Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with Other Poems By John Stuart Blackie |
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IPHIGENIA. |
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 | Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with Other Poems |  |
68
IPHIGENIA.
This subject has been as great a favourite with modern poets as the Prometheus. Gœthe's play of this name is, by many, and for very good reasons, accounted his masterpiece. The sacrifice of the Argive princess, besides its general human interest, is a striking testimony to the fact, that even among the most cultivated people of the ancient world, human sacrifice prevailed at an early period of their history. There are certain principles in the human heart, which, at a certain stage of civilization, seem to make such a practice a sort of moral necessity. The idea of the substitution of the stag by Diana, in order to save the virgin's life, and the conveyance of the destined victim of a bloody devotion to the barbarous service of a grim idol in the Crimea, was an after-thought—one of those beautiful lies with which the legendary lore of old Hellas is replete. Æschylus, as is well known, in his sublime description of the sacrifice, in the opening chorus of the Agamemnon, altogether disregards the posterior fiction. How closely I have followed this great master in the closing stanzas of the ballad, will be obvious to the scholar.
Αιτας δε και κληδονας πατρωους
παρ' ουδεν αιωνα παρθενειον τ
εθεντο φιλομαχοι βραβης
φρασεν δ' αοζοις πατηρ μετ' ευχαν
δικαν χιμαιρας υπερθε βωμου
πεπλοισι περιπετη
παντι θυμω προνωπη
λαβειν αερδην στοματος τε καλλιπρωρου φυλακαν κατασχειν
φθογγον αραιον οικοις.
—Æschylus.
παρ' ουδεν αιωνα παρθενειον τ
εθεντο φιλομαχοι βραβης
φρασεν δ' αοζοις πατηρ μετ' ευχαν
δικαν χιμαιρας υπερθε βωμου
πεπλοισι περιπετη
παντι θυμω προνωπη
λαβειν αερδην στοματος τε καλλιπρωρου φυλακαν κατασχειν
φθογγον αραιον οικοις.
—Æschylus.
The ships are gathered in the bay,
A thousand-masted army,
All eager for the Trojan fray,
But the sky looks black and stormy.
From Strymon's shore, with surly roar,
The Thracian blasts are blowing;
With fretted breast, and foamy crest,
The adverse tide is flowing.
A thousand-masted army,
All eager for the Trojan fray,
But the sky looks black and stormy.
From Strymon's shore, with surly roar,
The Thracian blasts are blowing;
With fretted breast, and foamy crest,
The adverse tide is flowing.
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And Aulis shore, so bright before,
Is bleak, and grey, and dreary;
With dull delay, from day to day,
The seamen's hearts are weary.
Dire omen to their ears the roar
Of Jove's loud-rattling thunder;
The shivered sail, the shattered oar,
The cable snapt in sunder.
Is bleak, and grey, and dreary;
With dull delay, from day to day,
The seamen's hearts are weary.
Dire omen to their ears the roar
Of Jove's loud-rattling thunder;
The shivered sail, the shattered oar,
The cable snapt in sunder.
What man is he that stands apart,
In priestly guise long-vested,
Communing deep with his own heart,
By sombre thoughts infested?
He hath a laurel in his hand,
And on the dark storm gazing,
He broods, as he would understand
The secret of its raising.
In priestly guise long-vested,
Communing deep with his own heart,
By sombre thoughts infested?
He hath a laurel in his hand,
And on the dark storm gazing,
He broods, as he would understand
The secret of its raising.
'Tis Calchas, whose divining mind
The secret thought can follow
Of Jove, who shows to human kind
His counsel by Apollo.
And they who trust in prophet's skill,
On the lone rock have found him,
And throng, to learn the Supreme will,
In eager crowds around him.
The secret thought can follow
Of Jove, who shows to human kind
His counsel by Apollo.
And they who trust in prophet's skill,
On the lone rock have found him,
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In eager crowds around him.
He stands; he looks upon the ground;
He will nor see nor hear them;
But still they press, with swelling sound
Of battling voices, near him.
He goes; against a host in vain
He plants his single freedom;
And to the tent o' the king of men
With fretful haste they lead him.
He will nor see nor hear them;
But still they press, with swelling sound
Of battling voices, near him.
