STROPHE VIII.

Chorus.
  • By a god thou art possessed,
  • And he raveth in thy breast,
  • And he sings a song of thee
  • That hath music, but no glee.
  • Like a dun-plumed nightingale, *
  • That, with never-sated wail,
  • Crieth Itys! Itys! aye, 76
  • As it scatters, in sweet flow,
  • The thick blossoms of its woe, 77
  • So singest thou to-day.

ANTISTROPHE VII.

Cass.
  • Ah! the clear-toned nightingale!
  • Mellow bird, thou dost not wail,
  • For the good gods gave to thee
  • A light shape of fleetest winging,
  • A bright life of sweetest singing,
  • But a sharp-edged death to me.

ANTISTROPHE VIII.

Chorus.
  • By a god thou art possessed,
  • And he goads thee without rest,
  • And he racks thy throbbing brain
  • With a busy-beating pain,
  • And he presses from thy throat
  • The heavy struggling note,
  • And the cry that rends the air.
  • Who bade her tread this path,
  • With the prophecy of wiath,
  • And the burden of despair?

STROPHE IX.

Cass.
  • O the wedlock and the woe
  • Of the evil Alexander,
  • To his chiefest friends a foe!
  • O my native stream Scamander,
  • Where in youth I wont to wander,
  • And was nursed for future woes,
  • Where thy swirling current flows!
  • But now on sluggish shore
  • Of Cocytus I shall pour,
  • ’Mid the Acherusian glades,
  • My divinings to the shades.

STROPHE X.

Chorus.
  • Nothing doubtful is the token;
  • For the words the maid hath spoken
  • To a very child are clear.
  • She hath pierced me to the marrow;
  • And her cry of shrieking sorrow
  • Ah! it crushes me to hear.

ANTISTROPHE IX.

Cass.
  • The proud city lieth lowly,
  • Nevermore to rise again!
  • It is lost and ruined wholly;
  • And before the walls in vain
  • Hath my pious father slain
  • Many meadow-cropping kine,
  • To appease the wrath divine.
  • Where it lieth it shall lie,
  • Ancient Ilium: and I
  • On the ground, when all is past,
  • Soon my reeking heart shall cast. 78

ANTISTROPHE X.

Chorus.
  • Ah! the mighty god, wrath-laden,
  • He hath smote the burdened maiden
  • With a weighty doom severe.
  • From her heart sharp cries he wringeth,
  • Dismal, deathful strains she singeth,
  • And I wait the end in fear.
Cass.
  • No more my prophecy, like a young bride
  • Shall from a veil peep forth, but like a wind
  • Waves shall it dash from the west in the sun’s face, 79
  • And curl high-crested surges of fierce woes,
  • That far outbillow mine. I’ll speak no more
  • In dark enigmas. Ye my vouchers be,
  • While with keen scent I snuff the breath of the past,
  • And point the track of monstrous crimes of eld.
  • There is a choir, to destiny well-tuned,
  • Haunts these doomed halls, no mellow-throated choir,
  • And they of human blood have largely drunk:
  • And by that wine made bold, the Bacchanals
  • Cling to their place of revels. The sister’d Furies
  • Sit on these roofs, and hymn the prime offence
  • Of this crime-burthened race; the brother’s sin
  • That trod the brother’s bed. * Speak! do I hit
  • The mark, a marksman true? or do I beat
  • Your doors, a babbling beggar prophesying
  • False dooms for hire? Be ye my witnesses,
  • And with an oath avouch, how well I know
  • The hoary sins that hang upon these walls
Chorus.
  • Would oaths make whole our ills, though I should wedge them
  • As stark as ice? 80 But I do marvel much
  • That thou, a stranger born, from distant seas,
  • Dost know our city as it were thine own.
Cass.

Even this to know, Apollo stirred my breast.

Chorus.

Apollo! didst thou strike the god with love?

Cass.

Till now I was ashamed to hint the tale.

Chorus.
  • The dainty lips of nice prosperity
  • Misfortune opens.
Cass.
  • Like a wrestler he
  • Strove for my love; he breathed his grace upon me.
Chorus.

And hast thou children from divine embrace?

Cass.

I gave the word to Loxias, not the deed

Chorus.

Hadst thou before received the gift divine?

Cass.

I had foretold my countrymen all their woes

Chorus.

Did not the anger of the god pursue thee?

Cass.

It did; I warned, but none believed my warning.

Chorus
  • To us thou seem’st to utter things that look
  • Only too like the truth.
Cass.
  • Ah me! woe! woe!
  • Again strong divination’s troublous whirl
  • Seizes my soul, and stirs my labouring breast
  • With presages of doom. Lo! where they sit,
  • These pitiful young ones on the fated roof,
  • Like to the shapes of dreams! The innocent babes,
  • Butchered by friends that should have blessed them, and
  • In their own hands their proper bowels they bear,
  • Banquet abhorred, and their own father eats it. *
  • This deed a lion, not a lion-hearted
  • Shall punish; wantonly in her bed, whose lord
  • Shall pay the heavy forfeit, he shall roll,
  • And snare my master—woe’s me, even my master,
  • For slavery’s yoke my neck must learn to own.
  • Ah! little weens the leader of the ships,
  • Troy’s leveller, how a hateful bitch’s tongue,
  • With long-drawn phrase, and broad-sown smile, doth weave
  • His secret ruin. This a woman dares;
  • The female mars the male. Where shall I find
  • A name to name such monster? dragon dire,
  • Rock-lurking Scylla, the vexed seaman’s harm,
  • Mother of Hades, murder’s Mænad, breathing
  • Implacable breath of curses on her kin. 81
  • All-daring woman! shouting in her heart,
  • As o’er the foe, when backward rolls the fight,
  • Yet hymning kindliest welcome with her tongue.
  • Ye look mistrustful; I am used to that.
  • That comes which is to come; and ye shall know
  • Full soon, with piteous witness in your eyes,
  • How true, and very true, Cassandra spake.
Chorus.
  • Thyestes’ banquet, and his children’s flesh
  • I know, and shudder; strange that she should know
  • The horrors of that tale; but for the rest
  • She runs beyond my following.
Cass.
  • Thus I said;
  • Thine eyes shall witness Agamemnon’s death
Chorus.
  • Hush, wretched maiden! lull thy tongue to rest,
  • And cease from evil-boding words!
Cass.
  • Alas!
  • The gods that heal all evil, heal not this.
Chorus

If it must be, but may the gods forefend!

Cass.

Pray thou, and they will have more time to kill.

Chorus.

What man will dare to do such bloody deed?

Cass.

I spake not of a man: thy thoughts shoot wide

Chorus.

The deed I heard, but not whose hand should do it.

Cass.

And yet I spake good Greek with a good Greek tongue.

Chorus.

Thou speakest Apollo’s words: true, but obscure.

Cass.
  • Ah me! the god! like fire within my breast
  • Burns the Lycéan god. * Ah me! pain! pain!
  • A lioness two-footed with a wolf
  • Is bedded, when the noble lion roamed
  • Far from his den; and she will murder me.
  • She crowns the cup of wrath; she whets the knife
  • Against the neck of the man, and he must pay
  • The price of capture, I of being captive.
  • Vain gauds, that do but mock my grief, farewell!
  • This laurel-rod, and this diviner’s wreath
  • About my neck, should they outlive the wearer?
  • Away! As ye have paid me, I repay.
  • Make rich some other prophetess with woe!
  • Lo! where Apollo looks, and sees me now
  • Doff this diviner’s garb, the self-same weeds
  • He tricked me erst withal, to live for him,
  • The public scorn, the scoff of friends and foes,
  • The mark of every ribald jester’s tongue,
  • The homeless girl, the raving mountebank,
  • The beggar’d, wretched, starving maniac.
  • And now who made the prophetess unmakes her,
  • And leads me to my doom—ah! not beside
  • My father’s altar doomed to die! the block
  • From my hot life shall drink the purple stain.
  • But we shall fall not unavenged: the gods
  • A mother-murdering shoot shall send from far
  • To avenge his sire; the wanderer shall return
  • To pile the cope-stone on these towering woes.
  • The gods in heaven a mighty oath have sworn,
  • To raise anew the father’s prostrate fate
  • By the son’s arm.—But why stand here, and beat
  • The air with cries, seeing what I have seen;
  • When Troy hath fallen, suffering what it suffered,
  • And they who took the city by the doom
  • Of righteous gods faring as they shall fare?
  • I will endure to die, and greet these gates
  • Of Hades gaping for me Grant me, ye gods,
  • A mortal stroke well-aimed, and a light fall
  • From cramped convulsion free! Let the red blood
  • Flow smoothly from its fount, that I may close
  • These eyes in peaceful death.
Chorus.
  • O hapless maid!
  • And wise as hapless! thou hast spoken long!
  • But if thou see’st the harm, why rush on fate
  • Even as an ox, whom favouring gods inspire
  • To stand by the altar’s steps, and woo the knife.
Cass.

I’m in the net. Time will not break the meshes.

Chorus.

But the last moment of sweet life is honoured.

Cass.

My hour is come, what should I gain by flight?

Chorus.

Thou with a stout heart bravely look’st on fate.

Cass.

Bravely thou praisest: but the happy hear not Such commendations. 82

Chorus.
  • Yet if death must come,
  • His fame is fair who nobly fronts the foe.
Cass.

Woe’s me, the father and his noble children!

Chorus.

Whither now? What father and what children? Speak.

Cass.
  • [ Approaching and starting back from the house. ]
  • Woe! woe!
Chorus.

What means this woe? What horrid fancy scares thee?

Cass.

Blood-dripping murder reeks from yonder house.

Chorus.

How? ’Tis the scent of festal sacrifice.

Cass.

The scent of death—a fragrance from the grave.

Chorus.

Soothly no breath of Syrian nard she names.

Cass.
  • But now the time is come. I go within
  • To wail for Agamemnon and myself.
  • I’ve done with life. Farewell! My vouchers ye,
  • Not with vain screaming, like a fluttering bird, 83
  • Above the bush I cry. Yourselves shall know it
  • Then when, for me a woman, a woman dies,
  • And for a man ill-wived a man shall fall
  • Trust me in this. Your honest faith is all
  • The Trojan guest, the dying woman, craves.
Chorus.

O wretched maid! O luckless prophetess

Cass.
  • Yet will I speak one other word, before
  • I leave this light. Hear thou my vows, bright sun,
  • And, though a slave’s death be a little thing,
  • Send thou the avenging hand with full requital,
  • To pay my murderers back, as they have paid.
  • Alas! the fates of men! their brightest bloom
  • A shadow blights; and, in their evil day,
  • An oozy sponge blots out their fleeting prints,
  • And they are seen no more. From bad to worse
  • Our changes run, and with the worst we end. 84

[ Exit.

Chorus.
  • Men crave increase of riches ever
  • With insatiate craving. Never
  • From the finger-pointed halls
  • Of envied wealth their owner calls,
  • “Enter no more! I have enough!”
  • This man the gods with honour crowned;
  • He hath levelled with the ground
  • Priam’s city, and in triumph
  • Glorious home returns;
  • But if doomed the fine to pay
  • Of ancient guilt, and death with death
  • To guerdon in the end,
  • Who of mortals will not pray, 85
  • From high-perched Fortune’s favour far,
  • A blameless life to spend.
Aga.

[ From within. ] O I am struck! struck with a mortal blow!

Chorus.

Hush! what painful voice is speaking there of strokes and mortal blows?

Aga.

O struck again! struck with a mortal blow!

Chorus.
  • ’Tis the king that groans; the work, the bloody work, I fear, is doing.
  • Weave we counsel now together, and concert a sure design. 86
1st Chorus.
  • I give my voice to lift the loud alarm,
  • And rouse the city to besiege the doors.
2nd Chorus.
  • Rather forthwith go in ourselves, and prove
  • The murderer with the freshly-dripping blade.
3rd Chorus.
  • I add my pebble to thine. It is not well
  • That we delay. Fate hangs upon the moment.
4th Chorus.
  • The event is plain, with this prelusive blood
  • They hang out signs of tyranny to Argos.
5th Chorus.
  • Then why stay we? Procrastination they
  • Tramp underfoot; they sleep not with their hands.
6th Chorus.
  • Not so. When all is dark, shall we unwisely
  • Rush blindfold on an unconsulted deed?
7th Chorus.
  • Thou speakest well. If he indeed be dead,
  • Our words are vain to bring him back from Hades.
8th Chorus.
  • Shall we submit to drag a weary life
  • Beneath the shameless tyrants of this house?
9th Chorus.
  • Unbearable! and better far to die!
  • Death is a gentler lord than tyranny.
10th Chorus.
  • First ask we this, if to have heard a groan
  • Gives a sure augury that the man is dead.
11th Chorus.
  • Wisdom requires to probe the matter well:
  • To guess is one thing, and to know another.
12th Chorus.
  • So wisely spoken 87 With full-voiced assent
  • Inquire we first how Agamemnon fares.

[ The scene opens from behind, and discovers Clytemnestra standing over the dead bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra. ]

Clytem.
  • I spoke to you before; and what I spoke
  • Suited the time; nor shames me now to speak
  • Mine own refutal. For how shall we entrap
  • Our foe, our seeming friend, in scapeless ruin,
  • Save that we fence him round with nets too high
  • For his o’erleaping? What I did, I did
  • Not with a random inconsiderate blow,
  • But from old Hate, and with maturing Time.
  • Here, where I struck, I take my rooted stand,
  • Upon the finished deed: 88 the blow so given,
  • And with wise forethought so by me devised,
  • That flight was hopeless, and to ward it vain.
  • With many-folding net, as fish are caught,
  • I drew the lines about him, mantled round
  • With bountiful destruction; twice I struck him,
  • And twice he groaning fell with limbs diffused
  • Upon the ground; and as he fell, I gave
  • The third blow, sealing him a votive gift
  • To gloomy Hades, saviour of the dead.
  • And thus he spouted forth his angry soul,
  • Bubbling a bitter stream of frothy slaughter,
  • And with the dark drops of the gory dew
  • Bedashed me; I delighted nothing less
  • Than doth the flowery calix, full surcharged
  • With fruity promise, when Jove’s welkin down
  • Distils the rainy blessing. Men of Argos,
  • Rejoice with me in this, or, if ye will not,
  • Then do I boast alone. If e’er ’twas meet
  • To pour libations to the dead, he hath them
  • In justest measure. By most righteous doom,
  • Who drugged the cup with curses to the brim,
  • Himself hath drunk damnation to the dregs.
Chorus.
  • Thou art a bold-mouthed woman. Much we marvel
  • To hear thee boast thy husband’s murder thus.
Clytem.
  • Ye tempt me as a woman, weak, unschooled.
  • But what I say, ye know, or ought to know,
  • I say with fearless heart. Your praise or blame
  • Is one to me. Here Agamemnon lies,
  • My husband, dead, the work of this right hand—
  • The hand of a true workman. Thus it stands.

STROPHE.

