University of Virginia Library

THE WATCHMAN.

CHORUS.

Clytemnestra enters.
CHORUS.
I come, O Clytemnestra, to salute
Thy majesty! 'Tis meet the wife to honour
When vacant of its lord the kingly throne.
Fain would I know, what thou hast heard, what heard not.
Greet'st thou with incense some glad messenger?
Yet dare I not, if silent, blame thy silence.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
With joyful tidings, as the proverb says,
Dawns forth the Morning from her mother Night.
Thou shalt hear things passing thine utmost hope:
The Argive host hath taken Priam's city.

CHORUS.
What say'st thou? I can scarce believe thy words.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
The Greeks are lords of Troy! Speak I not clear?

CHORUS.
So great my joy, I cannot choose but weep!

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Thy tears bear witness to thy loyalty.

CHORUS.
Is the proof credible of this great fact?

CLYTEMNESTRA.
It is. Why not? Doth the God e'er deceive?

CHORUS.
Art thou beguiled by phantom shapes of dreams?

CLYTEMNESTRA.
I care not for the mind that's drenched in sleep.

CHORUS.
Hath made thee wanton some swift sudden voice?

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Mock'st me, as thou would mock a simple girl?

CHORUS.
How long is't since the ruined city fell?

CLYTEMNESTRA.
This day, I say, born of this very night.

CHORUS.
What messenger hath hither flown so swiftly?

CLYTEMNESTRA.
The Fire-God, kindling his bright light on Ida!
Beacon to beacon fast and forward flashed,
An estafette of fire, on to the rocks
Of Hermes-hallowed Lemnos: from that isle
Caught, thirdly, Jove-crowned Athos the red light,
That broader, skimming o'er the shimmering sea,
Went travelling in its strength. For our delight
The pine-torch, golden-glittering like the sun,
Spoke to the watchman on Macistus' height.
Nor he delaying, nor by careless sleep
Subdued, sent on the fiery messenger:
Far o'er Euripus' tide the beacon-blaze
Signalled to the Messapian sentinels.
Light answering light, they sent the tidings on,
Kindling into a blaze the old dry heath;
And mightier still, and waning not a whit,
The light leaped o'er Asopus' plain, most like
The crescent moon, on to Cithæron's peak,
And woke again another missive fire.
Nor did the guard disdain the far-seen light,
But kindled up at once a mightier flame.
O'er the Gorgopian lake it flashed like lightning
On the sea-beaten cliffs of Megaris;
Woke up the watchman not to spare his fire,
And, gathering in its unexhausted strength,
The long-waving bearded flame from off the cliffs
That overlook the deep Saronian gulf,
As from a mirror streamed. On flashed it; reached
Arachne, our close neighbouring height, and there,
Not unbegotten of that bright fire on Ida,
On sprang it to Atrides' palace roof.
Such were the laws of those swift beacon-fires:
So flash the torches on from hand to hand
In the holy rite, brightest the first and last.
Such is the proof and sign of victory
Sent by my husband from now captured Troy.

CHORUS.
O woman, to the Gods ere long I'll pray.
But lost in wonder at thy words of joy,
Fain would I hear them, at full length, again.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
This day the Argives are the lords of Troy;
A wild and dissonant cry rises, I ween,
From all the city. Vinegar and oil,
Poured in one vessel, mingle not, but stand
In discord obstinate: so may be heard
The voices of the conquerors and the vanquished
In awful opposition. Prostrate these
Over the reeking bodies of the slain,
Husbands or brothers; children, cowering low
O'er their dead parents, now no more to lift
Their heads in freedom, wail their best beloved.
Those weary with the night-wandering toil of war,
Break their long fast with what the city yields,
Not orderly apportioned, but as each
Has drawn his lot, at feast upon the spoil.
And in the palaces of captive Troy
They take their ease; under the frosty heaven
No more, nor shivering with the cold dank dews,
Unguarded sleep they through the happy night.
If reverently ye adore Troy's tutelar gods—
Gods of the vanquished land, and the holy shrines—
Captors, ye'll not be captives in your turn.
Oh, may no lawless lust our host invade,
Ravening for spoil, slaves of base thirst for gain!
Yet have they, ere their safe return to home,
One half of their long stadium's course to run,
And even if guiltless come the army back;
Be there no new offence; Troy's carnage still
May reek to heaven and wake the avenging Gods.
These are a woman's words, may good prevail,
And the swung balance in our favour turn.
'Tis this of all heaven's blessings I would choose.

CHORUS.
Woman, like a wise man thou speakest wisely.
With these unanswerable proofs content,
I gird me for thanksgiving to the Gods;—
A glorious guerdon this of all our toils.

CHORUS.
STROPHE.
ANTISTROPHE.
STROPHE.
ANTISTROPHE.
STROPHE.
ANTISTROPHE.

CHORUS.
Through all the city the glad rumour flies
Of th' herald lights that flash along the skies.
If true, who knows? from heaven? or but a lie?
Who such a child, so 'reft of sense,
To kindle at the glad intelligence;
And when the change comes o'er the tidings fair,
To die away in dull despair.
'Tis woman's nature foremost to descry
Ere it arrives, the ill, with instinct sure
The joy unripe and premature.
By woman only vouched, the tale of glory
Dies out at once, a soon-forgotten story.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Soon shall we know of those bright flashing lights,
These intercommuning red beacon-fires,
If they be true, or like delusive dreams
Have these joy-breathing lights the soul beguiled.
I see upon yon shore a herald shaded
With olive-branches; and a second witness,
The thirsty dust, brother of mire, I see,
Not voiceless, though he speaks not in the language
Of fire-smoke on the forest mountain-tops,
He with his words will ratify our joy.
I loathe the thought that he will dash our hopes,
And yet our dubious joy may bear increase.

[Clytemnestra retires.
CHORUS.
May he that otherwise prays for our city
Reap the sad harvest of a broken heart!

The Herald enters.
HERALD.

CHORUS.
Hail, and rejoice, herald of the Argive host!

HERALD.
Rejoice! Were it God's will, I'd die on the instant.

CHORUS.
Love of thy native land hath tried thee sore.

HERALD.
So that I cannot choose but weep for joy.

CHORUS.
Wert thou then wounded by that sweet disease?

HERALD.
What mean'st? Teach me to master this thy speech.

CHORUS.
Smitten with love of those who loved no less.

