 | The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
234
II. THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON
FROM AISCHYLOS
I
[Aischylos, Agamemnon, 1266–1318.]
Chorus—Kassandra—Agamemnon.
CHORUS.
O wretched woman indeed, and O most wise,
Much hast thou said; but if thou knowest well
Thy doom, why, like a heifer, by the Gods
Led to the altar, tread so brave of soul?
KASSANDRA.
There 's no escape, O friends, the time is full.
CHORUS.
Nathless, the last to enter gains in time.
KASSANDRA.
The day has come; little I make by flight.
CHORUS.
Thou art bold indeed, and of a daring spirit!
KASSANDRA.
Such sayings from the happy none hath heard.
CHORUS.
Grandly to die is still a grace to mortals.
KASSANDRA.
Alas, my sire,—thee and thy noble brood!
(She starts back from the entrance.)
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How now? What horror turns thee back again?
KASSANDRA.
Faugh! faugh!
CHORUS.
Why such a cry? There 's something chills thy soul!
KASSANDRA.
The halls breathe murder,—ay, they drip with blood.
CHORUS.
How? 'T is the smell of victims at the hearth.
KASSANDRA.
Nay, but the exhalation of the tomb!
CHORUS.
No Syrian dainty, this, of which thou speakest.
KASSANDRA
(at the portal).
Yet will I in the palace wail my own
And Agamemnon's fate! Enough of life!
Alas! O friends!
Yet not for naught I quail, not as a bird
Snared in the bush: bear witness, though I die,
A woman's slaughter shall requite my own,
And, for this man ill-yoked, a man shall fall!
Thus prays of you a stranger, at death's door.
CHORUS.
Lost one, I rue with thee thy foretold doom!
KASSANDRA.
Once more I fain would utter words, once more,—
'T is my own threne! And I invoke the Sun,
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May pay no less to them who shall avenge me,
Than I who die an unresisting slave!
(She enters the palace.)
CHORUS.
Of Fortune was never yet enow
To mortal man; and no one ever
Her presence from his house would sever
And point, and say, “Come no more nigh!”
Unto our King granted the Gods on high
That Priam's towers should bow,
And homeward, crowned of Heaven, hath he come;
But now if, for the ancestral blood that lay
At his doors, he falls,—and the dead, that cursed his home,
He, dying, must in full requite,—
What manner of man is one that would not pray
To be born with a good attendant Sprite?
(An outcry within the palace.)
AGAMEMNON.
Woe 's me! I am stricken a deadly blow within!
CHORUS.
Hark! Who is 't cries “a blow”? Who meets his death?
AGAMEMNON.
Woe 's me! again! a second time I am stricken!
CHORUS.
The deed, methinks, from the King's cry, is done.
Quick, let us see what help may be in counsel!
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2.
[Agamemnon, 1343–1377.]
Enter Klytaimnestra, from the Palace.
KLYTAIMNESTRA.
Now, all this formal outcry having vent,
I shall not blush to speak the opposite.
How should one, plotting evil things for foes,
Encompass seeming friends with such a bane
Of toils? it were a height too great to leap?
Not without full prevision came, though late,
To me this crisis of an ancient feud.
And here, the deed being done, I stand—even where
I smote him! nor deny that thus I did it,
So that he could not flee nor ward off doom.
A seamless net, as round a fish, I cast
About him, yea, a deadly wealth of robe;
Then smote him twice; and with a double cry
He loosed his limbs; and to him fallen I gave
Yet a third thrust, a grace to Hades, lord
Of the underworld and guardian of the dead.
So, falling, out he gasps his soul, and out
He spurts a sudden jet of blood, that smites
Me with a sable rain of gory dew,—
Me, then no less exulting than the field
In the sky's gift, while bursts the pregnant ear!
Things being thus, old men of Argos, joy,
If joy ye can;—I glory in the deed!
And if't were seemly ever yet to pour
Libation to the dead, 't were most so now;
Most meet that one, who poured for his own home
A cup of ills, returning, thus should drain it!
CHORUS.
Shame on thy tongue! how bold of mouth thou art
That vauntest such a speech above thy husband!
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Ye try me as a woman loose of soul;
But I with dauntless heart avow to you
Well knowing—and whether ye choose to praise or blame
I care not—this is Agamemnon; yea,
My husband; yea, a corpse, of this right hand,
This craftsman sure, the handiwork! Thus stands it.
3
[Agamemnon, 1466–1507.]
Chorus—Semi-chorus—Klytaimnestra
CHORUS.
Woe! Woe!
King! O how shall I weep for thy dying?
What shall my fond heart say anew?
Thou in the web of the spider art lying,
Breathing out life by a death she shall rue.
SEMI-CHORUS.
Alas! alas for this slavish couch! By a sword
Two-edged, by a hand untrue,
Thou art smitten, even to death, my lord!
KLYTAIMNESTRA.
Thou sayest this deed was mine alone;
But I bid thee call me not
The wife of Agamemnon's bed;
'T was the ancient fell Alastor of Atreus' throne,
The lord of a horrid feast, this crime begot,
Taking the shape that seemed the wife of the dead,—
His sure revenge, I wot,
A victim ripe hath claimed for the young that bled.
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Who shall bear witness now,—
Who of this murder, now, thee guiltless hold?
How sayest thou? How?
Yet the fell Alastor may have holpen, I trow:
Still is dark Ares driven
Down currents manifold
Of kindred blood, wherever judgment is given,
And he comes to avenge the children slain of old,
And their thick gore cries to Heaven!
CHORUS.
Woe! Woe!
King! O how shall I weep for thy dying?
What shall my fond heart say anew?
Thou in the web of the spider art lying,
Breathing out life by a death she shall rue!
SEMI-CHORUS.
Alas! alas for this slavish couch! By a sword
Two-edged, by a hand untrue,
Thou art smitten, even to death, my lord!
KLYTAIMNESTRA.
Hath he not subtle Atè brought
Himself, to his kingly halls?
'T was on our own dear offspring,—yea,
On Iphigeneia, wept for still, he wrought
The doom that cried for the doom by which he falls.
O, let him not in Hades boast, I say,
For 't is the sword that calls,
Even for that foul deed, his soul away!
| The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman | |