  AGAMEMNONVerses 40-248 Nine weary years are gone and spent Since Menelaos' armament Sped forth, on work of vengeance bent, For Priam's guilty land; And with him Agamemnon there Throne, sceptre, army all did share; And so from Zeus the AtreidÆ bear, Their twofold high command. They a fleet of thousand sail, Strong in battle to prevail, Led from out our Argive coast, Shouting war-cries to the host; E'en as vultures do that utter Shrillest screams as round they flutter, Grieving for their nestlings lost, Plying still their oary wings In many lonely wanderings, Robbed of all the sweet unrest That bound them to their young ones' nest. And One on high of solemn state, Apollo, Pan, or Zeus the great, When he hears that shrill wild cry Of his clients in the sky, On them, the godless who offend, Erinnys slow and sure doth send. The sons of Atreus, chiefs of men, Zeus sent to work his high behest, True guardian of the host and guest. He, for bride of many a groom, On Danai, TroÏans sendeth doom, Many wrestlings, sinew-trying Of the knee in dust down-lying, Many a spear-shaft snapt asunder In the prelude of war's thunder. What shall be, shall, and still we see Fulfilled is destiny's decree. Nor by tears in secret shed, Nor by offerings o'er the dead, Will he soothe God's vengeful ire For altar hearths despoiled of fire. And we with age outworn and spent Are left behind that armament, With head upon our staff low bent. Weak our strength like that of boy; Youth's life-blood, in its bounding joy, For deeds of might is like to age, And knows not yet war's heritage: And the man whom many a year Hath bowed in withered age and sere, As with three feet creepeth on, Like phantom form of day-dream gone Not stronger than his infant son. And now, O Queen, who tak'st thy name From Tyndareus of ancient fame, Our ClytÆmnestra whom we own As rightly sharing Argos' throne! What tidings joyous hast thou heard, Token true or flattering word, Solemn pomp in stately line,— Shrines of Gods who reign in light, Or those who dwell in central night, Who in Heaven for aye abide, Or o'er the Agora preside. Lo, thy gifts on altars blaze, And here and there through heaven's wide ways The torches fling their fiery rays, Fed by soft and suasive spell Of the clear oil, flowing well From the royal treasure-cell. Telling what of this thou may, All that's meet to us to say, Do thou our haunting cares allay, Cares which now bring sore distress, While now bright hope, with power to bless, From out the sacrifice appears, And wardeth off our restless fears, The boding sense of coming fate, That makes the spirit desolate. Strophe I Yes, it is mine to tell What omens to our leaders then befell, Giving new strength for war, (For still though travelled far In life, by God's great gift to us belong The suasive powers of song,) To tell how those who bear O'er all AchÆans sway in equal share, Ruling in one accord The youth of Hellas that own each as lord, Were sent with mighty host By mighty birds against the TroÏan coast, Near to the palace, on the right hand veering; On spot seen far and near, They with their talons tear A pregnant hare with all her unborn young, All her life's course in death's deep darkness flung. Oh raise the bitter cry, the bitter wail; Yet pray that good prevail! Antistrophe I And then the host's wise seer Stood gazing on the AtreidÆ standing near, Of diverse mood, and knew Those who the poor hare slew, And those who led the host with shield and spear, And spake his omens clear: “One day this host shall go, And Priam's city in the dust lay low, And all the kine and sheep Countless, which they before their high towers keep, Fate shall with might destroy: Only take heed that no curse mar your joy, Nor blunt the edge of curb that TroÏa waiteth, Smitten too soon, for Artemis still hateth The wingÈd hounds that own Her father on his throne, Who slay the mother with the young unborn, And looks upon the eagle's feast with scorn. Ah! raise the bitter cry, the bitter wail; Yet pray that good prevail. Epode For she, the Fair One, though her mercy shields The lion's whelps, like dew-drops newly shed, And yeanling young of beasts that roam the fields, Yet prays her sire fulfil these omens dread, And now I call on him, our Healer true, Lest she upon the Danai send delays That keep our ships through many weary days, Urging a new strange rite, Unblest alike by man and God's high law, Evil close clinging, working sore despite, Marring a wife's true awe. For still there lies in wait, Fearful and ever new, Watching the hour its eager thirst to sate, Vengeance on those who helpless infants slew.” Such things, ill mixed with good, great Calchas spake, As destined by the birds' strange auguries; And we too now our echoing answer make In loud and woeful cries: Oh raise the bitter