HERALD.
Say'st thou the city mourned us in our absence?

CHORUS.
With many sighs from our heart's secret depths.

HERALD.
Why secret was this sorrow for our host?

CHORUS.
Peace! Silence is the best of remedies.

HERALD.
Whom, when our kings were absent, did ye dread?

CHORUS.
Even as ye now may dread: death had been mercy.

HERALD.

CHORUS.
I doubt no longer, by thy words subdued.
Old age is ever young to learn what's right.
But these things most concern Queen Clytemnestra,
Let her enjoy their glorious wealth with us.

Clytemnestra enters.
CLYTEMNESTRA.
Already have I shrieked in my wild joy,
When first the midnight fiery messenger
Came telling of the fall and sack of Troy.
Some girding said, “Thou by those beacon-fires
Deceived, believest in the ruin of Troy.
'Tis ever thus with woman, heart elate.”
Deluded was I called in words like these;
Yet did I order instant sacrifice:
A woman gave the word; through all the city
The ululation ran with holy din,
Lulling the incense-fragrant fires that fed
On the hecatombs in the temples of the Gods.
Of this enough! from you I hear no more;
My lord the king himself shall tell the rest.
And I will haste, mine all-revered husband,
On his return, to meet with honour due.
To a wife's eye, what day so bright, so blessed,
As this which sees her meet her noble lord,
Under the Gods' protection home returned.
Throw wide the gates of welcome, tell my lord
Swiftly to come, and gladden the whole city;
So in his house he'll find his faithful wife,
Even as he left her, watchdog of the palace;
Towards her lord of goodness unimpeached;
Unloved of those alone who loved not him.
Ever the same, who broke no single seal
Of all his treasures in this length of time.
No pleasure have I known, but thought of him;
Unsullied by ill fame, as the pure brass
Will take no stain or colouring from the dye.

HERALD.
A noble boast! truth breathes in every word;
How well doth it become a high-born woman!

CHORUS.
For mine instruction hath she spoken thus,
Clear words and plain, her soul's interpreters.
But tell me, Herald! of king Menelaus
Fain would I hear. Will he return in safety:
He the delight and bulwark of the land?

HERALD.
With pleasing falsehood I will not beguile you;
Brief is the joy ye reap from such deceit.

CHORUS.
Good news and true ye speak not both at once;
Ye cannot hide the mournful contradiction.

HERALD.
From the Greek host one man has disappeared,
He and his ship: I speak no falsehood now.

CHORUS.
Saw ye him first embark from Ilion?
Or did one tempest scatter all the fleet?

HERALD.
Like a skill'd archer thou hast hit the mark,
And in few words summ'd up a world of sorrow.

CHORUS.
What was the rumour that ran through the fleet?
That he was living, or that he had perished?

HERALD.
There's none can know, save the all-seeing Sun,
Whose light impregnates the whole teeming earth.

CHORUS.
By the Gods' wrath, a tempest smote the fleet;
Say how it rose, and how it sank to peace.

HERALD.

CHORUS.
STROPHE.
Who the wondrous prophet, who
With sagacious instinct true
(Was it the Unseen of mortal eye,
Who reads the book of destiny?)
Not by chance, but wisely weening
That dread name's mysterious meaning,
Her Helen call'd, the fated to destroy,
Ships and men and mighty Troy.
Out of her lone and close-veil'd chambers she,
Curtain'd with gorgeous tapestry,
Reckless, spread out her flying sail
To the giant Zephyr's gale.
The many hero-hunters on her track,
Each his broad shield upon his back,
Followed the vanishing dimpling of her oars
To Simois' leaf-embowered shores;
So rapid and so far,
Even to the outburst of that sanguinary war.

ANTISTROPHE.
To Ilion in beauty came
The wedded mischief! of her name
The wrath of the great Gods on high
Fulfilled the awful augury;
The hoarded vengeance long preparing
For that deed of guilty daring:
Dishonour of the stranger-welcoming board,
And Jove, the Hospitable God and lord.
The brothers of the house, that princely throng,
With the glad hymenean song,
Hymned the eve of that bright wedding-day.
That hymn unlearned, a sadder lay
Shall Priam's ancient city chant anon—
The many-voiced wail and moan,
In evil hour o'er Paris led
To that disastrous bridal-bed:
Foredoomed t' endure the flood
For years poured wasteful of her citizens' blood.

STROPHE 2.
That king, within his palace nurst
The dangerous lion club, at first
Taking his bland and blameless feast
Of innocent milk from the full breast;
Gentle, with whom a child might toy;
He was the old man's sport and joy;
Oft in their arms, tired out with play,
Like to a new-born babe he lay,
Or fondly fawning would he stand
And hungry licked his food from the caressing hand.

ANTISTROPHE 2.
Time passes—quickly he displays
His ruthless kind's blood-thirsting ways:
And this was the return he made,
Thus the fond fostering care repaid:
Upon the innocent flocks to feast
Insatiate, an unbidded guest.
And all the house reeks thick with blood.
The unresisting servants stood
Shuddering before th' unconquered beast,
Heaven willed, so in that house was nursed fell Ate's priest.

STROPHE 3.
Too soon in Troy, her coming seemed to be
Like gentle calm over the waveless sea;
She stood, an image of bright wealth untold.
Oblique from her soft eye the dart
Preyed sweetly on the inmost heart,
Making love's flower its tenderest bloom unfold.
So changing with the changing hours
That wedlock brought her to a bitter end,
A cruel sister, and a cruel friend,
To Priam's daughters in their chamber bowers:
By Hospitable Jove sent in his ire,
No tender bride, rather a Fury dark and dire.

ANTISTROPHE 3.
There is 'mong men a proverb wise and old:
Enormous wealth, to its full height uproll'd,
Its haughty race will ever propagate,
Childless and heirless 'twill not die;
Merciless unglutted misery
Falls on its doomed descendants soon or late.
I stand not in the thought alone,
That overweening wickedness will yet
High overweening wickedness beget.
Be that eternal truth to some unknown;
While in the mansions of the just, from age
To age, goes down of bliss the unbroken heritage.

STROPHE 4.
For godless pride does not with years decay,
And still of godless pride will bring
A new, an everlasting spring
On her predestined day;
And still shall gorged Satiety conspire,
With that dread dæmon unsubdued,
High-handed and unholy Hardihood,
Each of them hideous as his sire:
And o'er the stately palace shall let fall
Ate's funereal pall.

