University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Tent of Agamemnon.
The Grecian Princes assembled.
Chal.
Noble Achilles, then if thou would'st know
What moves the arrow-darting Phœbus' rage,
Swear to protect me by thy power and sword,
For I our mightiest chieftain must accuse,
And truths reveal, offensive to the great.

Ach.
What Heaven has told thee, tell us undismay'd!
No! By the ever-glorious God thou serv'st,
And whose prophetic oracle thou art,
While light is dear to me, and life enjoy'd,
No hand profane shall touch thy sacred head,
Not e'en the sovereign whom we all obey,
Shall Agamemnon dare to do thee wrong!

Chal.
'Tis he himself who has incens'd the God—
The priest of Phœbus came with costly gifts,
An ample ransom for his captive child,
And on the shore to all the host of Greece,
That stood consenting, he addressed his prayer.
But Agamemnon, with disdainful pride,
The gifts rejected, and the pray'r contemn'd.
For this, the father to his God complain'd—
For this, the God indignant bent his bow,
Nor will relent, till to her father's arms
Ye send Chryseïs—and with sacrifice
Implore Apollo, and atone the sin.

Agam.
Prophet of mischief! Ever such to me—
Must now the Greeks by thy malignant tongue
Be lectured to rebel?—Be taught, that I
Incensed the God, that I brought down the plague
Which slays the innocent—because I prize
The gentle captive more than paltry gold?
But if 'tis meet that she should go, I yield—
Perish myself—if for the common good.
Yes, let her go!—revoke the gift ye gave,
O it is just the generous Greeks should tell
That Agamemnon unrewarded bled!

Ach.
Supreme in grandeur and renown, and greed,
How shall the army gratify thee now?
We shar'd impartially our hard-won spoil—
Would'st thou oblige us to refund for thee
Our several portions? Call on all our men—
On all the Greeks to form the stock anew
For thee again to share?—This would be wise!
But send the damsel home, and when great Jove
Makes towered Ilion's hoarded heaps our own,
Threefold o'er all shall be thy rich reward.

Agam.
God as thou count'st thyself amidst the fight,
Art thou in council so surpassing too
That I defrauded must confess thy skill?
Before that I resign my beauteous prize
Produce the just equivalent, and well—
But if ye rob me, and deny my due,
I will exert the greatness of my power,
And from the prizes others safe enjoy,
Indemnity acquire. Ulysses, your's;
Or your's, brave Ajax; ah! Achilles, chafe!
Thine own perhaps may first appease my claim!

Ach.
Inglorious man!—But in assurance great!
What Greek again at thy command will watch
In secret ambush, or in battle fight?
What cause had I to war for thee or thine?
Troy wrong'd not me—nor ever Trojan drove
My steeds or oxen, nor within my land
Left print of hostile tread! Far, far, from hence,
Fenced by the sea and vale-o'ershadowing hills,
My coursers fed, and affluent harvests blest
The peaceful labors of my joyous swains.
Hither, thou front of hollow heartless brass,
We cheerful came—came, when implored by thee,
T'avenge a private, not a public wrong,
Thine and thy brother's cause. The recompence—
Disgrace and insult! What, and dar'st thou threat
To seize my prize, so hard, so dearly won?
A prize, O tyrant! match'd with thine, as small
As thy atchievements, when compared with mine;
Wealth in each conquest ever is thy share,
But mine is toil and danger. Despot! know,
Achilles is thy ready slave no more,
And soon my fleet shall bear me swiftly home.

Agam.
Haste, spread thy sails! away, with speed, away!
I woo thee not to linger. Fly, begone!
Thy transient friendship, and thy groundless hate,
To me are equal. Tyrannize at home,
But here, 'tis mine to lord and thine to serve.
Go, get ye home. There is not in the camp
King or commander whom I hate as thee.
Back to her sire, my bark shall bear the maid—
But then prepare, imperious prince, prepare
To yield thy captive too—she shall be mine,
Even in thy tent, yea, at thy side I'll seize her;
So shalt thou rue the madness of that hour,
In which thou dared'st imperial might, and all
Our host shall know, and tremble while they learn,
That Kings are subject to the Gods alone.

Ach.
Thou dog at baying, though in heart a deer,
When wast thou known to brave the ambush'd foe,
Or dare the front of war? Thou scourge of Jove,
Sent in his anger on a slavish race—
By this, this sacred sceptre that thou seest
In my right hand, as severed from the tree,
Its parent on the mountain top, as I
Shall henceforth be from thee and thine,
This sceptre, emblem of the power conferr'd
By Jove on Kings—a dreadful oath I swear;
When Greece again shall ask Achilles' aid
In vain shall she implore!—When Hector comes
Bloody and grim, fierce trampling to the shore
O'er mountains of the dead—then shalt thou mourn,
And rage in bitterness of soul to think,
How thou hast scorn'd, as he were like thyself,
Achilles—I—the bulwark of your cause.