s="line in8">But now by woe oppressed Priam's ancient city waileth very sore, And calls on Paris unto dark doom wed, Suffering yet more and more For all the blood of heroes vainly shed, And bearing through the long protracted years A life of wailing grief and bitter tears. Strophe II One was there who did rear A lion's whelp within his home to dwell, A monster waking fear, Weaned from the mother's milk it loved so well: Then in life's dawning light, Loved by the children, petted by the old, Oft in his arms clasped tight, With eye that gleamed beneath the fondling hand, And fawning as at hunger's strong command. Antistrophe II But soon of age full grown, It showed the inbred nature of its sire, And wrought unasked, alone, A feast to be that fostering nurture's hire; Gorged full with slaughtered sheep, The house was stained with blood as with a curse No slaves away could keep, A murderous mischief waxing worse and worse, Sent as from God a priest from AtÈ fell, And reared within the man's own house to dwell. Strophe III So I would say to Ilion then there came Mood as of calm when every wind is still, The gentle pride and joy of noble fame, The eye's soft glance that all the soul doth thrill; Love's full-blown flower that brings The thorn that wounds and stings; And yet she turned aside, And of the marriage feast wrought bitter end, Coming to dwell where Priam's sons abide, Ill sojourner, ill friend, Sent by great Zeus, the God of host and guest, A true Erinnys, by all wives unblest. Antistrophe III There lives a saying framed of ancient days, And in men's minds imprinted firm and fast, That great good fortune never childless stays, But brings forth issue,—that on fame at last Great woe for all the race; But I, apart, alone, Hold a far other and a worthier creed: The impious act is by ill issue known, Most like the parent deed; While still for all who love the Truth and Right, Good fortune prospers, fairer and more bright. Strophe IV But wanton Outrage done in days of old Another wanton Outrage still doth bear, And mocks at human woes with scorn o'erbold, Or soon or late as they their fortune share. That other in its turn Begets Satiety, And lawless Might that doth all hindrance spurn, And sacred right defy, Two AtÈs fell within their dwelling-place, Like to their parent race. Antistrophe IV Yet Justice still shines bright in dwellings murk And dim with smoke, and honours calm content; But gold-bespangled homes, where guilt doth lurk, She leaves with glance in horror backward bent, And draws with reverent fear To places holier far, And little recks the praise the prosperous hear, Whose glories tarnished are; But still towards its destined goal she brings The whole wide course of things. Say then, son of Atreus, thou Who com'st as TroÏa's conqueror now, What homage thy approach to greet, Shall I now use in measure true, Nor more nor less than that is due? Many men there are, I wis, Who in seeming place their bliss, Caring less for that which is. If one suffers, then their wail Loudly doth the ear assail; Yet have they nor lot nor part In the grief that stirs the heart; So too the joyous men will greet With smileless faces counterfeit: But shepherd who his own sheep knows Will scan the lips that fawn and gloze, Ready still to praise and bless With weak and watery kindliness. Thou when thou the host did'st guide For Helen—truth I will not hide— In mine eyes had'st features grim, Such as unskilled art doth limn, Not guiding well the helm of thought, And giving souls with grief o'erwrought False courage from fresh victims brought, But with nought of surface zeal, Now full glad of heart I feel, And hail thy acts as deeds well done: Thou too in time shall know each one, And learn who wrongly, who aright In house or city dwells in might. Verses 947-1001 Strophe I Why thus continually Do ever-haunting phantoms hover nigh Why doth the prophet's strain unbidden still, Unbought, flow on and on? Why on my mind's dear throne Hath faith lost all her former power to fling That terror from me as an idle thing? Yet since the ropes were fastened in the sand That moored the ships to land, When the great naval host to Ilion went, Time hath passed on to feeble age and spent.<
t to steer; And so his former pride of prosperous days He wrecks upon the reefs of Vengeance drear, And dies with none to weep him or to praise. THE END |
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