Chorus.
  • Woman! what food on wide earth growing
  • Hast thou eaten of? What draught
  • From the briny ocean quaffed,
  • That for such deed the popular breath
  • Of Argos should with curses crown thee,
  • As a victim crowned for death?
  • Thou hast cast off: thou hast cut off
  • Thine own husband: 89 thou shalt be
  • From the city of the free
  • Thyself a cast-off: justly hated
  • With staunch hatred unabated.
Clytem.
  • My sentence thou hast spoken; shameful flight,
  • The citizens’ hate, the people’s vengeful curse:
  • For him thou hast no curse, the bloody man
  • Who, when the fleecy flocks innumerous pastured,
  • Passed the brute by, and sacrificed my child,
  • My best-beloved, fruit of my throes, to lull
  • The Thracian blasts asleep. Why did thy wrath,
  • In righteous guerdon of this foulest crime,
  • Not chase this man from Greece? A greedy ear
  • And a harsh tongue thou hast for me alone.
  • But mark my words, 90 threats I repay with threats;
  • If that thou canst subdue me in fair fight,
  • Subdue me; but if Jove for me decide,
  • Thou shalt be wise, when wisdom comes too late.

ANTISTROPHE.

Chorus.
  • Thou art high and haughty-hearted,
  • And from lofty thoughts within thee
  • Mighty words are brimming o’er:
  • For thy sober sense is madded
  • With the purple-dripping gore;
  • And thine eyes with fatness swell 91
  • From bloody feasts: but mark me well,
  • Time shall come, avenging Time,
  • And hunt thee out, and track thy crime:
  • Then thou, when friends are far, shalt know
  • Stroke for stroke, and blow for blow.
Clytem.
  • Hear thou this oath, that seals my cause with right:
  • By sacred Justice, perfecting revenge,
  • By Até, and the Erinnys of my child,
  • To whom I slew this man, I shall not tread
  • The threshold of pale Fear, the while doth live
  • Ægisthus, now, as he hath been, my friend,
  • Stirring the flame that blazes on my hearth,
  • My shield of strong assurance. For the slain,
  • Here lieth he that wronged a much-wronged woman,
  • Sweet honey-lord of Trojan Chryseids.
  • And for this spear-won maid, this prophetess,
  • This wise diviner, well-beloved bed-fellow,
  • And trusty messmate of great Agamemnon,
  • She shares his fate, paying with him the fee
  • Of her own sin, and like a swan hath sung
  • Her mortal song beside him. She hath been
  • Rare seasoning added to my banquet rare.

STROPHE I. 92

Chorus.
  • O would some stroke of Fate—no dull disease
  • Life’s strings slow-rending,
  • No bed-bound pain—might bring, my smart to soothe,
  • The sleep unending!
  • For he, my gracious lord, my guide, is gone,
  • Beyond recalling;
  • Slain for a woman’s cause, and by the hands
  • Of woman falling.
  • STROPHE II.

  • O Helen! Helen! phrenzied Helen,
  • Many hearts of thee are telling
  • Damned destruction thou hast done,
  • There where thousands fell for one
  • ’Neath the walls of Troy
  • ANTISTROPHE II.

  • Bloomed from thee the blossom gory
  • Of famous Agamemnon’s glory;
  • Thou hast roused the slumbering strife,
  • From age to age, with eager knife,
  • Watching to destroy.

STROPHE III.

Clytem.
  • Death invoke not to relieve thee
  • From the ills that vainly grieve thee!
  • Nor, with ire indignant swelling,
  • Blame the many-murdering Helen!
  • Damned destruction did she none,
  • There, where thousands fell for one,
  • ’Neath the walls of Troy.
  • ANTISTROPHE I.

  • O god that o’er the doomed Atridan halls 93
  • With might prevailest,
  • Weak woman’s breast to do thy headlong will
  • With murder mailest!
  • O’er his dead body, like a boding raven,
  • Thou tak’st thy station,
  • Piercing my marrow with thy savage hymn
  • Of exultation.

ANTISTROPHE III.

Clytem.
  • Nay, but now thou speakest wisely;
  • This thrice-potent god precisely
  • Works our woe, and weaves our sorrow.
  • He with madness stings the marrow,
  • And with greed that thirsts for blood;
  • Ere to-day’s is dry, the flood
  • Flows afresh to-morrow.

STROPHE IV.

Chorus.
  • Him, even him, this terrible god, to bear
  • These walls are fated;
  • From age to age he worketh wildly there
  • With wrath unsated.
  • Not without Jove, Jove cause and end of all,
  • Nor working vainly.
  • Comes no event but with high sway the gods
  • Have ruled it plainly.

STROPHE V.

Chorus.
  • O the king! the king! for thee
  • Tears in vain my cheek shall furrow,
  • Words in vain shall voice my sorrow!
  • As in a spider’s web thou liest;
  • Godless meshes spread for thee,
  • An unworthy death thou diest!

STROPHE VI.

Chorus.
  • There, even there thou liest, woe’s me, outstretched
  • On couch inglorious;
  • O’er thee the knife prevailed, keen-edged, by damned
  • Deceit victorious.

STROPHE VII.

Clytem.
  • Nay, be wise, and understand;
  • Say not Agamemnon’s wife
  • Wielded in this human hand
  • The fateful knife.
  • But a god, my spirit’s master,
  • The unrelenting old Alastor 94
  • Chose this wife, his incarnation,
  • To avenge the desecration
  • Of foul-feasting Atreus, he
  • Gave, to work his wrath’s completion
  • To the babes this grown addition.

ANTISTROPHE IV.

Chorus.
  • Thy crime is plain: bear thou what thou hast merited,
  • Guilt’s heavy lading;
  • But that fell Spirit, from sire to son inherited,
  • Perchance was aiding.
  • Black-mantled Mars through consanguineous gore
  • Borne onwards blindly,
  • Old horrors to atone, fresh Murder’s store
  • Upheaps unkindly.
  • ANTISTROPHE V.

  • O the king! the king! for thee
  • Tears in vain my cheek shall furrow,
  • Words in vain shall voice my sorrow!
  • As in a spider’s web thou liest;
  • Godless meshes spread for thee,
  • An unworthy death thou diest.

ANTISTROPHE VI.

Chorus.
  • There, even there, thou liest, woe’s me, outstretched
  • On couch inglorious!
  • O’er thee the knife prevailed, keen-edged, by damned
  • Decent victorious.

ANTISTROPHE VII.

Clytem.
  • Say not thou that he did die
  • By unworthy death inglorious,
  • Erst himself prevailed by damned
  • Deceit victorious,
  • Then when he killed the deep-lamented
  • Iphigenía, nor relented
  • When for my body’s fruit with weeping
  • I besought him. Springs his reaping
  • From what seed he sowed. Not he
  • In Hades housed shall boast to-day;
  • So slain by steel as he did slay.

STROPHE VIII.

Chorus.
  • I’m tossed with doubt, on no sure counsel grounded,
  • With fear confounded.
  • No drizzling drops, a red ensanguined shower,
  • Upon the crazy house, that was my tower,
  • Comes wildly sweeping,
  • On a new whetstone whets her blade the Fate
  • With eyes unweeping.

STROPHE IX.

Chorus.
  • O Earth, O Earth, would thou hadst yawned,
  • And in thy black pit whelmed me wholly,
  • Ere I had seen my dear-loved lord
  • In the silver bath thus bedded lowly!
  • Who will bury him? and for him
  • With salt tears what eyes shall brim?
  • Wilt thou do it—thou, the wife
  • That slew thy husband with the knife?
  • Wilt thou dare, with blushless face,
  • Thus to offer a graceless grace?
  • With false show of pious moaning,
  • Thine own damned deed atoning?

STROPHE X.

Chorus.
  • What voice the praises of the godlike man
  • Shall publish clearly?
  • And o’er his tomb the tear from eyelids wan
  • Shall drop sincerely?

STROPHE XI.

Clytem.
  • In vain thy doubtful heart is tried
  • With many sorrows. By my hand
  • Falling he fell, and dying died. 95
  • I too will bury him; but no train
  • Of mourning men for him shall plain
  • In our Argive streets; but rather
  • In the land of sunless cheer
  • She shall be his convoy; she,
  • Iphigenía, his daughter dear.
  • By the stream of woes * swift-flowing,
  • Round his neck her white arms throwing,
  • She shall meet her gentle father,
  • And greet him with a kiss.

ANTISTROPHE VIII.

Chorus.
  • Crime quitting crime, and which the more profanely
  • Were questioned vainly;
  • ’Tis robber robbed, and slayer slain, for, though
  • Oft-times it lag, with measured blow for blow
  • Vengeance prevaileth,
  • While great Jove lives. 96 Who breaks the close-linked woe
  • Which Heaven entaileth?

ANTISTROPHE IX.

Chorus.
  • O Earth, O Earth, would thou hadst yawned,
  • And in thy black pit whelmed me wholly,
  • Ere I had seen my dear-loved lord
  • In the silver bath thus bedded lowly!
  • Who will bury him? and for him
  • With salt tears, what eyes shall brim?
  • Wilt thou do it? thou, the wife
  • That killed thy husband with the knife?
  • Wilt thou dare, with blushless face,
  • Thus to offer a graceless grace?
  • With false show of pious moaning
  • Thine own damned deed atoning?

ANTISTROPHE X.

Chorus.
  • What voice the praises of the god-like man
  • Shall publish clearly?
  • And o’er his tomb the tear from eyelids wan
  • Shall drop sincerely?

ANTISTROPHE XI.

Clytem.
  • Cease thy cries. Where Heaven entaileth,
  • Thyself didst say, woe there prevaileth.
  • But for this tide enough hath been
  • Of bloody work. My score is clean.
  • Now to the ancient stern Alastor,
  • That crowns the Pleisthenids * with disaster,
  • I vow, having reaped his crop of woe
  • From me, to others let him go,
  • And hold with them his bloody bridal,
  • Of horrid murders suicidal!
  • Myself, my little store amassed
  • Shall freely use, while it may last,
  • From murdering madness healed.

Enter Ægisthus.

Ægis.
  • O blessed light! O happy day proclaiming
  • The justice of the gods! Now may I say
  • The Olympians look from heaven sublime, to note
  • Our woes, and right our wrongs, seeing as I see
  • In the close meshes of the Erinnyes tangled
  • This man—sweet sight to see!—prostrate before me,
  • Having paid the forfeit of his father’s crime.
  • For Atreus, ruler of this Argive land,
  • This dead man’s father—to be plain—contending
  • About the mastery, banished from the city
  • Thyestes, his own brother and my father.
  • In suppliant guise back to his hearth again
  • The unhappy prince returned, content if he
  • Might tread his native acres, not besprent
  • With his own blood. Him with a formal show
  • Of hospitality—not love—received
  • The father of this dead, the godless Atreus;
  • And to my father for the savoury use
  • Of festive viands gave his children’s flesh
  • To feed on; in a separate dish concealed
  • Were legs and arms, and the fingers’ pointed tips, 97
  • Broke from the body. These my father saw not;
  • But what remained, the undistinguished flesh,
  • He with unwitting greed devoured, and ate
  • A curse to Argos. Soon as known, his heart
  • Disowned the unholy feast, and with a groan
  • Back-falling he disgorged it. Then he vowed
  • Dark doom to the Pelopidae, and woes
  • Intolerable, while with his heel he spurned 98
  • The supper, and thus voiced the righteous curse:
  • Thus perish all the race of Pleisthenes!
  • See here the cause why Agamemnon died,
  • And why his death most righteous was devised
  • By me; for I, Thyestes’ thirteenth son,
  • While yet a swaddled babe, was driven away
  • To houseless exile with my hapless sire.
  • But me avenging Justice nursed, and taught me,
  • Safer by distance, with invisible hand
  • To reach this man, and weave the brooded plot,
  • That worked his sure destruction. Now ’tis done;
  • And gladly might I die, beholding him,
  • There as he lies where Vengeance trapped his crimes.
Chorus.
  • Ægisthus, that thou wantonest in the woe
  • Worked by thy crime I praise not. Thou alone
  • Didst slay this man, and planned the piteous slaughter
  • With willing heart. So say’st thou: but mark well,
  • Justice upon thy head the stony curse
  • Shall bring avoidless from the people’s hand.
Ægis.
  • How? Thou who sittest on the neathmost bench,
  • Speak’st thus to me who ply the upper oar?
  • ’Tis a hard task to teach an old man wisdom,
  • And dullness at thy years is doubly dull;
  • But chains and hunger’s pangs sure leeches are,
  • And no diviner vends more potent balms
  • To drug a doting wit. 99 Have eyes, and see,
  • Kick not against the pricks, nor vainly beat
  • Thy head on rocks.
Chorus [ to Clytemnestra ].
  • Woman, how couldst thou dare,
  • On thine own hearth to plot thy husband’s death;
  • First having shamed his bed, to welcome him
  • With murder from the wars?
Ægis.
  • Speak on; each word shall be a fount of tears,
  • I’ll make thy tongue old Orpheus’ opposite.
  • He with sweet sounds led wild beasts where he would,
  • Thou where thou wilt not shalt be led, confounding
  • The woods with baby cries. Thou barkest now,
  • But, being bound, the old man shall be tame.
Chorus.
  • A comely king wert thou to rule the Argives!
  • Whose wit had wickedness to plan the deed,
  • But failed the nerve in thy weak hand to do it.
Ægis.
  • ’Twas wisely schemed with woman’s cunning wit
  • To snare him. I, from ancient date his foe,
  • Stood in most just suspicion. Now, ’tis done;
  • And I, succeeding to his wealth, shall know
  • To hold the reins full tightly. Who rebels
  • Shall not with corn be fatted for my traces,
  • But, stiffly haltered, he shall lodge secure
  • In darkness, with starvation for his mate.
Chorus.
  • Hear me yet once. Why did thy dastard hand
  • Shrink from the deed? But now his wife hath done it,
  • Tainting this land with murder most abhorred,
  • Polluting Argive gods. But still Orestes
  • Looks on the light; him favouring Fortune shall
  • Nerve with one stroke to smite this guilty pair.
Ægis.

Nay, if thou for brawls art eager, and for battle, thou shalt know—

Chorus.
  • Ho! my gallant co-mates, rouse ye! 100 ’tis an earnest business now!
  • Quick, each hand with sure embracement hold the dagger by the hilt!
Ægis.

I can also hold a hilted dagger—not afraid to die.

Chorus.

Die !—we catch the word thou droppest, lucky chance, if thou wert dead!

Clytem.
  • Not so, best-beloved! there needeth no enlargement to our ills.
  • We have reaped a liberal harvest, gleaned a crop of fruitful woes,
  • Gained a loss in brimming measure: blood’s been shed enough to-day.
  • Peacefully, ye hoary Elders, enter now your destined homes,
  • Ere mischance o’ertake you, deeming what is done hath so been done,
  • As it behoved to be, contented if the dread god add no more,
  • He that now the house of Pelops smiteth in his anger dire.
  • Thus a woman’s word doth warn ye, if that ye have wit to hear.
Ægis.
  • Babbling fools are they; and I forsooth must meekly bear the shower,
  • Flowers of contumely cast from doting drivellers, tempting fate!
  • O! if length of hoary winters brought discretion, ye should know
  • Where the power is; wisely subject you the weak to me the strong.
Chorus.

Ill beseems our Argive mettle to court a coward on a throne.

