, they hold them up, The entrails upon which their father fed!

For this, for this, I say there plots revenge A coward lion, couching in the lair— Guarding the gate against my master’s foot— My master—mine—I bear the slave’s yoke now, And he, the lord of ships, who trod down Troy, Knows not the fawning treachery of tongue Of this thing false and dog-like—how her speech Glozes and sleeks her purpose, till she win By ill fate’s favour the desired chance, Moving like Atè to a secret end. O aweless soul! the woman slays her lord— Woman? what loathsome monster of the earth Were fit comparison? The double snake— Or Scylla, where she dwells, the seaman’s bane, Girt round about with rocks? some hag of hell, Raving a truceless curse upon her kin? Hark—even now she cries exultingly The vengeful cry that tells of battle turned— How fain, forsooth, to greet her chief restored! Nay then, believe me not: what skills belief Or disbelief? Fate works its will—and thou Wilt see and say in ruth, Her tale was true.

CHORUS Ah—’tis Thyestes’ feast on kindred flesh— I guess her meaning and with horror thrill, Hearing no shadow’d hint of th’ o’er-true tale, But its full hatefulness: yet, for the rest, Far from the track I roam, and know no more.

CASSANDRA ’Tis Agamemnon’s doom thou shalt behold.

CHORUS Peace, hapless woman, to thy boding words!

CASSANDRA Far from my speech stands he who sains and saves.