He goes; against a host in vain
He plants his single freedom;
And to the tent o' the king of men
With fretful haste they lead him.
The Atridan stood without his tent,
And scanned the welkin curiously,
If that the storm at length had spent
Its gusty burden furiously.
Small help got he from cloud or sky,
From sad thoughts that oppressed him;
But blithe was his eye, when the seer came nigh,
And thus the king addressed him: —
And scanned the welkin curiously,
If that the storm at length had spent
Its gusty burden furiously.
Small help got he from cloud or sky,
From sad thoughts that oppressed him;
But blithe was his eye, when the seer came nigh,
And thus the king addressed him: —
“O son of Thestor! thou art wise,
thou see'st what wintry weather
Scowls on our bright-faced enterprise,
And with a close-drawn tether
Detains us here against our will;
What cause doth so delay us?
Speak, sith thou hast a prophet's skill,
To me and Menelaus.”
thou see'st what wintry weather
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And with a close-drawn tether
Detains us here against our will;
What cause doth so delay us?
Speak, sith thou hast a prophet's skill,
To me and Menelaus.”
The seer was dumb; his fixed eye read
The barren ground demurely;
“Nay, speak the truth,”the Atridan said,
“For thou dost know it surely.
Thou need'st not fear the strong man's arm—
The king of men doth swear it,
Even by this kingly staff—no harm
Shall touch thee, while I bear it!”
The barren ground demurely;
“Nay, speak the truth,”the Atridan said,
“For thou dost know it surely.
Thou need'st not fear the strong man's arm—
The king of men doth swear it,
Even by this kingly staff—no harm
Shall touch thee, while I bear it!”
The seer was dumb; the king was wroth;
“Thou sellest dear thy prayers,
Thou sour-faced priest, and by my troth,
Like thee are all soothsayers.
A mouthing and a mumping crew,
With all things they will meddle;
And when they have made much ado,
They speak a two-faced riddle!”
“Thou sellest dear thy prayers,
Thou sour-faced priest, and by my troth,
Like thee are all soothsayers.
A mouthing and a mumping crew,
With all things they will meddle;
And when they have made much ado,
They speak a two-faced riddle!”
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The seer was dumb. “Nay, not for me,
Stiff priest, for love of Hellas,
If Jove hath shown the truth to thee,
Untie thy tongue and tell us.
If, in our sacred things, a vice
Some god hath sore offended,
Declare, and, at a tenfold price,
I vow it shall be mended.
Stiff priest, for love of Hellas,
If Jove hath shown the truth to thee,
Untie thy tongue and tell us.
If, in our sacred things, a vice
Some god hath sore offended,
Declare, and, at a tenfold price,
I vow it shall be mended.
If fault there be in me or mine,
Or in the chiefs the highest,
I will not swerve, but so incline
As Jove shall point, unbiassed.
My crown, my wealth, my blood, my all,
Myself and Menelaus,
Will give, if so we may recall
The blasts that now delay us.”
Or in the chiefs the highest,
I will not swerve, but so incline
As Jove shall point, unbiassed.
My crown, my wealth, my blood, my all,
Myself and Menelaus,
Will give, if so we may recall
The blasts that now delay us.”
Then spake the prophet: —“King, not well
Apollo's priest thou chidest;
But I the unwelcome truth will tell,
And follow where thou guidest.
The best-loved stag of Dian thou
Hast slain with evil arrow;
Therefore this vengeful tempest now
Consumes the Argive marrow.
Apollo's priest thou chidest;
But I the unwelcome truth will tell,
And follow where thou guidest.
The best-loved stag of Dian thou
Hast slain with evil arrow;
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Consumes the Argive marrow.
And thou, even thou, whose was the guilt,
Must work the due atoning;
When blood for blood is freely spilt,
To joy will turn thy moaning.
If thou wilt ferry thee and thine
Safe o'er the smooth-faced water,
Thou to the goddess must resign
Blood of thy blood, thy daughter.”
Must work the due atoning;
When blood for blood is freely spilt,
To joy will turn thy moaning.
If thou wilt ferry thee and thine
Safe o'er the smooth-faced water,
Thou to the goddess must resign
Blood of thy blood, thy daughter.”