Ægis.

Shielded now, be brave with words; my deeds expect some future day.

Chorus.

Ere that day belike some god shall bring Orestes to his home.

Ægis.

Feed, for thou hast nothing better, thou and he, on empty hope.

Chorus.

Glut thy soul, a lusty sinner, with sin’s fatness, while thou may’st.

Ægis.

Thou shalt pay the forfeit, greybeard, of thy braggart tongue anon.

Chorus.

Oh, the cock beside its partlet now may crow right valiantly!

Clytem.
  • Heed not thou these brainless barkings. While to folly folly calls,
  • Thou and I with wise command shall surely sway these Argive halls.

NOTES TO THE AGAMEMNON

  • πάρεστι σιγὰς (σιγηλος) ἄτιμος ἀλόιδορος
  • ἄληστος ἀϕεμένων ἰο̂εɩ̂ν;

modified thus by Orelli—

  • ἄπιστος ἀϕεμέναν ἰδεɩ̂ν
  • —( See Wellauer )

With a reference to Menelaus and not to Helen. In doing so, I am not at all moved by any merely philological consideration; but I may observe that the remark made by Well., Peile, and Con, that the words cannot refer to Menelaus, because he has not yet been mentioned, can have little weight in the present chorus, in the first antistrophe of which Paris is first alluded to, by dim indications, and afterwards distinctly by name This method of merely hinting at a person, before naming him, is common in all poetry, but peculiarly characteristic of Æschylus. Besides, it is impossible to deny that the πόθος in the next line refers to Menelaus, and can refer to no other. Con., who refers the words to Helen, translates thus—

  • “She stands in silence, scorned, yet unrebuking,
  • Most sweetly sorrowfully looking
  • Of brides that have from wedlock fled,”

to which I have this further objection, that it is contrary to the poet’s intention and to the moral tone of the piece, to paint the fair fugitive with such an engaging look of reluctance to leave her husband; on the contrary, he blames her in the strongest language, ἄτλητα τλα̂σα, and represents her as leaving Argos with all the hurry of a common elopement, where both parties are equally willing for the amorous flight, βέβακε ρίμϕα διὰ πυλα̂ν. After which our fancy has nothing to do but imagine her giving her sails to the wind as swiftly as possible, and bounding gaily over the broad back of ocean with her gay paramour. In this connection, to say “ she stands, ” appears quite out of place. In my view of this “very difficult and all but desperate passage” ( Peile ) I am supported by Sym. in an able note, which every student ought to read, by Med. and Sew., Buck., Humb., and Droys. Neither is Fr. against me, because, though following a new reading of Hermann,

  • πάρεστι σιγὰς ἀτίμους ἀλοιδόρους
  • ’αισχρωˆς ἀϕειμενων ιδειν,

he avoids all special allusions to Menelaus, it is evident that the picture of solitary desolation given in his translation can have no reference but to the palace of the king of Sparta—

  • “Ein Schweigen, sieh! voll von Schmach, nicht gebrochen church
  • Vorwurf, beherrscht die Einsamkeit”

CHOEPHORÆ OR, THE LIBATION-BEARERS
A LYRICO-DRAMATIC SPECTACLE

PERSONS

Orestes, Son of Agamemnon.

Pylades, Friend of Orestes

Chorus of Captive Women.

Electra, Sister of Orestes.

Nurse of Orestes.

Clytemnestra, Mother of Orestes.

Ægisthus.

Servant.

Scene as in the preceding piece. The Tomb of Agamemnon in the centre of the Stage.

INTRODUCTORY REMARKS

The right of the avenger of blood, so familiar to us from its prominency in the Mosaic Law (see Numbers, chap. 35), is a moral phenomenon which belongs to a savage or semi-civilized state of society in all times and places; and appears everywhere with the most distinct outline in the rich records of the early age of Greece, which we possess in the Homeric poems. No doubt, the most glowing intensity, and the passionate exaggeration of the feeling, from which this right springs, is found only among the hot children of the Arabian desert; * and in no point of his various enactments were the wisdom and the humanity of their great Jewish lawgiver more conspicuous than in the appointment of sacerdotal cities of refuge, which set certain intelligible bounds of space and time to the otherwise interminable prosecution of family feuds, and the gratification of private revenge. But the great traits of the system of private revenge for manslaughter, stand out clearly in the Iliad and Odyssey; and the whole of the ancient heroic mythology of Greece is full of adventures and strange chances that grew out of this germ. Out of many, I shall mention only the following instance. In the twenty-third book of the Iliad (v. 82), when the shade of Patroclus appears at the head of his sorrowful, sleeping friend, after urging the necessity of instant funeral, for the peace of his soul, he proceeds to make a further request, as follows:—

  • “This request I make, this strict injunction I on thee would lay,
  • Not apart from thine Achilles, place thy dear Patroclus’ bones;
  • But together as, like brothers, in your father’s house we grew,
  • Then when me, yet young, Menœtius from the Locrian Opus guiding,
  • To the halls of Peleus brought because that I had slain a man,
  • Even thy son, Amphidamas, whom unwittingly of life I reft
  • In a brainish moment, foolishly, when we quarrelled o’er the dice;
  • Then the horseman, Peleus, kindly took me to his house, and kindly
  • Reared me with his son, and bade me be thy comrade to the end;
  • So my bones, when they are gathered, place where thine shall also be,
  • In the two-eared golden urn which gracious Thetis gave to thee.”

In these verses, we see the common practice of the heroic ages in Greece, with regard to manslaughter. No matter how slight the occasion might be out of which the lethal quarrel arose; how innocent scever of all hostile intention the unhappy offender; the only safety to him from the private revenge of the kinsman of the person unwittingly slain, was to flee to a country that acknowledged some foreign chief, and find both a friend and a country in a distant land. All this, too, in an era of civilization, when courts of law and regular judges (as from various passages of Homer is apparent) were not altogether unknown; but nature is stronger than law, and passion slow to yield up its fiery right of summary revenge, for the cold, calculating retribution of an impartial judge.

The person on whom the duty of avenging shed blood, according to the heroic code of morals, fell, was the nearest of kin to the person whose blood had been shed; and accordingly we find (as stated more at large by Gesenius and Michaelis * ) that in the Hebrew language, the same word means both an avenger of blood and a kinsman, while in the cognate Arabic the term for an avenger means also a survivor —that is, the surviving kinsman. In the same way, when Clytemnestra, as we have just seen in the previous drama, had treacherously murdered her husband Agamemnon, the code of social morality then existing laid the duty of avenging this most unnatural deed on the nearest relation of the murdered chieftain, viz.—his son, Orestes; a sore duty indeed, in this case, as the principal offender was his own mother: so that in vindicating one feeling of his filial nature the pious son had to do violence to another; but a duty it still remained; and there does not appear the slightest trace that it was considered one whit the less imperative on account of the peculiar relation that existed here between the dealer of the vengeful blow and the person on whom it was dealt. Whoso sheddeth man’s blood by man shall his blood be shed was the old patriarchal law on the subject, proclaimed without limitation and without exception; and the cry of innocent blood rose to Heaven with peculiar emphasis when the sufferer was both a father and a king.

“Good, how good, when one who dies unjustly leaves a son behind him To avenge his death!”

Odyss. iii. 196,

is the wisdom of old Nestor with regard to this subject and this very case: and the wise goddess Athena, the daughter of the Supreme Councillor, in whom “all her father lives,” stamps her distinct approval on the deed of Orestes, by which Clytemnestra was murdered, and holds him up as an illustrious example to Telemachus, by which his own conduct was to be regulated in reference to the insolent and unjust suitors who were consuming his father’s substance.

  • “This when thou hast done, and well accomplished, as the need demands,
  • Then behoves thee in thy mind with counsel rife to ponder well
  • How the suitors that obscenely riot in thy father’s halls
  • Thou by force or fraud may’st slay: for surely now the years are come,
  • When too old thou art to trifle like a child with childish things
  • Hast not heard what fair opinion the divine Orestes reaped
  • From the general voice consenting to the deed, then when he slew
  • The deceitful false Ægisthus, slayer of his famous sire”
  • Odyssey i. 293.

Public opinion, therefore, to use a modern phrase, not only justified Orestes in compassing the death of his mother, but imperatively called on him to do so. Public opinion, however, could not control Nature, nor save the unfortunate instrument of paternal retribution from that revulsion of feeling which must necessarily ensue, when the hand of the son is once red with the blood of her whose milk he had sucked. Orestes finds himself torn in twain by two contrary instincts, the victim of two antagonist rights. No sooner are the Furies of the father asleep, than those of the mother awake; and thus the bloody catastrophe of the present piece prepares the way for that tragic conflict of opposing moral claims set forth with such power in the third piece of this trilogy—the Eumenides.

The action of this play is the simplest possible, and will, for the most part, explain itself sufficiently as it proceeds. Clytemnestra, disturbed in conscience, and troubled by evil dreams, sends a chorus of young women to offer libations at the tomb of Agamemnon, which, in the present play, may fitly be conceived as occupying the centre of the stage. * These “libation-bearers” give the name to the piece. In their pious function, Electra, the daughter of Agamemnon, joins; and as she is engaged in the solemn rite, her brother Orestes (who had been living as an exile in Phocis with Strophius, married to Anaxibia, the sister of Agamemnon) suddenly arrives, and making himself known to his sister, plans with her the murder of Ægisthus and Clytemnestra—which is accordingly executed. Scarcely is this done, when the Furies of the murdered mother appear, and commence that chase of the unhappy son from land to land, which is ended in the next piece only by the eloquent intercession of Apollo, and the deliberative wisdom of the blue-eyed virgin-goddess of the Acropolis

As a composition, the Choephoræ is decidedly inferior both to the Agamemnon which precedes, and the Eumenides which follows it; and the poet, as if sensible of this weakness, following the approved tactics of rhetoricians and warriors, has dexterously placed it in a position where its deficiencies are least observed. At the same time, in passing a critical judgment on this piece we must bear in mind two things— first, that some parts of this play that appear languid, long-drawn, and ineffective to us who read, may have been overflowing with the richest emotional power in their living musical exhibition; and, secondly, that many parts, especially of the choral chaunts, have been so maimed and shattered by time that the modern commentator is perhaps as much chargeable with the faults of the translation as the ancient tragedian.

Enter Orestes and Pylades.

Orest.
  • Hermes, that wieldest underneath the ground
  • What power thy father lent, 1 be thou my saviour
  • And my strong help, and grant his heart’s request
  • To the returning exile! On this mound,
  • My father’s tomb, my father I invoke,
  • To hear my cry!
  • * * * * * *
  • * * My early growth of hair
  • To Inachus I vowed; 2 this later lock
  • The right of grief for my great sire demands.
  • * * * * *
  • But what is this? what sad procession comes
  • Of marshalled maids in sable mantles clad?
  • What mission brings them? Some new woe that breaks
  • Upon our fated house? Or, do they come
  • To soothe the ancient anger of the dead
  • With sweet libations for my father’s tomb?
  • ’Tis even so for lo! Electra comes—
  • My sister—with them in unblissful grief
  • Pre-eminent. O Jove, be thou mine aid, 3
  • And nerve my hand to avenge my father’s wrong!
  • Stand we aside, my Pylades, that we
  • May learn the purpose of the murky pomp.

[ They go aside.

Chorus, dressed in sable vestments, bearing vessels with libations.

  • STROPHE I.

  • Missioned from these halls I come
  • In the sable pomp of woe,
  • Here to wail and pour libations,
  • with the bosom-beating blow;
  • And my cheeks, that herald sorrow, 4
  • With the fresh-cut nail-ploughed furrow,
  • Grief’s vocation show.
  • See! my rent and ragged stole
  • Speaks the conflict of my soul;
  • My vex’d heart on grief is feeding,
  • Night and day withouten rest;
  • Riven with the ruthless mourning,
  • Hangs the linen vest, adorning
  • Woefully my breast.
  • ANTISTROPHE I.

  • Breathing wrath through nightly slumbers,
  • By a dream-encompassed lair,
  • Prophet of the house of Pelops,
  • Terror stands with bristling hair.
  • Through the dark night fitful yelling,
  • He within our inmost dwelling
  • Did the sleeper scare.
  • Heavily, heavily terror falls
  • On the woman-governed halls!
  • And, instinct with high assurance,
  • Speak the wise diviners all;
  • “The dead, the earth-hid dead are fretful,
  • And for vengeance unforgetful,
  • From their graves they call.”
  • STROPHE II.

  • This graceless grace to do, to ward
  • What ills the dream portendeth
  • This pomp—O mother Earth!—and me
  • The godless woman sendeth.
  • Thankless office! Can I dare,
  • Naming thee, to mock the air?
  • Blood that stains with purple track
  • The ground, what price can purchase back?
  • O the hearth beset with mourning!
  • O the proud halls’ overturning!
  • Darkness, blithe sight’s detestation,
  • Sunless sorrow spread
  • Round the house of desolation,
  • Whence the lord is fled.
  • ANTISTROPHE II.

  • The kingly majesty that was
  • The mighty, warlike-hearted,
  • That swayed the general ear and will,
  • The unconquered, hath departed.
  • And now fear rules, 5 and we obey,
  • Unwillingly, a loveless sway.
  • Who holds the key of plenty’s portals
  • Is god, and more than god to mortals;
  • But justice from her watchful station,
  • With a sure-winged visitation
  • Swoops; and some in blazing noon
  • She for doom doth mark,
  • Some in lingering eve, and some
  • In the deedless dark.
  • EPODE.

  • When mother Earth hath drunk black gore,
  • Printed on the faithful floor,
  • The staring blot remaineth;
  • There the deep disease is lurking;
  • There thrice double-guilt is working
  • Woes that none restraineth.
  • As virgin-chambers once polluted
  • Never may be pure again,
  • So filthy hands with blood bedabbled 6
  • All the streams of all the rivers
  • Flow to wash in vain
  • For me I suffer what I must;
  • By ordinance divine,
  • Since Troy was levelled with the dust
  • The bondman’s fate is mine.
  • What the masters of my fate
  • In their strength decree, 7
  • Just or unjust, matters not,
  • Is the law to me.
  • I must look content; and chain
  • Strongest hate with tightest rein;
  • I for my mistress’ woes must wail,
  • And for my own, beneath the veil; 8
  • I must sit apart,
  • And thaw with tears my frozen heart,
  • When no eye may see.

Enter Electra.

Elect.
  • Ye ministering maids with dexterous heed
  • That tend this household, as with me ye share
  • This pomp of supplication, let me share
  • In your good counsel. Speak, and tell me how,
  • This flood funereal pouring on the tomb,
  • I shall find utterance in well-omened words?
  • Shall I declare me bearer of sweet gifts
  • From a dear wife to her dear lord? I fear
  • To mingle faslehood with libations pure,
  • Poured on my father’s tomb. 9 Or shall I pray,
  • As mortals wont to pray, that he may send
  • Just retribution, and a worthy gift
  • Of ill for ill to them that sent these garlands?
  • Or shall I silent stand, nor with my tongue
  • Give honour, as in dumb dishonoured death
  • My father died, and give the Earth to drink
  • A joyless stream, as who throws lustral ashes 10
  • With eyes averse, and flings the vase away?
  • Your counsel here I crave; ye are my friends,
  • And bear with me, within these fated halls
  • A common burden. Speak, and no craven fear
  • Lurk in your breasts! The man that lives most free,
  • And him to sternest masterdom enthralled,
  • One fate abides Lend me your wisdom, friends.
Chorus.
  • Thy father’s tomb shall be to me an altar;
  • As before God I’ll speak the truth to thee.
Elect.