ANTISTROPHE 4.
But Justice, underneath the cottage roof,
Smoke-darkened, evermore hath shone,
Where decent life flows peaceful on.
With backward eye, aloof
Turning, she condescends not to behold
The palace sprinkled o'er with gold,
And foulness on the deep attainted hands;
Still in her holiness she stands;
No worshipper of wealth's ill-lauded power
Waits calmly her last hour.

Agamemnon enters.
CHORUS.
Hail, king of Atreus' race renowned,
Who Troy hast levelled with the ground!
How to address thee—how adore;
Nor with exceeding praise run o'er,
Nor turning short, pass by too light
The mark and standard of thy might.
Most men do justice' law transgress,
Being than seeming honouring less.
And every one is prompt of will
To groan over another's ill;
So grief its prudent temperance keep,
Nor sink into the heart too deep,
As with mock sympathy to guile,
Force on the face the unwilling smile.
Who knows his sheep, the shepherd good,
The eye of man will ne'er delude,
Seeking his friend's blind heart to move
With a faint, thin, and watery love.
Thou when, for sake of Helen lost,
Thou didst array that mighty host,
Wert written (nought may I disguise),
Within my books as most unwise,
Handling with impulse rash and blind
The helm of thy misguided mind.
But no light-minded counsellor now
To that bold army seemest thou—
The sagest and the truest friend,
Who hast brought their toils to this proud end.
For evermore will Time reveal
Those who with prescient judgment wise,
Nor missing golden opportunities,
Administer for public good the public weal.

AGAMEMNON.

Clytemnestra enters.
CLYTEMNESTRA.

AGAMEMNON.
Daughter of Leda, guardian of mine house!
Of my long absence thou hast spoken well,
But hast been somewhat lavish of thy praise.
Praise in due measure and discreet is well,
Yet may that guerdon come from others best.
Treat me not like a soft and delicate woman,
Nor, gazing open-mouthed, grovelling on earth
Like a barbarian, raise discordant cry;
Nor, strewing with bright tapestries my way,
Make me an envy to all-jealous Heaven.
These are the proud prerogatives of the Gods;
That mortal thus should walk on rich embroideries
Beseems not: do it I cannot without awe.
As a man, honour me, not as a God!
Though she wipe not her feet on carpetings,
Nor variegated garments fine, Fame lifts
High her clear voice. To be of humble mind
Is God's best gift. Blessed is only he
Who in unbroken happiness ends his days.
Still may I prosper, thus not overbold.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Say ye not so; nor cross my purpose thus.

AGAMEMNON.
Think not that I will change my fixed resolve.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Hast thou thus sworn in awe of the great Gods?

AGAMEMNON.
If man e'er knew his purpose, know I mine.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Had Priam conquered, what had Priam done?

AGAMEMNON.
He would have trod on gorgeous carpetings.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
So, cower not thou before the blame of men.

AGAMEMNON.
The people's voice bears with it mighty power.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
He that's not envied never is admired.

AGAMEMNON.
'Tis not a woman's part to love a fray.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
The prosperous should condescend to yield.

AGAMEMNON.
Wilt thou be conqueress in this gentle strife?

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Be thou persuaded, yield of thine own free will!

AGAMEMNON.
If thou wilt have it so, then let some slave
Loose instantly the sandals from my feet,
Lest some dread God with jealous eye behold me
Walking like them upon the sea-dipt purple.
It were great shame to pamper one's own body,
Trampling on riches with proud prodigal feet,
And tapestries with untold silver bought.
So much for this.
But thou this stranger maid
Lead in with courteous welcome. The high Gods
On him who rules his slaves with gentleness
Look gracious: for to bear the yoke of slavery
Is a sore trial to the struggling will.
And she, of our rich spoils the chosen flower,
The army's precious gift, follows me here.
And since to yield to thee I am compelled,
Walking on purple, enter I the palace.

CLYTEMNESTRA.

CHORUS.
STROPHE 1.
Why, why for evermore,
With irresistible control,
Doth still the indwelling Terror hover o'er
My portent-haunted soul?
Why doth the unbought, unbidden song
Its dark prophetic descant still prolong?
Why does not bold Assurance, doubly sure,
Scattering with orient light
The dim-seen dreams of night,
Take its firm seat upon my bosom's throne?
Long of that time the youth hath past,
Since on the sands that sea-borne host
From their tall prows their anchors cast,
Bound for far Ilion's coast.

ANTISTROPHE 1.
I've seen them homeward come,
Mine own glad witness I,
Yet not the less that hymn of unblest gloom,
Not to the sweet lyre's harmony,
But to the Erynnys' wild and wailing din,
Chants, self-inspired, the secret soul within.
My bowels yearn, not vainly, nor for nought
(All hope is gone and lost),
And in wild whirlpools tost,
O'er doom to be fulfilled broods with sad thought
My restless eddying heart!
But oh! of all this boded ill,
I pray the Gods, at least some scanty part
May ne'er the Fates fulfil.

STROPHE 2.
Wealth in its full excess still swells
Beyond all bound, insatiate;
By a thin party-wall but separate,
'Neath the same roof, Disease, close neighbour, dwells.
Still Fate, on the unseen breakers dark,
Dashes the proud sea-going bark.
The crew, as from well-balanced sling,
From off the overladen deck
The heavy burden of their riches fling.
Yet, with calamity o'erfull,
Sinks not at once the whole strong hull;
Nor is the noble ship an utter wreck.
With blessing from above,
Still ample-handed Jove
Commands the teeming furrows to repair
The slow disease of the famine-stricken year.

ANTISTROPHE 2.
But who, with charm of potent sound
Or magic spell, can summon back
The human blood, all curdling thick and black,
Once shed and drunk up by the thirsty ground?
Jove checked the pride of the overwise
Who made the dead to life arise;
For if another higher fate
Rebuke the fate revealed to me,
Mine heart would my slow tongue anticipate;
And though forbid to utter more,
Its weary load would all outpour,
Its dismal burthen of dark prophecy.
In frenzied solitude
Still silent would it brood,
Nor hope the inextricable clue to unwind,
Though burn the living fire in the distracted mind.

Clytemnestra, Cassandra.
CLYTEMNESTRA.
Get thee within, Cassandra!—thee I mean—
Since Jove, not in his wrath, hath given to thee,
With many another slave, to gather round
The lavers of our house, and take your stand
By th' altar of our treasure-guarding god.
Come down, then, from the chariot: look not proud!
'Tis said that even Alcmena's son endured,
Sold as a bond-slave, forced to stoop to the yoke.
If fortune, then, to this necessity
Hath bowed thee down, 'tis a great boon to serve
The high-born lords of old ancestral wealth.
The upstarts, that have reaped unhoped-for riches,
Are cruel to their slaves beyond all measure.
Here thou wilt have what rule and custom give.

CHORUS.
Clearly she speaks, and now has ceased to speak;
But thou, poor captive in the toils of fate!
Be well persuaded, if I may persuade thee;
But haply no persuasion will prevail.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
If, like a chattering swallow, she speaks not
Some strange barbarian tongue, I shall persuade her
With words that commune with the mind within.

CHORUS.
Submit! the queen speaks what is best for thee.
Obey, and from thy chariot-seat dismount.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
I have no time to waste here at the gates.
Already in the central palace hall
The sheep stand by the sacrificial fire;
A blessing far beyond our utmost hopes!
Thou, if wilt do as I command, delay not;
But if thou understand'st not, make a sign
Instead of speech, with thy barbarian hands.

CHORUS.
The stranger seems some clear interpreter
To need, she looks a wild beast newly caught.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
She raves, or listens to some evil spirit;
Who, having left but now a new-sacked city,
Comes here, and champs the bit; she will not yield
Till she hath foamed away her strength in blood.
To a waste of words I will no more demean me.

[Clytemnestra retires.
CHORUS.
But I have more of pity than of wrath.
Come, sad one, yield! leaving the empty car,
Acquaint thee with necessity's hard yoke.

CASSANDRA.
Alas! alas! oh woe, oh woe!
Apollo! O Apollo!

CHORUS.
Why that alas! alas! to Phœbus sent?
No God is he that hears the shrill lament.

CASSANDRA.
Alas! alas! oh woe, oh woe!
Apollo! O Apollo!

CHORUS.
Still to the God thy voice ill-omened cries,
Who listens not to mortal agonies.

CASSANDRA.
Apollo! Apollo!
My guide, my deity!
Once more, destroyer, thou destroyest me!

CHORUS.
Of her own woes her prophet-accents rave,
And still the God, the God inspires the slave.

CASSANDRA.
Apollo! Apollo!
My guide, my deity!
Whither? to what dread dwelling lead'st thou me?

CHORUS.
The house of Atreus' son! Dost not perceive?
Trust in my words, which may not, maid, deceive.

CASSANDRA.
Dwelling accurst of God!
Dark home of murder and infanticide!
The lord lies slaughtered in that drear abode,
And the dank floor with bloody dew is dyed.

CHORUS.
Wondrous and strange! like to the keenest hound
The prophet-slave the scent of blood hath found.

CASSANDRA.
Woe! woe! the witnesses of murder rise!
I hear the slaughtered infants' wailing cries!
I see the miserable sire at feast
Upon his mangled children's breast.

CHORUS.
Well have we heard of old thy prophet-name;
Yet needs no prophet of what's known to fame.

CASSANDRA.
Now, now a deed they meditate,
The irremediable deed of fate;
He who might the stroke delay
The strength of the doomed house, is far away.

CHORUS.
I know not now what direful deed she sings;
The first I knew—of that all Argos rings.

CASSANDRA.
Wretch! wretch! and darest thou do the deed—
Thy lord, the partner of thy bed?
Now, now the bath, I see them tend;
I may not, dare not, see the end.
Soon, soon it comes; I see them stand,
Hand already linked in hand.

CHORUS.
Darker and darker now she raves along,
And wrapt in riddles flows the boding song.

CASSANDRA.
Alas! alas! more horrors yet!
God of death! I see thy net;
The murderess-wife the net hath spread!
Let that dark sisterhood,
The Furies, all insatiate of blood,
Howl for the victim, howl to death by stoning led.

CHORUS.
To what fell power in the drear house of woe,
Wilt thou we shriek aloud our frantic strain?
Nor light, nor comfort, her dark accents show.
To my heart the yellow blood-drop flows;
As when the dying on the battle-plain
Their setting days in mortal anguish close.
Seest thou now some stroke of fate?

CASSANDRA.
Away, away, from his fell mate,
Lead the lordly bull away;
Entangled in his fraudful vest,
Lo now they strike the black-horned beast,
And in the bath the mangled corpse they lay.

CHORUS.
I do not boast divining skill,
Yet well I bode some coming ill.
For when did mystic oracle
Tidings of good delight to tell?
From prophets' many-worded songs we hear
Only the fateful strains of fear.

CASSANDRA.
Alas! alas! for myself I fear
Mine own death hour of agony!
Oh, wherefore do ye lead me here?
Oh, wherefore, but with him to die?

CHORUS.
Oh, thou art frantic, heaven-struck, all thy cry
Strange inharmonious harmony;
Thus aye incessant pours her tale.
(For still the longer that she lives,
More young and fresh her grief revives.)
Itys! Itys! her everlasting wail,
The yellow nightingale.

CASSANDRA.
O happy Philomel! kind heaven
To her a winged form hath given,
A long blest life without a tear.
I, wretched I, must fall by the two-edged spear.

CHORUS.
Why heaven-struck, heaping ill on ill,
Pour'st thou thy frantic sorrows vain?
Why shrieks thy voice, ill-omened still,
Its awful burthen in awakening strain?
Why roams thy sad prophetic song
Only the paths of grief along?

CASSANDRA.
Woe, Paris, woe! for thy fatal bridal-bed!
Woe for Scamander's stream! of yore
On that delightful shore,
My joyous youth I led.
By Acheron and Cocytus slow,
Now my prophet strains must flow.

CHORUS.
Why speak'st thou thus so plain and clear,
An infant might thy meaning know.
Deep am I pierced by the sharp fang of fear,
While sounds thy soft lament of woe,
Which breaks the heart to hear.

CASSANDRA.
Alas! alas!
For the lost city's long and weary toil,
My father's vain and frequent hecatomb,
His streams of sacrificial blood,
That nought availed t' avert that city's doom.
And I, with soul fired by the God,
Must lie and perish on a foreign soil.

CHORUS.
Dark, dark as ever! last as first!
By what dread dæmon art thou curst,
That lies upon thy soul with crushing weight,
Making thee sing of woe, and death, and fate?
I know not yet the worst.

CASSANDRA.
And now no longer the dark oracle,
Like a young bride, from out her close-wrapt veil
Looks forth, but in bright day it breaks abroad
In splendour like the dawn. How billow-like,
Woe rolls on woe, each heavier than the last,
In the light of heaven.
Of riddles now no more!
Bear ye me witness with how keen a scent
I've tracked the trail of those dread deeds of old.
Never shall quit that roof the direful choir,
Concordant, not harmonious, whose drear tone
Ne'er breathed of good. Yea, and within yon palace,
Emboldened by his draughts of human blood,
The ill-bidden God of revels hold his state
Beside his kindred Furies. All at once
Close seated round those walls accurst, they hymn
That primal guilt of all, the bed of incest,
A brother mounting on a brother's couch.
Err I? or strike the white, an archeress true?
Or am I a false wandering witch, that knocks
At any door? Bear witness ye, make oath
How well I know that house's ancient sins.

CHORUS.
What help in oaths, however deeply sworn?
But much I marvel, how, far beyond sea,
Nursed in a foreign city, foreign tongue,
Thou speak'st of all things as if native here.

CASSANDRA.
Prophet Apollo made this office mine.

CHORUS.
What! was the God inflamed with fond desire?

CASSANDRA.
Till now I was ashamed to speak of this.

CHORUS.
Blest natures are not least to softness prone.

CASSANDRA.
He was my foe, yet full of breathing kindness.

CHORUS.
What! met ye in the gentle strife of love?

CASSANDRA.
By feigned consent great Loxias I deceived.

CHORUS.
Already gifted with divining skill?

CASSANDRA.
Already to the city boding woe.

CHORUS.
'Scap'st thou uninjured stern Apollo's wrath?

CASSANDRA.
None would believe my warnings: there I failed.

CHORUS.
Alas! to me thou seem'st to bode too truly.

CASSANDRA.
Alas! alas! woe upon woe!
The dire awakening toil of prophecy
Whirls and distracts my soul with prelude dread.
See, see ye not upon yon palace roofs
Like shapes in dreams, they stand and jibber there,
The children murdered by their nearest kin?
Lo there they are, in their full-laden hands
Entrails and bowels, horrible food, on which
Their fathers have been feasting. For these deeds
A terrible vengeance does the unvaliant lion
That rolls about on his incestuous bed
Prepare 'gainst him who on the threshold stands—
My master—for a slave I needs must be.
He, the fleet's captain, conqueror of Troy,
Observes not with what bland and glozing words,
What seeming soul serene, like some dark Fate,
That she-wolf welcomes him in evil hour.
Such height of impious daring hers! a woman
The murderer of a man! What shall I call
The unloveable monster? Amphisbæna dire,
Or Scylla on the rocks, the mariner's ruin,
Mother of hell and priestess! 'gainst her kin
Breathing implacable relentless war.
How, as a conqueror in the thick of battle,
Shrieked she, the all-daring woman! the while
Rejoicing in his homeward safe return.
If things like these win not belief, what then?
What comes will come, and thou, even in this presence,
Ere long wilt vouch me a true prophetess.

CHORUS.
That Thyestean feast of infants' flesh
I understood, and shuddered, horror-struck;
I heard those awful truths, not idly guess'd.
For thy last words, I wander from the course.

CASSANDRA.
I say thou shalt behold Atrides' doom.

CHORUS.
Wild woman, lull thy lips to reverent silence.

CASSANDRA.
There's no physician can unspell my words.

CHORUS.
Not if it must be. Grant, Heaven, that it be not!

CASSANDRA.
'Tis thine to pray, but it is theirs to murder.

CHORUS.
And who is he to accomplish this dark crime?

CASSANDRA.
Have ye so look'd askance on my dread oracles?

CHORUS.
By what decree 'tis to be done I see not.

CASSANDRA.
And yet thou knowest well the Grecian tongue.

CHORUS.
The Gods' words must come true! How, guess I not.

CASSANDRA.

CHORUS.
O woefullest of women, wise as woeful!
Thy speech hath wander'd far. But if in truth
Thou dost foresee thy death, why, like a heifer,
God-driven, to the altar dost thou boldly tread?

CASSANDRA.
There's no escape. What gain I by delay?

CHORUS.
Who lingers still wins something by delay.

CASSANDRA.
My day is come; flight were but little gain.

CHORUS.
Thou'lt suffer more by being overbold.

CASSANDRA.
A glorious death is mortals' noblest grace.

CHORUS.
The happy speak not thus—That ne'er was heard.

CASSANDRA.
Oh! oh! my father! Oh thy valiant sons!

CHORUS.
How now! what terror makes thee thus start back?

CASSANDRA.
Foh! foh!

CHORUS.
Why this foh, foh! unless thou art sick at heart?

CASSANDRA.
Foh! how the house smells with the reek of blood!

CHORUS.
'Tis but the smell of the sacrificial fires!

CASSANDRA.
It is the vapour oozing from a tomb.

CHORUS.
Sooth, 'tis no smell of Syrian incense rich.

CASSANDRA.
Well, then, I go to shriek throughout the palace
Mine own and Agamemnon's bloody fate.
Enough of life! enough! Strangers! good strangers!
I am not screaming like a timorous bird
That hides itself behind the bush, in vain!
To one about to die, bear ye this witness!
When that a woman dies for me a woman!
A man ill-wedded for a murdered man!
Remember well the expiring stranger's words.

CHORUS.
Sad one! I pity thy foreboded fate.

CASSANDRA.
Yet once more would I speak in sober speech,
Or ere I utter mine own funeral wail.
And thee do I conjure, all-seeing Sun!
Gazing upon thy light for the last time;
Even fate as terrible, as dire as this,
May my avengers on my murderers wreak;
On both the murderers of a dying slave,
An easy victim in their mastering hand!
Oh, our poor mortal state! the happiest
A shadow turns to grief—the unfortunate!
A wet sponge with one touch washes all out
The picture: far more pitiable these.

[Enters the palace.
CHORUS.
Of the gifts that from good fortune fall
Insatiate still are mortals all;
At whom all fingers point, the great
Who warns men from his palace gate,
And says, “Thou mayst not enter here;”
To him, the monarch standing near,
Did the blest Gods the boon bestow,
Old Priam's city to o'erthrow.
Of all the Gods we saw him come
Most honoured to his native home.
But if the forfeit he repays,
For the foul crimes of ancient days,
And vengeance for the olden dead,
Be heaped on his devoted head;
What mortal would not make his prayer
That he were born beneath a lowlier star?

AGAMEMNON
(within).
Woe's me, I'm stabbed! stabbed with a mortal blow!

CHORUS 1.
Silence! who is he that's shouting—stricken by a mortal stroke?

AGAMEMNON.
Woe's me! woe's me! again; another blow.

CHORUS 2.
From the groaning of the monarch—seems it that the deed is done.

CHORUS 3.
Let us join in instant counsel—what were safest to be done.

CHORUS 4.
My voice is that we raise a general cry,
Summoning all Argos to the palace here.

CHORUS 5.
Mine that we break at once into the palace,
And seize the assassin with his reeking blade.

CHORUS 6.
The same say I; what's to be done do quickly;
This is no time for tardy dallying.

CHORUS 7.
'Tis clear as day—'Tis the first step to slavery,
The signal for a bloody tyranny.

CHORUS 8.
What! loitering still! haste, trample down delay,
The hand of the avenger must not sleep.

CHORUS 9.
I know not what t' advise! were it not best
'Gainst him take counsel who hath done the deed.

CHORUS 10.
I'm of your mind; I know not with our cries
How we can raise again the dead to life.

CHORUS 11.
What! shall we yield, and drag out our base lives
'Neath chiefs who so disgrace our noble house.

CHORUS 12.
It is not to be borne, better were death:
Nobler to die, than live under a tyrant.

CHORUS 13.
But where our proofs? but from the groans we heard
Conclude we surely that the man is dead.

CHORUS 14.
We must have certain knowledge of the deed
Of which we speak. To guess is not to know.

CHORUS.
On all sides presses on me the same thought,
We must know well, how 'tis with Atreus' son.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Erewhile I spake words suited to the time;
Of opposite and contrary import now
Unblushing do I speak. His enemies
Who treats as enemies, friends though they seem,
Does not build up the enveloping toils of death
Only so high that they may be o'erleaped.
This is no unpremeditated strife:
Over this ancient feud I have brooded long,
That the slow time at length hath brought to pass.
Here stand I, as I smote. 'Twas I that slew him!
Thus, thus I did it! Nought will I deny!
That he could nor defend himself, nor 'scape.
As round the fish the inextricable net
Closes, in his rich garments' fatal wealth
I wrapt him. Then once, twice, I smote him home.
Twice groaned he, then stretched out his failing limbs;
And as he lay I added a third blow;
And unto Hades, the dark god below,
Warden of the dead, made my thanksgiving vow.
So, fallen thus, he breathed out his proud life,
And spouted forth such a quick rush of blood,
It splashed me o'er with its black gory dew.
Yet not the less rejoiced I, than the flower
Within the pregnant folds of its sweet cup
Rejoices in the dropping dews of heaven.
Being as it is, ye Argive elders all,
If that ye too feel joy, rejoice with me,
And I protest that were it meet to make
Libations for the dead, 'tis I would make them:
For all that's done is just—is more than just.
He that hath filled the chalice of this house
With cursing and with woe, on his return
Himself should drink it to the very dregs.

CHORUS.
We are amazed at thy audacious tongue,
Thus glorying o'er thy murdered husband's corpse.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Ye try me as a woman void of sense;
As to experienced men, I speak to you,
With heart that knows not fear. Praise me, or blame me,
'Tis one to me. He that lies here a corpse
Is Agamemnon, is my husband—dead
Even by mine hand, the righteous artisan
Of this great work of death. So let it be.

CHORUS.
Woman! what evil food, earth-nurst,
Hath maddened thee, what venomous potion
From the low depths of the salt ocean,
To this dire sacrifice accurst
By the universal voice of men?
Thou hast cast him off,
Thou hast cut him off;
And with one voice we sentence thee
An outcast from this realm to be,
The unreconciled hate of every citizen.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Ye sentence me to eternal banishment,
The citizens' hate—the curses of the people.
Yet not one word gainst this man did ye speak.
He, rating her no more than a young lamb
Chosen from all his woolly-fleeced flock,
Sacrificed his own child—his child and mine—
Most precious travail of my womb, a charm
To lull the adverse Thracian winds to rest.
Should ye not have driven out this cruel man
To expiate the deep stain of his guilt?
For judgment on my deeds, ye sit as judges
Harsh and unrighteous. Yet this do I say:
Threaten me, I will meet your threats with threats!
Get ye the victory o'er me if you can!
But if the Gods shall otherwise decree,
Old men! ye'll learn in time to be more wise.

CHORUS.
Woman, thou art haughty-souled,
With words beyond all boldness bold;
And thy mind is maddening yet,
With the gore distilling wet:
An unavenged blood-drop lies
Reddening in thine angry eyes;
Still, with all thy friends away,
Blow for blow wilt thou repay.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
And now hear ye my stern, my solemn oath:—
By Justice, the avenger of my child;
By Atê, by Erynnys, at whose shrine
I have offered up this man, slain by mine hand!
I look not in the house of fear to dwell,
So long as on my hearth kindles his fire
Ægisthus, as of old my constant friend:
He to my daring is no slender shield.
Low lies the man who hath done shameful wrong
To me his wife; he, once the dear delight
Of the fair Chryseid, 'neath the walls of Troy;
And her his captive, her his prophetess,
The sharer of his bed, his soothsayer,
His faithful consort on his couch of sleep,
And on the deck, under the groaning masts.
For this these two have paid the rightful price—
He as ye see him; she, like the sweet swan,
Singing her farewell song, her own sad dirge,
Lies here, his paramour, the delicate morsel,
Intruded here, where I should feast alone.

SEMICHORUS.
Oh, that some sudden fate, not with slow anguish,
Nor making long on the sick-bed to languish,
Now that is gone our gracious lord and king,
To me sweet everlasting sleep would bring.
What hath he borne through her, his wife,
By her relentless hand bereft of life!

CHORUS.
Helen! O Helen! O thou frantic one!
Through thee, through thee alone,
How many noble lives have been o'erthrown
Under the walls of Troy?