The monarch stood, and with his staff
He smote the ground in sorrow;
Nor spake; the cup that he must quaff
Burns to the inmost marrow.
No aid Laertes' son supplied,
Nestor, or Menelaus;
For he must stay the winds, they cried,
From Thrace, that so delay us.
He smote the ground in sorrow;
Nor spake; the cup that he must quaff
Burns to the inmost marrow.
No aid Laertes' son supplied,
Nestor, or Menelaus;
For he must stay the winds, they cried,
From Thrace, that so delay us.
And they have choked the father's prayer;
And this their general will is,
To bring the maid, with promise fair
To wed her to Achilles.
And they have sent a courier far
To Argos steed-delighting,
And Clytemnestra reins the car,
To answer their inviting.
And this their general will is,
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To wed her to Achilles.
And they have sent a courier far
To Argos steed-delighting,
And Clytemnestra reins the car,
To answer their inviting.
And they have come in trim array,
The mother and the daughter,
As hasting to a bridal gay
Beside the briny water.
But, when they reach the Aulian strand,
No sight of gladness meets them;
Hushed lies the camp; with outstretched hand
No forward father greets them.
The mother and the daughter,
As hasting to a bridal gay
Beside the briny water.
But, when they reach the Aulian strand,
No sight of gladness meets them;
Hushed lies the camp; with outstretched hand
No forward father greets them.
And she is led, the daughter fair,
By will that may not falter,
Where priests a sacrifice prepare
For Dian's gloomy altar;
Where Calchas stands with folded hands,
And dense beholders gather;
And with grief bent, on a plane-tree leant
With backward gaze, her father.
By will that may not falter,
Where priests a sacrifice prepare
For Dian's gloomy altar;
Where Calchas stands with folded hands,
And dense beholders gather;
And with grief bent, on a plane-tree leant
With backward gaze, her father.
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Ah, woe is me! and can it be,
That, with sharp knife, thou darest
Strike such a neck, and forceful break
This tenderest flower and fairest?
Will he not hear, her father dear,
When her shrill plaint she poureth;
Nor Jove above look down in love,
When guiltless youth imploreth?
That, with sharp knife, thou darest
Strike such a neck, and forceful break
This tenderest flower and fairest?
Will he not hear, her father dear,
When her shrill plaint she poureth;
Nor Jove above look down in love,
When guiltless youth imploreth?
She stretched her hands to the standers by,
And tenderly besought them;
With shafts of pity from her eye,
The lovely maiden smote them.
O! like a picture to be seen
Was she, so chaste and beautiful,
And to her father's will had been
In all so meek and dutiful.
And tenderly besought them;
With shafts of pity from her eye,
The lovely maiden smote them.
O! like a picture to be seen
Was she, so chaste and beautiful,
And to her father's will had been
In all so meek and dutiful.
How often, at his kingly board,
With filial heart devoted,
To grace the banquet, she had poured
The mellow lay, clear-throated!
But now that voice shall sing no more;
They gag her mouth, lest, dying,
A curse on Argos she should pour,
With evil-omened crying.
With filial heart devoted,
To grace the banquet, she had poured
The mellow lay, clear-throated!
But now that voice shall sing no more;
They gag her mouth, lest, dying,
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With evil-omened crying.
And as stern Calchas gives behest,
They with a cord have bound her;
And she hath wrapt her saffron vest
In decent folds around her.
And as a kid supine is laid,
They on the altar lay her;
As bleeds a kid, so bleeds the maid,
To the knife o' the priestly slayer.
They with a cord have bound her;
And she hath wrapt her saffron vest
In decent folds around her.
And as a kid supine is laid,
They on the altar lay her;
As bleeds a kid, so bleeds the maid,
To the knife o' the priestly slayer.
But a weight is rolled from the heart of Greece,
And the clouds from the sky are driven;
And the sun looks down with an eye of peace
From the fresh blue face of heaven.
The westering breeze the seamen hailed,
That smoothed the Ægean water;
But with sad heart the monarch sailed,
For he had lost a daughter.
And the clouds from the sky are driven;
And the sun looks down with an eye of peace
From the fresh blue face of heaven.
The westering breeze the seamen hailed,
That smoothed the Ægean water;
But with sad heart the monarch sailed,
For he had lost a daughter.
| Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with Other Poems | |