Speak thus devoutly, and thou’lt answer well.

Chorus
  • Give words of seemly honour, as thou pourest,
  • To all that love thy father.
Elect.

Who are they?

Chorus.

Thyself the first, and whoso hates Ægisthus.

Elect.

That is myself and thou.

Chorus.

Thyself may’st judge.

Elect.

Hast thou none else to swell the scanty roll?

Chorus.

One far away, thy brother, add—Orestes.

Elect.

’Tis well remembered, very well remembered.

Chorus.

Nor them forget that worked the deed of guilt.

Elect.

Ha! what of them? I’d hear of this more nearly.

Chorus.

Pray that some god may come, or mortal man.

Elect.

Judge or avenger?

Chorus.
  • Roundly pray the prayer,
  • Some god or man may come to slay the slayer.
Elect.

And may I pray the gods such boon as this?

Chorus.
  • Why not? What other quittance to a foe
  • Than hate repaid with hate, and blow with blow? 11
Elect.
  • [ approaching to the tomb of Agamemnon ]. Hermes, that
  • swayest underneath the ground, * 12
  • Of powers divine, Infernal and Supernal,
  • Most weighty herald, herald me in this,
  • That every subterranean god, and earth,
  • Even mother earth, who gave all things their birth,
  • And nurseth the reviving germs of all,
  • May hear my prayer, and with their sleepless eyes
  • Watch my parental halls. And while I dew
  • Thy tomb with purifying stream, O father,
  • Pity thou me, and on thy loved Orestes
  • With pity look, and to our long lost home
  • Restore us!—us, poor friendless outcasts both,
  • Bartered by her who bore us, and exchanged
  • Thy love for his who was thy murderer.
  • Myself do menial service in this house;
  • Orestes lives in exile; and they twain
  • In riot waste the fruits of thy great toils.
  • Hear thou my prayers, and quickly send Orestes
  • With happy chance to claim his father’s sceptre!
  • And give thou me a wiser heart, and hand
  • More holy-functioned than the mother’s was
  • That bore thy daughter. Thus much for myself,
  • And for my friends. To those that hate my father,
  • Rise thou with vengeance mantled-dark to smite
  • Those justly that unjustly smote the just.
  • These words of evil imprecation dire, 13
  • Marring the pious tenor of my prayer,
  • I speak constrained: but thou for me and mine
  • Send good, and only good, to the upper air,
  • The gods being with thee, mother Earth, and Justice
  • With triumph in her train. This prayer receive
  • And these libations. Ye, my friends, the while
  • Let your grief blossom in luxuriant wail,
  • Lifting the solemn pæan of the dead.
Chorus.

14

  • Flow! in plashing torrents flow!
  • Wretched grief for wretched master!
  • O’er this heaped mound freely flow,
  • Refuge of my heart’s disaster!
  • O thou dark majestic shade,
  • Hear, O hear me! While anear thee
  • Pours this sorrow-stricken maid
  • The pure libation,
  • May the solemn wail we lift
  • Atone the guilt that taints the gift
  • With desecration!
  • O that some god from Scythia far,
  • To my imploring,
  • Might send a spearman strong in war,
  • Our house restoring!
  • Come Mars, with back-bent bow, thy hail
  • Of arrows pouring,
  • Or with the hilted sword assail,
  • And in the grapple close prevail,
  • Of battle roaring!
Elect.

15

  • These mild libations, earth-imbibed, my father
  • Hath now received. Thy further counsel lend.
Chorus

In what? Within me leaps my heart for fear.

Elect

Seest thou this lock of hair upon the tomb?

Chorus.

A man’s hair is it, or a low-zoned maid’s? 16

Elect.

Few points there are to hit. ’Tis light divining

Chorus.

I am thine elder, yet I fain would reap Instruction from young lips

Elect.
  • If it was clipt
  • From head in Argos, it should be my own. 17
Chorus.
  • For they that should have shorn the mourning lock
  • Are foes, not friends.
Elect.

’Tis like, O strange! how like!

Chorus.

Like what? What strange conception stirs thy brain?

Elect
  • ’Tis like—O strange!—to these same locks I wear.
  • And yet—
Chorus.
  • Not being yours, there’s none, I know,
  • Can claim it but Orestes.
Elect.
  • In sooth, ’tis like
  • Trimmed with one plume Orestes was and I
Chorus.

But how should he have dared to tread this ground?

Elect.
  • Belike, he sent it by another’s hand,
  • A votive lock to grace his father’s tomb.
Chorus.
  • Small solace to my grief, if that he lives,
  • Yet never more may touch his native soil.
Elect.
  • I, too, as with a bitter wave was lashed,
  • And pierced, as with an arrow, at the sight
  • Of this loved lock; and from my thirsty eyne
  • With troubled overflowings unrestrained
  • The full tide gushes: for none here would dare
  • To gift a lock to Agamemnon’s grave;
  • No citizen, much less the wife that slew him.
  • My mother most unmotherly, her own children
  • With godless hate pursuing, evil-minded:
  • And though to think this wandering lock have graced
  • My brother’s head—even his—my loved Orestes,
  • Were bliss too great, yet will I hold the hope.
  • O that this lock might with articulate voice
  • Pronounce a herald’s tale, and I no more
  • This way and that with dubious thought be swayed!
  • That I might know if from a hostile head
  • ’Twas shorn, and hate it as it hate deserves,
  • Or, if from friends, my sorrows’ fellow make it,
  • The dearest grace of my dear father’s tomb!
  • But the gods know our woes; them we invoke,
  • Whirled to and fro in eddies of dark doubt,
  • Like vessels tempest-tossed. If they will save us,
  • They have the power from smallest seed to raise
  • The goodliest tree. But lo! a further proof 18
  • Footsteps, a perfect print, that seem to bear
  • A brotherhood with mine! Nay, there are two—
  • This claimed by him, and that by some true friend
  • That shares his wanderings. See, the heel, the sole,
  • Thus measured with my own, prove that they were
  • Both fashioned in one mould ’Tis very strange!
  • I’m racked with doubt, my wits are wandering.
Orest.
  • [ coming forward ]. Nay, rather thank the gods! Thy first prayer granted,
  • Pray that fair end may fair beginning follow. 19
Elect.

Sayest thou? What cause have I to thank the gods?

Orest.

Even here before thee stands thine answered prayer.

Elect.

One man I wish to see: dost know him—thou?

Orest.

Thy wish of wishes is to see Orestes.

Elect.

Even so: but wishing answers no man’s prayer.

Orest.
  • I am the man. No dearer one expect
  • That wears that name.
Elect.

Nay, but this is some plot?

Orest.

That were to frame a plot against myself.

Elect.

Unkind, to scoff at my calamities!

Orest.

To scoff at thine, were scoffing at mine own.

Elect.

And can it be? Art thou indeed Orestes?

Orest.
  • My bodily self thou seest, and dost not know!
  • And yet the votive lock shorn from my head,
  • Being to thine, my sister’s hair, conform,
  • And my foot’s print with curious ardour scanned,
  • Could wing thy faith beyond the reach of sense,
  • That thou didst seem to see me! Take the lock,
  • And match it nicely with this mother crop
  • That bore it. More; behold this web, 20 the fruit
  • Of thine own toil, the strokes of thine own shuttle,
  • The wild beasts of the woods by thine own hand
  • Empictured! Nay, be calm, and keep thy joy
  • Within wise bounds Too well I know that they
  • Who should be friends here are our bitterest foes.
Elect.
  • O of my father’s house the chiefest care!
  • Seed of salvation, hope with many tears
  • Bewept, with thy strong arm thou shalt restore
  • Thy father’s house. O my life’s eye, thou dost
  • Four several functions corporate in one
  • Discharge for me! My father thou, and thine
  • The gentler love that should have been my mother’s,
  • My justly hated mother; and in her place,
  • Who died by merciless immolation, * thou
  • Must be my sister, so even as thou art
  • My faithful brother, loved much and revered.
  • May Power and Justice aid thee, mighty Twain, 21
  • And a third mightier, Jove supremely great.
Orest.
  • O Jove, great Jove, of all these things be thou
  • Spectator! And behold the orphan’d brood,
  • Of eagle father strangled in the folds
  • And deadly coil of loathly basilisk!
  • Them sireless see in dire starvation’s gripe,
  • Too weak of wing to bear unto the nest
  • Their father’s prey. So we before thee stand,
  • Myself and this Electra, sire-bereaved,
  • And exiles both from our paternal roof.
  • If we, the chickens of the pious father
  • That crowned thee with much sacrifice, shall fail,
  • Where shalt thou find a hand like his, to offer
  • Gifts from the steaming banquet? If the brood
  • Of the eagle perish, where shall be thy signs,
  • That speak from Heaven persuasive to mankind?
  • If all this royal trunk shall rot, say who,
  • When blood of oxen flows on holidays,
  • Shall stand beside thine altar? O give ear,
  • And of this house so little now, and fallen
  • So low, rebuild the fortunes!
Chorus.
  • Hush, my children!
  • If ye would save your father’s house, speak softly,
  • Lest some one hear, and, with swift babblement,
  • Inform their ears who rule; whom may I see
  • Flayed on a fire, with streaming pitch well fed!
Orest.
  • Fear not. The mighty oracle of Loxias,
  • By whose commands I dare the thing I dare,
  • Will not deceive me. He, with shrill-voiced warning,
  • Foretold that freezing pains through my warm liver
  • Should torturing shoot, if backward to avenge
  • My father’s death, and even as he was slain,
  • To slay the slayers, exasperate at the loss 22
  • Of my so fair possessions. Thus to do
  • He gave me strict injunction: else myself
  • With terrible pains, of filial zeal remiss,
  • Should pay the fine. The evil-minded Powers
  • Beneath the Earth 23 would visit me in wrath,
  • A leprous tetter with corrosive tooth
  • Creep o’er my skin, and fasten on my flesh,
  • And with white scales the white hair grow, defacing
  • My bloom of health; and from my father’s tomb
  • Ripe with avenging ire the Erinnyes
  • Should ruthlessly invade me. Thus he spake,
  • And through the dark his prescient eyebrow arched. 24
  • Sharp arrows through the subterranean night,
  • Shot by dear Shades that through the Infernal halls
  • Roam peaceless, madness, and vain fear o’ nights,
  • Prick with sharp goads, and chase from street to street,
  • With iron scourge, the meagre-wasted form
  • Of the Fury-hunted sinner; him no share
  • In festal cup awaits, or hallowed drop
  • Of pure libation; 25 the paternal wrath,
  • Hovering unseen, shall drive him from the altar;
  • Him shall no home receive, no lodgment hold,
  • Unhonoured and unfriended he shall die,
  • Withered and mummied with the hot dry plague.
  • Such oracle divine behoves me trust
  • With single faith, or, be I faithless, still
  • The vengeance must be done. All things concur
  • To point my purpose; the divine command
  • My sore heart-grief for a loved father’s death,
  • The press of want, the spoiling of my goods,
  • The shame to see these noble citizens,
  • Proud Troy’s destroyers, basely bent beneath
  • The yoke of two weak women: for he hath
  • A woman’s soul: if not, the proof is near.
Chorus.
  • Mighty Fates, divinely guiding
  • Human fortunes to their end,
  • Send this man, with Jove presiding,
  • Whither Justice points the way.
  • Words of bitter hatred duly
  • Pay with bitter words for thus
  • With loud cry triumphant shouting
  • Justice pays the sinner’s debt.
  • Blood for blood and blow for blow,
  • Thou shalt reap as thou didst sow;
  • Age to age with hoary wisdom
  • Speaketh thus to men. 26

STROPHE I.

Orest.
  • O father, wretched father, with what air
  • Of word or deed impelling,
  • Shall I be strong to waft the filial prayer
  • To thy dim distant dwelling?
  • There where in dark, the dead-man’s day, thou liest, 27
  • Be our sharp wailing
  • (Grace of the dead, and Hades’ honour highest),
  • With thee prevailing!

STROPHE II.

Chorus.
  • Son, the strong-jawed funeral fire
  • Burns not the mind in the smoky pyre;
  • Sleeps, but not forgets the dead
  • To show betimes his anger dread.
  • For the dead the living moan,
  • That the murderer may be known.
  • They who mourn for parent slain
  • Shall not pour the wail in vain,
  • Bright disclosure shall not lack
  • Who through darkness hunts the track.

ANTISTROPHE I.

Elect.
  • Hear thou our cries, O father, when for thee
  • The frequent tear is falling;
  • The wailing pair o’er thy dear tomb to thee
  • From their hearts’ depths are calling;
  • The suppliant and the exile at one tomb
  • Their sorrow showering,
  • Helpless and hopeless; mantled round with gloom,
  • Woe overpouring!
Chorus.
  • Nay, be calm; the god that speaks
  • With voice oracular shall attune
  • Thy throat to happier notes;
  • Instead the voice of wail funereal,
  • Soon the jubilant shout shall shake
  • His father’s halls with joy, and welcome
  • The new friend to his home.

STROPHE III.

Orest.
  • If but some Lycian spear, ’neath Ilium’s walls,
  • Had lowly laid thee,
  • A mighty name in the Atridan halls
  • Thou wouldst have made thee!
  • Then hadst thou pitched thy fortune like a star,
  • To son and grandson shining from afar;
  • Beyond the wide-waved sea, the high-heaped mound
  • Had told for ever
  • Thy feats of battle, and with glory crowned
  • Thy high endeavour.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Chorus.
  • Ah! would that thou hadst found thy end
  • There, where dear friend fell with friend,
  • And marched with them to Hades dread,
  • The monarch of the awful dead, 28
  • Sitting beside the throne with might
  • Of them that rule the realms of night;
  • For thou in life wert monarch true,
  • Expert each kingly deed to do,
  • Leading, with thy persuasive rod,
  • Submissive mortals like a god.

ANTISTROPHE III.

Elect.
  • Thou wert a king, no fate it was for thee
  • To die as others
  • ’Neath Ilium’s walls, far, far beyond the sea,
  • With many brothers.
  • Unworthy was the spear to drink thy blood,
  • Where far Scamander rolls his swirling flood.
  • Justly who slew had drawn themselves thy lot,
  • And perished rather,
  • And thou their timeless fate had welcomed, not
  • They thine, my father.
Chorus.
  • Child, thy grief begetteth visions
  • Brighter than gold, and overtopping
  • Hyperborean bliss. 29
  • Ah, here the misery rudely riots,
  • With double lash. These twins, their help
  • Sleeps beneath the ground; and they
  • Who hold dominion here, alas!
  • With unholy sceptre sway.
  • Woe is me! but chiefly woe
  • Children dear to you!

STROPHE IV.