SEMICHORUS.
And now in this sad hour
Thou'st nipped that flower of perfect grace—
That ne'er-forgotten flower—
Through blood that nought can e'er efface.
Her in that house the unsubdued strife,
The bane of the great lord, hate of the jealous wife.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
No! pray not ye for instant fate,
Under your sorrows' crushing weight;
Nor heap your wrath on Helen's head,
As the sole murderess of the dead;
As she alone, of many Greeks laid low
The Fate, had wrought all this unmeasured woe.

SEMICHORUS.
Dæmon, who dost ever fall
On the proud Tantalid hall?
As thy dire presence haunted erst,
All down that double line accurst;
On these twain women so may come
In equal share that awful doom—
The doom that eats my wretched heart away.
Like some hoarse raven o'er her prey,
Stands she, and o'er that corpse all desolate
Hymns with shrill shriek the tuneless hymn of fate.

CHORUS.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]

SEMICHORUS.
[OMITTED]

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Aye, now in thy wild raving word
Some sense, some meaning may be heard.
Well that thrice-monstrous Dæmon now,
That haunts this house, invokest thou!
From him that foul blood-lapping thirst
Is in their greedy bowels nurst.
Ere the old grief is o'er,
Gushes anew the unexhausted gore.

SEMICHORUS.
And dar'st thou name that Dæmon dread,
Whose wrath hangs heavy o'er the head
Of each of that predestined line;
A name, the omen and the sign
Of endless and insatiate misery.
Alas! alas! from Jove on high,
Does that avenging Dæmon come—
Jove, lord and arbiter of doom;
The author and the cause of all
To mortal man that can befall:
For whatsoe'er on earth is done
Is from the hand of Jove alone.

CHORUS.
Alas! alas!
My king! my king! how shall I mourn for thee?
How my fond heart speak all its agony?
There liest thou; thy cold corpse around
The subtle spider's web is wound;
Thy noble life thou didst outbreathe
By a most impious and unholy death.

SEMICHORUS.
Woe's me! woe's me! on that base bed,
Unseemly for thy kingly head,
Thou liest, by fraud to death trepanned
By that two-edged axe held in that murderous hand.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
And dar'st thou say the deed was mine?
Ill does thy erring speech divine.
Say not 'twas Agamemnon's wife
That so cut short his fated life,
It was the Alastor, whose dread mien
Took up the likeness of the queen.
Of that dark house 'twas he, 'twas he,
The curse and awful Destiny;
(Where, father of that race unblest,
Old Atreus held his cannibal feast;)
Wreaking for that dread crime the vengeance due,
The full-grown man for those poor babes he slew.

SEMICHORUS.
Who shall absolve thee from the guilt
Of that red blood so foully spilt?
How, how the Alastor wouldst thou name,
Accomplice in that deed of shame?
Ancient hereditary foe
Of all that house of guilt and woe;
(Borne on the overwhelming flood,
Rushing amain, of kindred blood
Like clashing tides of meeting water,)
Burst Ares forth, black god of slaughter;
On speeds he furious, o'er the rest,
Melting the congealed gore of the child-devouring feast.

CHORUS.
Alas! alas! how shall I mourn for thee?
How my fond heart speak all its agony?
There liest thou; thy cold corpse around
The subtle spider's web is wound;
Thy noble life thou didst outbreathe
By a most impious and unholy death.

SEMICHORUS.
Woe's me! woe's me! on that base bed
Unseemly for a kingly head,
Thou liest, by fraud to death trepanned
By that two-edged axe held in that murderous hand.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
It was not so; that man of pride!
By no unseemly death he died.
Who first into our household brought
Dark Ate's snares? who earliest taught
That fateful lesson of deceit,
Decoying forth that child of many tears,
Iphigenia, in her tender years?
Evil he did, evil is vengeance meet!
He will not make his insolent boast in Hell;
For with the sword he smote, and by the sword he fell.

SEMICHORUS.
In doubt, and dread, and grief I'm lost,
From care to care all helpless tost;
Where shall I turn? whence succour call?
The whole house tottering to its fall.
The showers of blood pour down amain
(Ceased hath the gentle dropping rain)—
Down, down with rattling noise it breaks,
The palace' deep foundation quakes:
Fate still her restless whetstone plies,
Whetting to sharper edge her sharpest agonies.

CHORUS.
Woe, woe! earth, earth! will thou not swallow me
Ere I am forced my kingly lord to see
Within that bath, with silver walled,
On his low bed unhonoured and unpalled?
Oh, who will bury him?
Oh, who will mourn for him?
Wilt thou, wilt thou, thou daring one, presume—
Thou, thine own husband's bloody murderess!
To stand and wail as mourner by his tomb?
With graceless grace, unholy holiness,
For noble funeral rites the unblest offerings bless.

SEMICHORUS.
Who o'er the godlike man shall raise
The lofty funeral chant of praise?
Mingled with bitter tears of ruth,
Utter from the full heart the noble truth?

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Speak not in this unseemly tone;
'Tis not thy care, 'tis ours alone.
By us he fell, by us he died;
We the fit burial will provide;
But not with tears or wailing din,
Without the palace and within.
Him shall Iphigenia greet;
His daughter! aye! for thus 'tis meet;
Down by the darksome fords below,
O'er the swift-flowing river of woe;
And with her outspread arms embrace,
And fondly kiss her father's face.

CHORUS.
Taunt upon taunt! mockery on mockery!
These clashing sayings are too hard for me!
The doer suffering still hath met,
Ever the murderer pays his debt.
'Tis the iron law enrolled above,
It is the fixed decree of Jove.
Though time may bide, Jove bides the time;
Woe's done to him who doeth crime.
Who shall the old ancestral curse expel,
Within this house for ever doomed to dwell?
Who shall release her from her bondage state,
Riveted for ever to her doleful fate?

CHORUS.
Woe, woe! earth, earth! wilt thou not swallow me
Ere I am forced my kingly lord to see
Within that bath, with silver walled,
On his low bed unhonoured and unpalled?
Oh, who will bury him?
Oh, who will mourn for him?
Wilt thou, wilt thou, thou daring one, presume—
Thou, thine own husband's bloody murderess—
To stand and wail as mourner by his tomb?
With graceless grace, unholy holiness,
For noble funeral rites the unblest offerings bless?

SEMICHORUS.
Who o'er the godlike man shall raise
The lofty funeral chant of praise?
Mingled with bitter tears of ruth,
Utter from the full heart the noble truth?

