 | The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
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.
239
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 | |