Elect.
  • Chiefly to me! Thy words shoot like an arrow,
  • And pierce my marrow.
  • O Jove, O Jove! that sendest from below 30
  • The retribution slow,
  • Against the stout heart and bold hand,
  • That dared defy thy high command.
  • Even though a parent feel the woe,
  • Prepare, prepare the finished blow.

STROPHE V.

Chorus.
  • Mine be soon to lift the strain,
  • O’er the treacherous slayer slain,
  • To shout with bitter exultation,
  • O’er the murtherous wife’s prostration!
  • Why should I the hate conceal,
  • That spurs my heart with promptest zeal,
  • Bitter thoughts, that gathering grow,
  • Like blustering winds, that beat the plunging vessel’s prow?

ANTISTROPHE IV.

Orest.
  • O thou that flourishest, and mak’st to flourish,
  • By thy hands perish
  • All they that hate me! Cleave the heads of those,
  • That are Orestes’ foes!
  • Pledge the land in peace to live,
  • For injustice justice give;
  • Ye that honoured reign below, 31
  • Furies! prepare the crowning blow.
Chorus.
  • Wont hath been, and shall be ever,
  • That when purple gouts bedash
  • The guilty ground, then blood doth blood
  • Demand, and blood for blood shall flow.
  • Fury to Havoc cries, and Havoc,
  • The tainted track of blood pursuing,
  • From age to age works woe.

STROPHE VI.

Elect.
  • Ye powers of Hades dread!
  • Fell Curses of the Dead,
  • Hear me when I call!
  • Behold! The Atridan hall,
  • Dashed in dishonoured fall,
  • Lies low and graceless all.
  • O mighty Jove, I see
  • Mine only help in thee!

ANTISTROPHE V.

Chorus.
  • Thy piteous tale doth make my heart
  • From its central hold back start;
  • Hope departs, and blackening Fear
  • Rules my fancy, while I hear.
  • And if blithe confidence awhile 32
  • Lends my dull faith the feeble smile,
  • Soon, soon departs that glimpse of cheer,
  • And all my map of things is desolate and drear.

ANTISTROPHE VI.

Orest.
  • For why! our tale of wrong
  • In hate of parents strong,
  • Spurneth the flatterer’s arm,
  • Mocketh the soothing charm.
  • The mother gave her child 33
  • This wolfish nature wild;
  • And I from her shall learn
  • To be thus harsh and stern.

STROPHE VII.

Chorus.
  • Like a Persian mourner 34
  • Singing sorrow’s tale,
  • Like a Cissian wailer,
  • I did weep and wail.
  • O’er my head swift-oaring
  • Came arm on arm amain,
  • The voice of my deploring
  • Like the lashing rain!
  • Sorrow’s rushing river
  • O’er me flooding spread,
  • Black misfortune’s quiver
  • Emptied on my head!
Elect.
  • Mother bold, all-daring,
  • On a bloody bier
  • Thine own lord forth bearing
  • Slain without a tear.
  • Alone, unfriended he did go
  • Down to the sunless homes below.

STROPHE VIII.

Orest.
  • Thou hast named the dire dishonor;
  • The gods shall send swift judgment on her.
  • By Heaven’s command,
  • By her own son’s hand,
  • Slain she shall lie;
  • And I, having dealt the fated death,
  • Myself shall die!

ANTISTROPHE VII.

Elect.
  • Be the butcher’s work remembered,
  • Mangled was he, and dismembered;
  • Like vilest clay,
  • She cast him away,
  • With burial base;
  • Mocking the son, the father branding
  • With dark disgrace.

ANTISTROPHE VIII.

Orest.
  • Thou dost tell too truly
  • All my father’s woe.
Elect.
  • I, the while, accounted
  • Lower than most low, 35
  • Like a dog, was sundered
  • From my father’s hearth,
  • An evil dog, and wandered
  • Far from seats of mirth;
  • In my chamber weeping
  • Tears of silent woe,
  • From rude gazers keeping
  • Grief too great for show.
  • Hear these words; and hearing
  • Nail them in thy soul,
  • With steady purpose nearing,
  • And noiseless pace, thy goal.
  • Go where just wrath leads the way,
  • With stout heart tread the lists to-day.

STROPHE IX.

Orest.

O father, help thy friends, when helping thee!

Elect.

My tears, if they can help, shall flow for thee.

Chorus.
  • And this whole mingled choir shall raise for thee
  • The sistered cry: O hear!
  • In light of day appear,
  • And help thy banded friends, to avenge thy foes for thee!

ANTISTROPHE IX.

Orest.

Now might with might engage, and right with right!

Elect.

And the gods justly the unjust shall smite.

Chorus.

36

  • The tremulous fear creeps o’er my frame to hear
  • Thy words; for, though long-dated,
  • The thing divinely fated
  • Shall surely come at last, our cloudy prayers to clear.

STROPHE X.

Elect.
  • O home-bred pain,
  • Stroke of perdition that refuses
  • Concord with the holy Muses!
  • O burden more than heart can bear,
  • Disease that no physician’s care
  • Makes sound again!

ANTISTROPHE X.

Orest.
  • So; even so.
  • No far-sent leech this tetter uses;
  • A home-bred surgery it chooses.
  • I the red strife myself pursue,
  • Pouring this dismal hymn to you,
  • Ye gods below!
Chorus.
  • Blessed powers, propitious dwelling,
  • Deep in subterranean darkness,
  • Hear this pious prayer;
  • May all trials end in triumph
  • To the suppliant pair!
Orest.
  • Father, who died not as a king should die,
  • Give me to rule, as thou didst rule, these halls.
Elect.
  • My supplication hear, thy strong help lend me,
  • Scathless myself 37 to work Ægisthus’ harm.
Orest.
  • Thus of the rightful feasts that soothe the Shades
  • Thou too shalt taste, 38 and not dishonoured lie,
  • When savoury fumes mount to our country’s dead.
Elect.
  • And I my whole of heritage will offer,
  • The blithe libations of my marriage feast.
  • Thy tomb before all tombs I will revere.
Orest.
  • O Earth, relax thy hold, and give my father
  • To see the fight!
Elect.
  • O Persephassa, * send
  • The Atridan forth, in beauty clad and strength.
Orest.

The bath that drank thy life remember, father.

Elect.

The close-drawn meshes of thy death remember.

Orest.
  • The chain, not iron-linked, that bound thee, then
  • When to the death the kingly game was hunted.
Elect.

Then when with treacherous folds they curtained thee.

Orest.

Wake, father, wake to avenge thy speechless wrongs!

Elect.

Lift, father, lift thy dear-loved head sublime!

Orest.
  • Send justice forth to work the just revenge,
  • Like quit with like, and harm with harm repay;
  • Thou wert the conquered then, rise now to conquer.
Elect.
  • And hear this last request, my father, looking
  • On thy twin chickens nestling by thy tomb;
  • Pity the daughter, the male seed protect,
  • Nor let the name revered of ancient Pelops
  • Be blotted from the Earth! Thou art not dead,
  • Though housed in Hades, while thy children live,
  • For children are as echoes that prolong
  • Their parents’ fame; the floating cork are they
  • That buoyant bear the net deep sunk in the sea.
  • Hear, father—when we weep, we weep for thee,
  • And, saving us, thou savest thine own honour.
Chorus.
  • Well spoken both: 39 and worthily fall the tears
  • On this dear tomb, too long without them. Now,
  • If to the deed thy purpose thou hast buckled,
  • Orestes, try what speed the gods may give thee. 40
Orest.
  • I’ll do the deed. Meanwhile not idly this
  • I ask of thee—what moved her soul to send
  • These late libations, limping remedy
  • For wounds that cannot heal? A sorry grace
  • To feed the senseless dead with sacrifice,
  • When we have killed the living. What she means
  • I scarce may guess, but the amend is less
  • Than the offence. All ocean poured in offering
  • For the warm life-drops of one innocent man
  • Is labour lost. Old truth thus speaks to all.
  • How was it?
Chorus.
  • That I well may tell, for I
  • Was with her. Hideous dreams did haunt her sleep;
  • Night-wandering terrors scared her godless breast,
  • That she did send these gifts to soothe the Shades.
Orest.

What saw she in her dream?

Chorus.
  • She dreamt, she said,
  • She had brought forth a serpent.
Orest.

A serpent, say’st thou?

Chorus.
  • Ay! and the dragon birth portentous moved,
  • All swaddled like a boy.
Orest.

Eager for food, doubtless, the new-born monster?

Chorus.

The nurturing nipple herself did fearless bare.

Orest.

How then? escaped the nipple from the bite?

Chorus.
  • The gouted blood did taint the milk, that flowed
  • From the wounded paps.
Orest.
  • No idle dream was this.
  • And he who sent it was my father.
Chorus.
  • Then
  • She from her sleep up started, and cried out,
  • And many lamps, whose splendour night had blinded,
  • Rushed forth, to wait upon their mistress’ word.
  • Straightway she sends us with funereal gifts,
  • A medicinal charm, if medicine be
  • For griefs like hers!
Orest.
  • Now hear me, Earth profound,
  • And my dear father’s tomb, that so this dream
  • May find in me completion! Thus I read it—
  • As left the snake the womb that once hid me,
  • And in the clothes was swathed that once swathed me
  • And as it sucked the breast that suckled me,
  • And mingled blood with milk once sucked by me,
  • And as she groaned with horror at the sight,
  • Thus it beseems who bore a monstrous birth
  • No common death to die. I am the serpent
  • Shall bite her breast. It is a truthful dream.
  • My seer be thou. Say have I read it well?
Chorus.
  • Bravely. Now, for the rest, thy friends instruct
  • What things to do, and what things to refrain.
Orest.
  • ’Tis said in few. Electra, go within,
  • And keep my counsels in wise secrecy;
  • For, as they killed an honourable man
  • Deceitfully, by cunning and deceit
  • Themselves shall find the halter. Thus Apollo,
  • A prophet never known to lie, foretold.
  • Myself will come, like a wayfaring man
  • Accoutred, guest and spear-guest of this house, *
  • With Pylades, my friend, to the court gates.
  • We both will speak with a Parnassian voice,
  • Aping the Phocian tongue. If then it chance
  • (As seems most like, for this whole house with ills
  • Is sheer possessed) 41 that with a welcome greeting
  • No servant shall receive us, we will wait
  • Till some one pass, and for their churlish ways
  • Rate them thus sharply. “Sirs, why dare ye shut
  • Inhospitable doors against the stranger, 42
  • Making Ægisthus sin against the gods?”
  • When thus I pass the threshold of his courts,
  • And see him sitting on my father’s throne,
  • When he shall scan me face to face, and seek
  • To hear my tale; ere he may say the word,
  • Whence is the stranger? I will lay him dead,
  • Dressing him trimly o’er with points of steel.
  • The Fury thus, not scanted of her banquet,
  • Shall drink unmingled blood from Pelops’ veins,
  • The third and crowning cup. 43 Now, sister, see to ’t
  • That all within be ordered, as shall serve
  • My end most fitly. Ye, when ye shall speak,
  • Speak words of happy omen; teach your tongue
  • Both to be silent, and to speak in season.
  • For what remains, his present aid I ask,
  • Who laid on my poor wits this bloody task. 44

[ Exeunt.

  • CHORAL HYMN.
    STROPHE I.

  • Earth breeds a fearful progeny, 45
  • To man a hostile band,
  • With finny monsters teems the sea,
  • With creeping plagues the land;
  • And winged portents scour mid-air,
  • And flaring lightnings fly,
  • And storms, sublimely coursing, scare
  • The fields of the silent sky.
  • ANTISTROPHE I.

  • But Earth begets no monster dire
  • Than man’s own heart more dreaded,
  • All-venturing woman’s dreadful ire, 46
  • When love to woe is wedded.
  • No mate with mate there gently dwells,
  • There peace and joy depart,
  • Where loveless love triumphant swells,
  • In fearless woman’s heart.
  • STROPHE II.

  • This the light-witted may not know,
  • The wise shall understand,
  • Who hear the tale from age to age,
  • How Thestios’ daughter, wild with rage, 47
  • Lighted the fatal brand,
  • The brand that burned with conscious flashes
  • At the cry of her new-born son;
  • And, when the brand had burned to ashes,
  • His measured course was run.
  • ANTISTROPHE II.

  • And yet a tale of bloody love
  • From hoary eld I know,
  • How Scylla gay, in gold arrayed, 48
  • The gift of Minos old, betrayed
  • Her father to the foe.
  • Sleeping all careless as he lay,
  • She cut the immortal hair,
  • And Hermes bore his life away,
  • From the bold and blushless fair.
  • STROPHE III.

  • Ah me! not far needs fancy range
  • For tales of harshest wrong:
  • Here, even here, damned wedlock thrives,
  • And lawless loves are strong.
  • Within these halls, where blazes now
  • No holy hearth, a bloody vow
  • Against her liege lord’s life
  • She vowed; and he, the king divine,
  • Whose look back-drove the bristling line,
  • Bled by a woman’s knife.
  • ANTISTROPHE III.

  • O woman! woman! Lemnos saw 49
  • Your jealous fountains flow,
  • And, when the worst of woes is named,
  • It is a Lemnian woe.
  • From age to age the infected tale,
  • Far echoed by a wandering wail,
  • To East and West shall go;
  • And honor from the threshold hies,
  • On which the doom god-spoken lies; 50
  • Speak I not wisely so?
  • STROPHE IV.

  • Right through the heart shall pierce the blow,
  • When Justice is the sinner’s foe,
  • With the avenging steel;
  • In vain with brief success they strove,
  • Who trampled on the law of Jove,
  • With unregarding heel.
  • ANTISTROPHE IV.

  • Firm is the base of Justice. Fate,
  • With whetted knife, doth eager wait
  • At hoary Murder’s door;
  • The Fury, with dark-bosomed ire,
  • Doth send the son a mission dire,
  • To clear the parent’s score.

Enter Orestes.

Orest.
  • What, ho! dost hear no knocking? boy! within!
  • Is none within, boy? ho! dost hear me call
  • The third time at thy portal? Is Ægisthus
  • A man, whose ears are deaf to the strangers’ cry?
Ser.

[ appearing at the door ]. Enough I hear thee. Who art thou, and whence?

Orest.
  • Tell those within that a poor stranger waits
  • Before the gate, bearer of weighty news.
  • Speed thee; night’s dusky chariot swoopeth down,
  • And the dark hour invites the travelling man
  • To fix his anchor ’neath some friendly roof.
  • Thy mistress I would see, if here a mistress
  • Rules, or thy master rather, if a master.
  • For with a man a man may plainly deal,
  • But nice regard for the fine feeling ear 51
  • Oft mars the teller’s tale, when women hear.

Enter Clytemnestra.