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Now on this man the oracle
Hath all fulfilled its deathly spell.
But I with solemn oath do now
For ever covenant and vow
With the great Dæmon of the place,
Dæmon of the Pleisthenid race,
To be content with scanty share
(Unbearable though 'tis to bear).
But that great Dæmon, on his side,
From this our house departing wide,
Some other fated race shall haste
With murther foul and bloody deeds to waste.
Of all the treasures of our hoarded gold,
Some slender pittance I am content to hold,
Driving far off the murtherous rage
That hath possessed this house from age to age.

ÆGISTHUS.
O light propitious of this day, that brings
High justice in her train. Now may we say
The Gods, the avengers of man's guilt, look down
From the far heavens upon the sins of earth;
Beholding how that man lies there, enwrapt
In the Furies' fine-woven robes (glad sight to us!),
Paying the penalty of his father's craft.
For Atreus, this land's king, and that man's father,
My father, his own brother (I speak plainly),
Thyestes, in a strife for supreme power,
Drove into exile from his house and home.
Thyestes, the long-suffering, back returned,
And sat a suppliant by his native hearth.
And safe he dwelt and happy; safety it seemed
And happiness, that, dying, with his blood
He did not redden his own native soil.
But impious Atreus, father of this man,
With eager-seeming love, that was not love,
An hospitable feast of sacrifice
Made for my father, feast of reconcilement.
But for the holy victim of that feast
He served up to him his own children's flesh.
The extremities, the fingers, and the feet,
Unseen of those that sat at the high board,
Lay covered up in a close dish apart.
No sign betrayed; my father took and ate,
Ignorant, that meal fatal to all his race.
But when he knew the abominable deed,
He shrieked, and vomiting up the unnatural food,
Fell to the ground. Then on all Pelops' sons
(The festal board by his spurning heel o'erthrown)
Uttered the deep intolerable curse,
“So perish all the race of Pleisthenes!”
And in this man ye see that curse fulfilled,
Low weltering as he lies in his death-trance;
And me the artisan of that just deed.
For us, too, with our miserable father,
Thirteen poor innocent and helpless children,
Me yet an infant in my swaddling clothes,
Did he drive forth to endless banishment.
But me, grown up, great justice did bring back,
And long, close at his gates, I watched this man,
Weaving in silence all my dark designs.
Now, 'twere a glorious thing for me to die,
Seeing him caught in justice' iron toils.

CHORUS.
Ægisthus!—I do hold it impious
To insult the dead. With hand premeditate
Thou say'st thou hast done this piteous deed—thou only.
I say thy guilty head will not escape
The curses of the indignant populace,
Their curses, and their killing showers of stones.

ÆGISTHUS.
Thou speak'st that labourest at the lowest oar;
They hold the sway who sit on the high deck.
Old as ye are, and hard as 'tis to teach
Meek lesson to such greybeards, ye must learn
To speak the words of truth and soberness.
Chains and the dungeon, fastings on prison fare,
Are excellent physicians for proud minds.
Ye that can see so much, see ye not this?
Kick not against the pricks! ye strive in vain.

CHORUS.
Woman! for him, thy husband, chief of men,
Returning glorious from the battle-field,
(Shamefully first defiled his genial bed:)
Hast thou devised this miserable fate?

ÆGISTHUS.
Ye'll rue these words; beginnings they will be
Of bitter sorrows! There's no music in them.
Not like the voice of Orpheus is your voice.
His sweet tones all things followed in their joy;
Ye with your howlings would wake up and goad
To madness even the gentlest. But we'll tame you,
And ye shall crouch submissive at our feet.

CHORUS.
And thou in Argos, shalt thou tyrant be,
Who having cunningly devised this deed,
With thine own coward arm darest not achieve it?

ÆGISTHUS.
It was the woman's part to deal in guile:
Had I appeared, suspected as his foe—
His ancient well-known foe—all had been lost.
Now all is won: and, master of his wealth,
I will essay to rule the subject city.
I the unruliest and most pampered steed
Will bridle, and make bear the heaviest yoke;
Or hunger, that with dungeon-darkness dwells,
Pale prison-mate, shall see him meek and mild.

CHORUS.
Dastard and base! The man with thine own hand
Thou darest not slay. A woman—foul disgrace
She of her country and her country's gods!
Murdered him. O Orestes, seest thou yet
The blessed light of day? When wilt thou come,
By favouring fortune hither timely led,
To be the slayer of this bloody two.

ÆGISTHUS.
Speak ye thus? and do ye thus?—speedily shall ye repent.

CHORUS.
Up, my fellow-soldiers, up!—Up, the strife is not far off!

ÆGISTHUS.
[OMITTED]

CHORUS.
Up! and every one be ready,—with his drawn sword in his hand.

ÆGISTHUS.
With my drawn sword in my right hand,—I will not refuse to die.

CHORUS.
We accept the challenge! Die, then!—Be the day's good fortune ours!

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Stay thee, stay, of men the dearest!—let us work no further ill.
We should reap a doleful harvest—mowing down these wretched men.
There hath been enough of misery—not another drop of blood.
Go, ye old men, go! retire ye—to your fate-appointed homes,
Ere ye do some deed of mischief,—and so suffer as ye do.
What is done is done for ever;—we must bear it as we may.
Let who will go labour further—'tis enough, enough for us,
Smitten by the awful Dæmon,—in his overwhelming wrath.
Hear, and hearken to my counsel, though 'tis but a woman speaks.

ÆGISTHUS.
But shall thus 'gainst me these greybeards—pluck their idle flowers of speech,
Thus pour out their insolent language,—tempting wantonly their fate,
Wandering thus from sober reason,—bearding thus their lord and king?

CHORUS.
'Tis not for the sons of Argos—on a wicked man to fawn.

ÆGISTHUS.
But hereafter my dread presence—ye shall feel and ye shall fear.

CHORUS.
Not if the great Gods Orestes—hasten hitherward to send.

ÆGISTHUS.
Well I know the hopes of exiles—vainly for their homes athirst.

CHORUS.
Do it, do it; get fat and wanton;—Justice' holy robe defile.

ÆGISTHUS.
'Tis your hour. Ye of your folly—soon shall pay us the full meed.

CHORUS.
Strut thou in thy boastful carriage,—like a cock beside his mate.

CLYTEMNESTRA.
Care not for those idle howlings;—you and I will take the rule,
And will wisely order all things—in this ancient kingly house.