Clytem
  • Strangers, speak your desire. Whate’er becomes
  • This house to give is free to you to share.
  • Hot baths, 52 a couch to soothe your travelled toil,
  • Blithe welcoming eyes, and gentle tendance; these
  • I freely give. If aught beyond ye crave,
  • There’s counsel with my lord. I’ll speak to him.
Orest.
  • I am a stranger come from Phocian Daulis.
  • When I, my burden to my back well saddled,
  • Stood for the road accoutred, lo! a man
  • To me not known, nor of me knowing more,
  • But seeing only that my feet were bound
  • For Argos, thus accosted me (his name,
  • I learned, was Strophius the Phocian): Stranger,
  • If Argos be thy purpose, bear this message
  • From me to whom it touches near. Orestes
  • Is dead; charge well thy memory with the tale,
  • And bring me mandate back, if so his friends
  • Would have him carried to his native home,
  • Or he with us due sepulture shall find,
  • A sojourner for ever. A brazen urn
  • Holds all the remnant of the much-wept man,
  • The ashes of his clay. Thus Strophius spake:
  • And if ye are the friends, whom chiefly grief
  • Pricks for his loss, my mission’s done; at least
  • His parents will be grieved to hear ’t.
Elect.

53

  • Woe’s me!
  • Sheer down we topple from proud height; harsh fate
  • Is ours to wrestle with. O jealous Curse,
  • How dost thou eye us fatal from afar,
  • And with thy well-trimmed bow shoot chiefly there
  • Where thou wert least suspect! Thou hast me now
  • A helpless captive lorn, and reft of all
  • My trustiest friends. Orestes also gone,
  • Whose feet above the miry slough most sure
  • Seemed planted! Now our revelry of hope,
  • The fair account that should have surgeoned woe,
  • Is audited at nothing! 54
Orest.
  • Would the gods,
  • Where happy hosts give welcome, I were guest
  • On a more pleasant tale! The entertained
  • No greater joy can know than with good news
  • To recreate his entertainer’s ears;
  • But piety forbade, nor faith allowed
  • To lop the head of truth.
Clytem.
  • Thou shalt not fare the worse for thy bad news,
  • Nor be less dear to us. Hadst thou been dumb,
  • Some other tongue had vented the sad tale.
  • But ye have travelled weary leagues to-day,
  • And doubtless need restoring. Take him, boy,
  • With the attendant sharers of his travel,
  • To the men’s chambers. See them well bestowed,
  • And do all things as one, that for neglect
  • Shall give account. Meanwhile, our lord shall know
  • What fate hath chanced, his wit and mine shall find
  • What solace may be for these news unkind.

[ Exeunt into the house.

Chorus.
  • When, O when, shall we, my sisters,
  • Lift the strong full-throated hymn,
  • To greet Orestes’ triumph? Thou,
  • O sacred Earth, and verge revered
  • Of this lofty mound, where sleeps
  • The kingly helmsman of our State,
  • Hear thou, and help! prevail the hour
  • Of suasive wile, and smooth deceit! 55
  • Herald him Hermes—lead him, thou
  • The nightly courier of the dead, 56
  • Through this black business of the sword!
  • In sooth the host hath housed a grievous guest;
  • For see where comes Orestes’ nurse, all tears!
  • Where goest thou, nurse, beyond our gates to walk,
  • And why walks Grief, an unfee’d page, with thee!

Enter Nurse.

Nurse.
  • My mistress bids me bring Ægisthus quickly,
  • To see the strangers face to face, that he
  • May of their sad tale more assurance win
  • From their own mouths. Herself to us doth show
  • A murky-visaged grief; but in her eye
  • Twinkles a secret joy, that time hath brought
  • The consummation most devoutly wished
  • By her—to us and Agamemnon’s house
  • Most fatal issue, if these news be true.
  • Ægisthus, too, with a light heart will hear
  • These Phocian tidings. O wretched me! what weight
  • Of mingled woes from sire to son bequeathed,
  • Have the gods burdened us withal! Myself,
  • How many griefs have shaken my old heart;
  • But this o’ertops them all! The rest I bore,
  • As best I might, with patience: but Orestes,
  • My own dear boy, my daily, hourly care,
  • Whom from his mother’s womb these breasts did suckle—
  • How often did I rise o’ nights, and walked
  • From room to room, to soothe his baby cries;
  • But all my nursing now, and all my cares
  • Fall fruitless. ’Tis a pithless thing a child,
  • No forest whelp so helpless; one must even
  • Wait on its humour, as the hour may bring.
  • No voice it has to speak its fitful wants,
  • When hunger, thirst, or Nature’s need commands.
  • The infant’s belly asks no counsel. I
  • Was a wise prophetess to all his wants,
  • Though sometimes false, as others are. I was
  • Nurse to the child, and fuller to its clothes,
  • And both to one sad end. Alack the day!
  • This double trade with little fruit I plied,
  • What time I nursed Orestes for his father;
  • For he is dead, and I must live to hear it.
  • But I must go, and glad his heart, who lives
  • Plague of this house, with news that make me weep.
Chorus.

What say’st thou, Nurse? how shall thy master come?

Nurse.

How say’st thou? how shall I receive the question?

Chorus.

Alone, I mean, or with his guards?

Nurse.
  • She says
  • His spearmen shall attend him.
Chorus.
  • Not so, Nurse!
  • If thou dost hate our most hate-worthy master,
  • Tell him to come alone, without delay,
  • To hear glad tidings with exulting heart.
  • The bearer of a tale can make it wear
  • What face he pleases. 57
Nurse.
  • Well! if thou mean’st well,
  • Perhaps—
Chorus.
  • Perhaps that Jove may make the breeze
  • Yet veer to us.
Nurse.
  • How so? Our only hope,
  • Orestes, is no more.
Chorus.
  • Softly, good Nurse;
  • Thou art an evil prophet, if thou say’st so.
Nurse.

How? hast thou news to a different tune?

Chorus.
  • Go! go!
  • Mind thine own business, and the gods will do
  • What thing they will do.
Nurse.
  • Well! I’ll do thy bidding!
  • The gods lead all things to a fair conclusion!
  • CHORAL HYMN. 58
    STROPHE I.

  • O thou, o’er all Olympian gods that be,
  • Supremely swaying,
  • With words of wisdom, when I pray to thee,
  • Inspire my praying.
  • We can but pray; to do, O Jove, is thine,
  • Thou great director;
  • Of him within, who works thy will divine,
  • Be thou protector!
  • Him raise, the orphaned son whom thou dost see
  • In sheer prostration;
  • Twofold and threefold he shall find from thee
  • Just compensation.
  • ANTISTROPHE I.

  • But hard the toil. Yoked to the car of Fate,
  • When harshly driven,
  • O rein him thou! his goaded speed abate
  • Wisely from Heaven!
  • Jove tempers all, steadies all things that reel;
  • When wildly swerveth
  • From the safe line life’s burning chariot wheel,
  • His hand preserveth.
  • Ye gods, that guard these gold-stored halls, this day
  • Receive the claimant,
  • Who comes, that old Wrong to young Right may pay
  • A purple payment.
  • STROPHE II.

  • Blood begets blood; but, when this blow shall fall,
  • O thou, whose dwelling
  • Is Delphi’s fuming throat, may this be all!
  • Of red blood, welling
  • From guilty veins, enough. Henceforth may joy
  • Look from the eyes of the Atridan boy,
  • Discerning clearly
  • From his ancestral halls the clouds unrolled,
  • That hung so drearly.
  • ANTISTROPHE II.

  • And thou, O Maia’s son, * fair breezes blow,
  • The full sail swelling!
  • Cunning art thou through murky ways to go,
  • To Death’s dim dwelling;
  • Dark are the doings of the gods; and we,
  • When they are clearest shown, but dimly see;
  • Yet faith will follow
  • Where Hermes leads, the leader of the dead,
  • And thou, Apollo.
  • EPODE.

  • Crown ye the deed; then will I freely pour
  • The blithe libation,
  • And, with pure offerings, cleanse the Atridan floor
  • From desecration!
  • Then with my prosperous hymn the lyre shall blend
  • Its kindly chorus,
  • And Argos shall be glad, and every friend
  • Rejoice before us!
  • Gird thee with manhood, boy; though hard to do,
  • It is thy father’s work; to him be true.
  • And, when she cries— Son, wilt thou kill thy Mother ?
  • Cry— Father, Father ! and with that name smother
  • The rising ruth. As Perseus, when he slew
  • The stony Dread, * was stony-hearted, do
  • Thy mission stoutly;
  • For him below, and her above, pursue
  • This work devoutly.
  • The gods by thee, in righteous judgment, show
  • Their grace untender!
  • Thou to the man, that dealt the deathful blow,
  • Like death shalt render.

Enter Ægisthus.

Ægis.
  • Not uninvited come I, having heard
  • A rumour strange, by certain strangers brought,
  • No pleasant tale—Orestes’ death. In sooth,
  • A heavy fear-distilling sorrow this,
  • More than a house may bear, whose wounds yet bleed,
  • And ulcerate from the fangs of fate. But say,
  • Is this a fact that looks us in the face,
  • Or startling words of woman’s fears begotten,
  • That shoot like meteors through the air, and die?
  • What proof, ye maids, what proof?
Chorus.
  • Our ears have heard.
  • But go within; thyself shalt see the man;
  • Try well the teller, e’er thou trust the tale.
Ægis.
  • I’ll scan him well, and prove him close, if he
  • Himself was at the death, or but repeat
  • From blind report the news another told.
  • It will go hard, if idle breath cheat me.
  • My eyes are in my head, and I can see.

[ Exit into the house.

Chorus.
  • Jove! great Jove! What shall I say?
  • How with pious fervour pray,
  • That from thee the answer fair
  • Be wafted to my friendly prayer?
  • Now the keen-edged axe shall strike,
  • With a life-destroying blow;
  • Now, or, plunged in deep perdition,
  • Agamemnon’s house sinks low,
  • Or the hearth with hope this day
  • Shall blaze, through all the ransomed halls,
  • And the son his father’s wealth
  • Shall win, and with his sceptre sway.
  • In the bloody combat fresh,
  • He shall risk it, one with two;
  • Hand to hand the fight shall be.
  • Godlike son of Agamemnon,
  • Jove give strength to thee!
Ægis.

[ from within ]. Ah me! I fall. Ah! Ah!

Chorus.
  • Hear’st thou that cry? How is’t? Whose was that groan?
  • Let’s go aside, the deed being done, that we
  • Seem not partakers of the bloody work. 59
  • ’Tis ended now.

Enter Servant.

Serv.
  • Woe’s me! my murdered master!
  • Thrice woeful deed! Ægisthus lives no more.
  • Open the women’s gates! uncase the bolts!
  • Were needed here a Titan’s strength—though that
  • Would nothing boot the dead. Ho! hillo! ho!
  • Are all here deaf? or do I babble breath
  • In sleepers’ ears? Where, where is Clytemnestra?
  • What keeps my mistress? On a razor’s edge
  • Her fate now lies; the blow’s already poised,
  • That falls on her too—nor unjustly falls.

Enter Clytemnestra.

Clytem.

Well! what’s the matter? why this clamorous cry?

Serv.

He, who was dead, has slain the quick. ’Tis so.

Clytem.
  • Ha! Thou speak’st riddles; but I understand thee.
  • We die by guile, as guilefully we slew.
  • Bring me an axe! an axe to kill a man!
  • Quickly!—or conqueror or conquered, I
  • Will fight it out. To this ’tis come at last.

Enter Orestes, dragging in the dead body of Ægisthus; with him Pylades.

Orest.

Thee next I seek. For him, he hath enough.

Clytem.

Ah me! my lord, my loved Ægisthus dead!

Orest.
  • Dost love this man? then thou shalt sleep with him,
  • In the same tomb. He was thy bedmate living,
  • Be thou his comrade, dead.
Clytem.
  • Hold thee, my son!
  • Look on this breast, to which with slumbrous eyes
  • Thou oft hast clung, the while thy baby gum
  • Sucked the nutritious milk.
Orest.
  • What say’st thou, Pylades?
  • Shall I curtail the work, and spare my mother?
Pyl.
  • Bethink thee well; the Loxian oracles,
  • Thy sure-pledged vows, where are they, if she live?
  • Make every man thy foe, but fear the gods.
Orest.
  • Thy voice shall rule in this; thou judgest wisely.
  • Follow this man, here, side by side with him,
  • I’ll butcher thee. Seemed he a fairer man
  • Than was my father when my father lived?
  • Sleep thou, where he sleeps; him thou lovest well,
  • And whom thou chiefly shouldst have loved thou hatedst.
Clytem.

I nursed thy childhood, and in peace would die. 60

Orest.

Spare thee to live with me—my father’s murderer?

Clytem.

Not I; say rather Fate ordained his death.

Orest.

The self-same Fate ordains thee now to die.

Clytem.

My curse beware, the mother’s curse that bore thee.

Orest

That cast me homeless from my father’s house.

Clytem.

Nay; to a friendly house I lent thee, boy.

Orest.

Being free-born, I like a slave was sold.

Clytem.

I trafficked not with thee. I gat no gold.

Orest.

Worse—worse than gold—a thing too foul to name!

Clytem.

Name all my faults; but had thy father none?

Orest.
  • Thou art a woman sitting in thy chamber. 61
  • Judge not the man that goes abroad, and labours.
Clytem.

Hard was my lot, my child, alone, uncherished.

Orest.
  • Alone by the fire, while for thy gentle ease
  • The husband toiled.
Clytem.

Thou wilt not kill me, son?

Orest.

I kill thee not. Thyself dost kill thyself.

Clytem.

Beware thy mother’s anger-whetted hounds. *

Orest.

My father’s hounds have hunted me to thee.

Clytem.
  • The stone that sepulchres the dead art thou,
  • And I the tear on’t.
Orest.
  • Cease: I voyaged here,
  • With a fair breeze; my father’s murder brought me.
Clytem.

Ah me! I nursed a serpent on my breast.

Orest.

62

  • Thou hadst a prophet in thy dream, last night;
  • And since thou kill’d the man thou shouldst have spared,
  • The man, that now should spare thee, can but kill.

[ He drives her into the house, and there murders her.

Chorus.
  • There’s food for sorrow here; but rather, since
  • Orestes could not choose but scale the height
  • Of bloody enterprise, our prayer is this:
  • That he, the eye of this great house, may live. 63
  • CHORAL HYMN.
    STROPHE I.

  • Hall of old Priam, with sorrow unbearable,
  • Vengeance hath come on the Argive thy foe;
  • A pair of grim lions, a double Mars terrible, 64
  • Comes to his palace, that levelled thee low.
  • Chanced hath the doom of the guilty precisely,
  • Even as Phœbus foretold it, and wisely
  • Where the god pointed, was levelled the blow.
  • Lift up the hymn of rejoicing; the lecherous,
  • Sin-laden tyrant shall lord it no more;
  • No more shall the mistress so bloody and treacherous
  • Lavish the plundered Pelopidan store.
  • STROPHE II.

  • Sore chastisement 65 came on the doomed and devoted,
  • With dark-brooding purpose and fair-smiling show;
  • And the daughter of Jove the eternal was noted,
  • Guiding the hand that inflicted the blow—
  • Bright Justice, of Jove, the Olympian daughter;
  • But blasted they fell with the breath of her slaughter
  • Whose deeds of injustice made Justice their foe.
  • Her from his shrine sent the rock-throned Apollo, 66
  • The will of her high-purposed sire to obey,
  • The track of the blood-stained remorseless to follow,
  • Winged with sure death, though she lag by the way.
  • EPODE.

  • Ye rulers on Earth, fear the rulers in Heaven,
  • No aid by the gods to the froward is given;
  • For the bonds of our thraldom asunder are riven,
  • And the day dawns clear.
  • Lift up your heads; from prostration untimely
  • Ye halls of the mighty be lifted sublimely!
  • All-perfecting Time shall bring swift restitution,
  • And cleanse the hearth pure from the gory pollution,
  • Now the day dawns clear.
  • And blithely shall welcome them Fortune the fairest, 67
  • The brother and sister, with omens the rarest;
  • Each friend of this house show the warm love thou bearest,
  • Now the day dawns clear!

Enter Orestes, with the body of Clytemnestra.

Orest.
  • Behold this tyrant pair, my father’s murderers,
  • Usurpers of this land, and of this house
  • Destroyers. They this throne did use in pride,
  • And now in love, as whoso looks may guess,
  • They lie together, all their vows fulfilled.
  • Death to my hapless father, and to lie
  • Themselves on a common bier—this was their vow;
  • And they have vowed it well. Behold these toils,
  • Wherewith they worked destruction to my father,
  • Chained his free feet, and manacled his hands.
  • There—spread it forth—approach—peruse it nicely.
  • This mortal vest, that so the father—not
  • My father, but the Sun that fathers all
  • With light 68 —may see what godless deed was done
  • Here by my mother. Let him witness duly,
  • That not unjustly I have spilt this blood—
  • My mother’s; for Ægisthus recks me not;
  • As an adulterer should, he died: but she,
  • That did devise such foul detested wrong
  • Against the lord, to whom beneath her zone
  • She bore a burden, once so valued, now
  • A weight that damns her; what was she?—a viper
  • Or a torpedo—that with biteless touch
  • Strikes numb who handles. 69 Harsh the smoothest phrase
  • To name the bold unrighteous will she used.
  • And for this fowler’s net—this snare—this trap—
  • This cloth to wrap the dead 70 —this veil to curtain
  • A bloody bath—teach me a name for it!
  • Such murderous toils the ruffians use, who spill
  • Their neighbour’s blood, that they may seize his gold,
  • And warm their heart with plenty not their own.
  • Lodge no such mate with me! Sooner may I
  • Live by high Heaven accursed, and childless die.
Chorus.
  • A sorry work—alas! alas!
  • A dismal death she found.
  • Nor sorrow quite from man may pass
  • That lives above the ground.
Orest.
  • A speaking proof! Behold, Ægisthus’ sword
  • Hath left its witness on this robe; the time
  • Hath paled the murtherous spot, but where it was
  • The sumptuous stole hath lost its radiant dye.
  • Alas! I know not, when mine eyes behold
  • This father-murdering web, if I should own
  • Joy lord, or grief. Let grief prevail. I grieve
  • Our crimes, our woes, our generation doomed,
  • Our tearful trophies blazoned with a curse.
Chorus.
  • The gods so will that, soon or late,
  • Each mortal taste of sorrow;
  • A frown to-day from surly Fate,
  • A biting blast to-morrow.
Orest.
  • Others ’twixt hope and fear may sway, my fate
  • Is fixed and scapeless. 71 Like a charioteer,
  • Dragged from his course by steeds that spurned the rein,
  • Thoughts past control usurp me. Terror lifts,
  • Even now, the prelude to her savage hymn,
  • Within my heart exultant. But, while yet
  • My sober mind remains, witness ye all
  • My friends, this solemn abjuration! Not
  • Unjustly, when I slew, I slew my mother—
  • That mother, with my father’s blood polluted,
  • Of every god abhorred. And I protest
  • The god that charmed me to the daring point
  • Was Loxias, with his Pythian oracles,
  • Pledging me blameless, this harsh work once done,
  • Not done, foredooming what I will not say;
  • All thoughts most horrible undershoot the mark.
  • And now behold me, as a suppliant goes,
  • With soft-wreathed wool, and precatory branch, 72
  • Addressed for Delphi, the firm-seated shrine
  • Of Loxias, navel of earth, where burns the flame
  • Of fire immortal named. 73 For I must flee
  • This kindred blood, and hie me where the god
  • Forespoke me refuge. Once again I call
  • On you, and Argive men of every time,
  • To witness my great griefs. I go an exile
  • From this dear soil. Living, or dead, I leave
  • These words, the one sad memory of my name.
Chorus.
  • Thou hast done well; yoke not thy mouth this day
  • To evil words. Thou art the liberator
  • Of universal Argos, justly greeted,
  • Who from the dragon pair the head hath lopped.

[ The Furies appear in the background.

Orest.
  • Ah, me! see there! like Gorgons! look! look there!
  • All dusky-vested, and their locks entwined
  • With knotted snakes. Away! I may not stay.
Chorus.
  • O son, loved of thy sire, be calm, nor let
  • Vain phantoms fret thy soul, in triumph’s hour.
Orest.
  • These are no phantoms, but substantial horrors;
  • Too like themselves they show, the infernal hounds
  • Sent from my mother!
Chorus.
  • ’Tis the fresh-gouted blood
  • Upon thy hand, that breeds thy brain’s distraction.
Orest.
  • Ha! how they swarm! Apollo! more—yet more!
  • And from their fell eyes droppeth murderous gore.
Chorus.
  • There is atonement. 74 Touch but Loxias’ altar,
  • And he from bloody stain shall wash thee clean.
Orest.
  • Ye see them not. I see them. 75 There!—Away!
  • The hell-hounds hunt me: here I may not stay.
Chorus.
  • Nay, but with blessing go. From fatal harm
  • Guard thee the god whose eyes in love behold thee! 76
  • Blown hath now the third harsh tempest,
  • O’er the proud Atridan palace,
  • Floods of family woe!
  • First thy damned feast, Thyestes,
  • On thy children’s flesh abhorrent;
  • Then the kingly man’s prostration,
  • And thy warlike pride, Achaia,
  • Butchered in a bath,
  • Now he, too, our greeted Saviour
  • Red with this new woe!
  • When shall Fate’s stern work be ended,
  • When shall cease the boisterous vengeance,
  • Hushed in slumbers low?

NOTES TO THE CHOEPHORÆ

Here we have a notable example of the terms of that sort of excommunication which the religious and social feeling of the ancients passed against the perpetrators of atrocious crimes. See Introductory Remarks to the Eumenides.

  • “προς γαρ Διος ἐισιν ἂπαντες
  • ξεινοί τε πτωχοί τε.”

All strangers and beggars come from Jove.

  • ’εν ὰγγελῳ γὰρ κρυπτὸς ὠρθωθῃ ϕρενὶ
  • animo enini clam erigatur nuntio isto.

—See Butler’s Notes.

THE EUMENIDES
A LYRICO-DRAMATIC SPECTACLE

PERSONS

The Pythoness of the Temple of Apollo in Delphi.

Apollo.

Hermes (Mute).

The Shade of Clytemnestra.

Chorus of Furies.

Pallas Athena.

Judges of the Court of Areopagus (Mute).

Convoy of the Furies.

Scene First at Delphi in the Temple of Apollo; then on the Hill of Mars, Athens.

INTRODUCTORY REMARKS

Though the ancient Greek religion, there can be no question, was too much the creation of mere imagination, and tended rather to cultivate a delicate sense of beauty than to strike the soul with a severe reverence before the awful majesty of the moral law, yet it is no less certain that to look upon it as altogether addressed to our sensuous emotions, however convenient for a certain shallow school of theology, would lead the calm inquirer after moral truth far away from the right track. As among the gods that rule over the elements of the physical world, Jove, according to the Homeric creed, asserts a high supremacy, which restrains the liberty of the celestial aristocracy from running into lawless licence and confusion; so the wild and wanton ebullitions of human passion, over which a Bacchus, a Venus, and a Mars preside, are not free from the constant control of a righteous Jove, and the sacred terror of a retributive Erinnys. The great lesson of a moral government, and a secret order of justice pervading the apparent confusion of the system of things of which we are a part, is sufficiently obvious in the whole structure of the two great Homeric poems; but if it exists in the midst of that sunny luxuriance of popular fancy as a felt atmosphere, it is planted by Æschylus, the thoughtful lyrist of a later age, on a visible elevation, whence, as from a natural pulpit, enveloped with dark clouds, or from a Heathen Sinai, involved in fearful thunders and lightnings, it trumpets forth its warnings, and hurls its bolts of flaming denunciation against Sin. The reader, who has gone through the two preceding pieces of this remarkable trilogy, without discovering this their deep moral significance, has read to little purpose; but it is here, in the concluding piece, that the grand doctrine of the moral government of the world is most formally enunciated; it is in the person of the Furies that the wrathful indignation of Jove against the violators of the moral law manifests itself, in the full panoply of terror, and stands out as the stern Avatar of an inexorable Justice. Here, therefore, if we will understand the moral seriousness, of which the gay Hellenic Polytheism was not without its background, let us fix our gaze. If the principles of “immutable morality,” of which our great English Platonist talks so comprehensively, are to be found anywhere, they are to be found here.

The Furies (or the Εὐμενίδες, i.e. the Gracious-minded, as they are called by a delicate euphemism) are generally looked upon as the impersonations of an evil conscience, the incarnated scourges of self-reproach. In this view there is no essential error; but it may be beneficial, in entering on the perusal of the present piece, to place before the modern reader more literally the true Homeric idea of these awful Powers. In the Iliad and Odyssey, frequent mention is made of the Erinnyes; and from the circumstances, in which their names occur, in various passages of these poems, there can be no doubt that we are to view them primarily as the impersonation of an imprecation or curse, which a person, whose natural rights have been grossly violated, pronounces on the person, by whom this violation comes. * Thus the father of Phoenix (Il. ix. 453), being offended by the conduct of his son in relation to one of his concubines, “loads him with frequent curses, and invokes the hated Furies”—

Πολλὰ κατηρατο, στυγερὰς δ’ ἐπίκεκλετ Εριννῠς,

and “the gods,” it is added, “gave accomplishment to his curse, the subterranean Jove, and the awful Persephone” In the same book we find, in the narration of the war, between the Curetes and the Ætolians, about Calydon, how Althaea, the mother of Meleager, being offended with her son on account of his having slain her brother, cursed him, and invoked Pluto and Proserpine that he might die, and

  • Her the Fury that walketh in darkness,
  • Heard from Erebus’ depths, with a heart that knoweth no mercy.

Both these instances relate to offences committed against the revered character of a parent; but the elder brother also has his Erinnys.—(Il. xv. 204), and even the houseless beggar—(Od. xvii. 575), and, more than all, he to whose prejudice the sacred obligation of truth and honour have been set at nought by the perjured swearer—

  • Mighty Jove, be thou my witness, Jove of gods supremest, best,
  • Earth, and Sun, and Furies dread, that underneath the ground avenge
  • Whoso speaks and sweareth falsely—

says Agamemnon—(Il. xix. 257)—in restoring the intact Briseis to Achilles.

Thus, according to Homer’s idea, wherever there is a cry of righteous indignation, rising up to Heaven from the breast of an injured person, there may be a Fury or Furies; for they are not limited or defined in any way as to number. It is not, however, on every petty occasion of common offence that these dread ministers of divine vengeance appear. Only, when deeds of a deeper darkness are done, do these daughters of primeval Night (for so Æschylus symbolises their pedigree) issue forth from their subterranean caverns. There is something volcanic in their indignation, whose eruption is too terrible to be common. They chiefly frequent the paths, that are dabbled with blood. A murdered father, or a murdered mother especially, were never known to appeal to them in vain, even though Jove’s own prophet, Apollo, add his sanction to the deed. An Orestes may not hope to escape the bloody chase, which the “winged hounds,” invoked by a murdered Clytemnestra, are eager to prepare—the sacred precincts of an oracular Delphi may not repel their intrusion—the scent of blood “laughs in their nostrils,” and they will not be cheated of their game. Only one greatest goddess, in whose hands are the keys of her father’s armoury of thunder, may withstand the full rush of these vindictive powers. Only Pallas Athena, with her panoply of Olympian strength, and her divine wisdom of reconciliation can bid them be pacified.

In order to understand thoroughly the situation of the matricide Orestes, in the present play, we must consider further the ancient doctrine of pollution attaching to an act of murder, and the consequent necessity of purification to the offender. The nature of this is distinctly set forth by Orestes himself in a reply to his sister Iphigenia, put into his mouth by Euripides. “Loxias,” he says, “first sent me to Athens, and

  • There first arrived, no host would entertain me,
  • As being hated of the immortal gods,
  • And some, who pitied me, before me placed
  • Cold entertainment on a separate board;
  • Beneath the same roof though I lodged with them,
  • No interchange of living voice I knew,
  • But sat apart and ate my food alone.”
  • Iphig. Taur. 954.

Like an unclean leper among the Jews, the man polluted with human blood wandered from land to land, as with a Cain’s mark upon his brow, and every fellow-being shrank from his touch as from a living plague.

  • “For wisely thus our ancestors ordained,
  • That the blood-tainted man should know no joy
  • From sight of fellow-mortal or from touch,
  • But with an horrid sanctitude protected
  • Range the wide earth an exile.”
  • Eurip. Orest. 512.

Under the ban of such a social excommunication as this, the first act of readmission into the fraternity of human society was performed by the sprinkling of swine’s blood on the exile, a ceremony described particularly in the following passage of Apollonius Rhodius, where Jason and Medea are purified by Circe from the taint of the murder of Absyrtus:—

  • “First to free them from the taint of murder not to be recalled,
  • She above them stretched the suckling of a sow whose teats distilled
  • The juice that flows when birth is recent; this she cut across the throat,
  • And with the crimson blood outflowing dashed the tainted suppliants’ hands.
  • Then with other pure libations she allayed the harm, invoking
  • Jove that hears the supplication of the fugitive stained with blood”
  • Argon. IV. 704-9.

The other “pure libations” here mentioned include specially water, of which particular mention is made in the legend of Alcmæon, which bears a remarkable resemblance to that of Orestes, and in which it is in the sacred stream of the Achelous alone that purification is at length found, from the deeply-engrained guilt of matricide.—(Apollodor, Lib. III., c. 7.) All this, however, availed only to remove the unhallowed taint, with which human blood had defiled the murderer. It was necessary, further, that he should be tried before a competent court, and formally acquitted, as having performed every atonement and given every satisfaction that the nature of the case required. According to the consuetudinary law of Athens, there were various courts in which different cases of murder and manslaughter were tried; but of all the courts that held solemn judgment on shed blood, none was more venerable in its origin, or more weighty in its authority, than the famous court of the Areopagus; and here it is, accordingly, that, after being wearied out by the sleepless chase of his relentless pursuers, Orestes, with the advice and under the protection of Apollo, arrives to gain peace to his soul by a final verdict of acquittal from the sage elders of Athens, acting by the authority and with the direction of their wise patron-goddess, Athena.

The connection of Athena and the Areopagus with the Orestean legend gives to the present play a local interest and a patriotic hue of which the want is too often felt in the existing remains of the Attic tragedy. But Athena and the grave seniors of the hill of Ares are not the only celestial personages here, in whom an Athenian audience would find a living interest. The Furies themselves enjoyed a special reverence in the capital of Athens, under the title of Σεμνὰι θεαι, or the dread goddesses, and the principal seat of this worship, whether by a happy conjunction or a wise choice, was situated on the north-east side (looking towards the Acropolis) of that very hill of the war god, where the venerable court that bore his name held its solemn sessions on those crimes, which it was the principal function of the Furies to avenge. Up to the present hour, the curious traveller through the wreck of Athenian grandeur sees pointed out the black rift of the rock into which the awful virgins, after accepting the pacification of Athena, are reported to have descended into their subterranean homes; * and it is with this very descent, amid flaming torch-light and solemn hymns, that the great tragedian, mingling peace with fear, closes worthily the train of startling superhuman terrors which this drama exhibits.

But Æschylus is not a patriot only, and a pious worshipper of his country’s gods in this play, he is also, to some small extent at least, manifestly a politician. The main feature of the constitutional history of Athens in the period immediately following the great Persian war, to which period our trilogy belongs, was the enlargement and the systematic completion of those democratic forms, of which the timocratic legislation of Solon, about a century and a-half before, had planted the first germs. Of these changes, Pericles, the man above all others who knew both to understand and to control his age, was the chief promoter; and in a policy whose main tendency was the substitution of a numerous popular for a narrow professional control of public business, it could not fail to be a main feature, that the authority of the judges of the old aristocratic courts was curtailed in favour of those bodies of paid jurymen, the institution of which is specially attributed to Pericles and his coadjutor Ephialtes. Whether these changes were politic or not, in the large sense of that word, need not be inquired here; Mr. Grote has done much to lengthen the focus of those short-sighted national spectacles, through which the English eye has been accustomed to view the classic democracies; but let it be that Pericles kept within the bounds of a wise liberty in giving a fair and a large trial to the action of democratic principles at that time and place; or let it be, on the other hand, that he overstepped the line

  • “Which whoso passes, or who reaches not,
  • Misses the mark of right”—

in either case, where decision was so difficult, and discretion so delicate, no one can accuse the thoughtful tragic poet of a stolid conservatism, when he comes forward, in this play, as the advocate of the only court of high jurisdiction in Athens, now left unshaken by the great surge of those popular billows, that were yet swelling everywhere with the eager inspiration of Marathon and Salamis. * The court of Areopagus was not now, since the legislation of Solon, and the further democratic movement of Cleisthenes, in any invidious or exclusive sense an aristocratic assembly, such as the close corporations of the old Roman aristocracy before the series of popular changes introduced by Licinius Stolo; it was a council, in fact, altogether without that family and hereditary element, in which the principal offence of aristocracy has always lain; its members were composed entirely (not recruited merely like our House of Lords) of those superior magistrates—archons annually elected by the people—who had retired from office. To magnify the authority of such a body, and maintain intact the few privileges that had now been left it, was, when an obvious opportunity offered, not only excusable in a great national tragedian, but imperative. One thing his political attitude in this matter certainly proves, that he was not a vulgar hunter after popularity, delighting to swell to the point of insane exaggeration the cry of the hour, but one of those men of high purpose, who prove a greater strength of patriotism by stemming the popular stream, than by swimming with it.

Besides the championship of the Court of the Areopagus, there is another political element in this rich drama, which, though of less consequence, must not be omitted. No sooner had the Persian invaders been fairly driven back from the Hellenic shore, than that old spirit of narrow local jealousy, which was the worm at the heart of Grecian political existence, broke out with renewed vigour, and gave ominous indications in the untoward affair of Tanagra, of that terrible collision which shook the two great rival powers a few years afterwards in the famous Peloponnesian war. Sparta and Athens, opposed as they were by race, by geographical position, and by political character, after some public attempts at co-operation, in which Cimon was the principal actor, shrunk back, as in quiet preparation for the great trial of strength, into a state of isolated antagonism. But, though open hostility was deferred, wise precaution could not sleep; and, accordingly, we find the Athenians, about this time, anxious to secure a base of operations, so to speak, against Sparta in the Peloponnesus, by entering into an alliance with Argos. As a genuine Athenian, Æschylus, whatever his political feelings might be towards Cimon and the Spartan party, could not but look with pleasure on the additional strength which this Argive connection gave to Athens in the general council of Greece; and, accordingly, he dexterously takes advantage of the circumstance of Orestes being an Argive, to trace back the now historical union of the two countries to a period where Fancy is free to add what links she pleases to the brittle bonds of international association

Such is a rapid sketch of the principal religious and political relations, some notion of which is necessary to enable the general English reader to enter with sympathy on the perusal of the very powerful and singular drama of the Eumenides The professional student, of course, will not content himself with what he finds here, but will seek for complete satisfaction in the luminous pages of Thirlwall and Grote—in the learned articles of Dr. Smith’s Dictionary of Antiquities, in the notes of Schoemann, and, above all, in the rare Dissertations of Ottfried Muller, accompanying his edition of the Eumenides—a work which I have read once and again with mingled admiration and delight—from which I have necessarily drawn with no stinted hand in my endeavours to comprehend the Orestean trilogy for myself, and to make it comprehensible to others; and which I most earnestly recommend to all classical students as a pattern-specimen of erudite architecture raised by the hand of a master, from whom, even in his points of most baseless speculation (as what German is without such?), more is to be learned than from the triple-fanged certainties of vulgar commentators.

THE EUMENIDES

Scene. In front of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi.

The Pythoness.
  • Old Earth, primeval prophetess, I first
  • With these my prayers invoke; and Themis 1 next,
  • Who doth her mother’s throne and temple both
  • Inherit, as the legend runs; and third
  • In lot’s due course, another Earth-born maid
  • The unforced homage of the land received,
  • Titanian Phœbe; * she in natal gift
  • With her own name her hoary right bequeathed
  • To Phœbus: he from rocky Delos’ lake 2
  • To Attica’s ship-cruised bays was wafted, whence
  • He in Parnassus fixed his sure abode.
  • Hither with pious escort they attend him:
  • The Sons of Vulcan pioneer his path, 3
  • Smoothing the rugged desert where he comes:
  • The thronging people own him, and king Delphos,
  • The land’s high helmsman, flings his portals wide.
  • Jove with divinest skill his heart inspires,
  • And now the fourth on this dread seat enthroned
  • Sits Loxias, prophet of his father Jove. 4
  • These be the gods, whom chiefly I invoke:
  • But thee, likewise, who ’fore this temple dwellest, 5
  • Pallas, I pray, and you, ye Nymphs that love
  • The hollow Corycian rock, 6 the frequent haunt
  • Of pleasant birds, the home of awful gods.
  • Thee, Bromius, too, I worship, 7 not unweeting
  • How, led by thee, the furious Thyads rushed
  • To seize the godless Pentheus, 8 ev’n as a hare
  • Is dogged to death. And you, the fountains pure
  • Of Pleistus, and Poseidon’s § mighty power 9
  • I pray, and Jove most high, that crowns all things
  • With consummation. These the gods that lead me
  • To the prophetic seat, and may they grant me
  • Best-omened entrance; may consulting Greeks,
  • If any be, by custom’d lot approach;
  • For as the gods my bosom stir, I pour
  • The fateful answer.

[ She goes into the Temple, but suddenly returns.

  • O horrid tale to tell! O sight to see
  • Most horrible! that drives me from the halls
  • Of Loxias, so that I nor stand nor run,
  • But, like a beast fourfooted stumble on,
  • Losing the gait and station of my kind,
  • A gray-haired woman, weaker than a child! 10
  • Up to the garlanded recess I walked,
  • And on the navel-stone * behold! a man
  • With crime polluted to the altar clinging,
  • And in his bloody hand he held a sword
  • Dripping with recent murder, and a branch
  • Of breezy olive, with flocks of fleecy wool
  • All nicely tipt. Even thus I saw the man;
  • And stretched before him an unearthly host
  • Of strangest women, on the sacred seats
  • Sleeping—not women, but a Gorgon brood,
  • And worse than Gorgons, or the ravenous crew
  • That filched the feast of Phineus 11 (such I’ve seen
  • In painted terror); but these are wingless, black,
  • Incarnate horrors, and with breathings dire
  • Snort unapproachable, and from their eyes
  • Pestiferous beads of poison they distil.
  • Such uncouth sisterhood, apparel’d so, 12
  • From all affinity of gods or men
  • Divorced, from me and from the gods be far,
  • And from all human homes! Nor can the land,
  • That lends these unblest hags a home, remain
  • Uncursed by fearful scourges. But the god,
  • Thrice-potent Loxias himself will ward
  • His holiest shrine from lawless outrage. Him
  • Physician, prophet, soothsayer, we call,
  • Cleansing from guilt the blood-polluted hall.

[ Exit.

The interior of the Delphic Temple is now presented to view. Orestes is seen clinging to the navel-stone; the Eumenides lie sleeping on the seats around. In the background Hermes beside Orestes. Enter Apollo.

Apollo [ to Orestes ] .
  • Trust me, I’ll not betray thee. Far or near,
  • Thy guardian I, and to thine every foe
  • No gentle god. Thy madded persecutors
  • Sleep-captured lie: the hideous host is bound.
  • Primeval virgins, hoary maids, with whom
  • Nor god, nor man, nor beast hath known communion.
  • For evil’s sake they are: in evil depth
  • Of rayless Tartarus, underneath the ground,
  • They dwell, of men and of Olympian gods
  • Abhorred. But hence! nor faint thy heart, though they
  • Are mighty to pursue from land to land
  • O’er measureless tracks, from rolling sea to sea,
  • And sea-swept cities. A bitter pasture truly
  • Was thine from Fate; 13 but bear all stoutly. Hie thee
  • Away to Pallas’ city, and embrace
  • Her ancient image 14 with close-clinging arms.
  • Just Judges there we will appoint to judge
  • Thy cause, and with soft-soothing pleas will pluck
  • The sting from thy offence, and free thee quite
  • From all thy troubles. Thou know’st that I, the god,
  • When thou didst strike, myself the blow directed.
Orest.
  • Liege lord Apollo, justice to the gods
  • Belongs; in justice, O remember me.
  • Thy power divine assurance gives that thou
  • Can’st make thy will a deed.
Apollo.
  • Fear nought. Trust me.
  • [ To Hermes ] And thou, true brother’s blood, true father’s son,
  • Hermes, attend, and to this mission gird thee.
  • Fulfil the happy omen of thy name,
  • The Guide, * and guide this suppliant on his way.
  • For Jove respects thy function and thy pride,
  • The prosperous convoy, and the faithful guide.

[ Exit Hermes, leading Orestes. Apollo retires.

Enter the Shade of Clytemnestra.

Clytem.
  • Sleeping? All sleeping! Ho! What need of sleepers?
  • While I roam restless, of my fellow-dead
  • Dishonoured and reproached, by fault of you,
  • That when I slew swift vengeance overtook me.
  • But being slain myself, my avengers sleep
  • And leave my cause to drift! Hear me, sleepers!
  • Such taunts I bear, such contumelious gibes,
  • Yet not one god is touched with wrath to avenge
  • My death, who died by matricidal hands.
  • Behold these wounds! 15 look through thy sleep, and see!
  • Read with thy heart; some things the soul may scan
  • More clearly, when the sensuous lid hath dropt,
  • Nor garish day confounds. 16 Full oft have ye
  • Of my libations sipped the wineless streams,
  • The soothings of my sober sacrifice,
  • The silent supper from the solemn altar,
  • At midnight hour when only ye are worshipped.
  • But now all this beneath your feet lies trampled.
  • The man is gone; fled like a hind! he snaps
  • The meshes of your toils, and makes—O shame!
  • Your Deity a mark for scoffers’ eyes
  • To wink at! Hear me, ye infernal hags,
  • Unhoused from hell! For my soul’s peace I plead,
  • Once Clytemnestra famous, now a dream. 17

[ The Chorus moans.

  • Ye moan! the while the man hath fled, and seeks
  • For help from those that are no friends to me. 18

[ The Chorus moans again.

  • Sleep-bound art thou. Hast thou no bowels for me?
  • My Furies sleep, and let my murderer flee.

[ The Chorus groans.

  • Groaning and sleeping! Up! What work hast thou
  • To do, but thine own work of sorrow? Rouse thee!

[ The Chorus groans again.

  • Sleep and fatigue have sworn a league to bind
  • The fearful dragon with strong mastery.
Chorus

[ with redoubled groans and shrill cries ].

Hold! seize him! seize him! seize there! there! there! hold!

Clytem.
  • Thy dream scents blood, and, like a dog that doth
  • In dreams pursue the chase, even so dost thou
  • At phantasms bark and howl. To work! to work!
  • Let not fatigue o’ermaster thus thy strength,
  • Nor slumber soothe the sense of sharpest wrong.
  • Torture thy liver with reproachful thoughts;
  • Reproaches are the pricks that goad the wise.
  • Up! blow a blast of bloody breath behind him!
  • Dry up his marrow with the fiery vengeance!
  • Follow! give chase! pursue him to the death!

Chorus, 19 starting up in hurry and confusion.

Voice 1.

Awake! awake! rouse her as I rouse thee!

Voice 2.
  • Dost sleep? arise! dash drowsy sleep away!
  • Brave dreams be prelude to brave deed! Ho, sisters!

STROPHE I.

Voice 1.
  • Shame, sisters, shame!
  • Insult and injury!
  • Shame, O shame!
Voice 2.

Shame on me, too: a bootless, fruitless shame!

Voice 1.
  • Insult and injury,
  • Sorrow and shame!
  • Burden unbearable,
  • Shame! O shame!
Voice 2.

The snare hath sprung: flown is the goodly game.

Voice 3.
  • I slept, and when sleeping
  • He sprang from my keeping;
  • Shame, O shame!

ANTISTROPHE I.

Voice 1.
  • O son of Jove, in sooth,
  • If thou wilt hear the truth,
  • Robber’s thy name!
Voice 2.

Thou being young dost overleap the old. 20

Voice 1.
  • A suppliant, godless,
  • And bloodstained, I see,
  • And bitter to parents,
  • Harboured by thee.
Voice 2.

Apollo’s shrine a mother-murderer’s hold!

Voice 3.
  • Apollo rewardeth
  • Whom Justice discardeth,
  • And robber’s his name!

STROPHE II.

Voice 1.
  • A voice of reproach
  • Came through my sleeping,
  • Like a charioteer
  • With his swift lash sweeping.
Voice 2.
  • Thorough my heart,
  • Thorough my liver,
  • Keen as the cold ice
  • Shot through the river.
Voice 3.
  • Harsh as the headsman,
  • Ruthless exacter,
  • When tearless he scourges
  • The doomed malefactor.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Voice 1.
  • All blushless and bold
  • The gods that are younger
  • Would rule o’er the old,
  • With the right of the stronger.
Voice 2.
  • The Earth’s navel-stone
  • So holy reputed,
  • All gouted with blood,
  • With fresh murder polluted,
  • Behold, O behold!
Voice 3.
  • By the fault of the younger,
  • The holiest holy
  • Is holy no longer.

STROPHE III.

Voice 1.
  • Thyself thy hearth with this pollution stained
  • Thyself, a prophet, free and unconstrained