Then spake the elder King:
"To disobey were dire,
Yet dire it is to slay
My child, the pride and beauty of my home,
And at the altar stain
A father's hand with blood of virgin sacrifice.
Which way is not despair?
How can I prove disloyal to the host,
And this alliance lose?
If for this sacrifice of virgin life,
The wind to lay, heaven calls
So sternly, I obey."
Fate's yoke when he had donned,
Over his spirit came
A dark, unholy change;
Thenceforth he doffed all pity and remorse.
From the heart of man delusion strong,
Parent of evil, casts out virtuous fear.
Unmoved, he slew his child a war to aid
Waged for a woman's wrong
Upon the fleet's behalf.
Her prayers, her calling on her father's name,
Her virgin youth,
Those royal warriors held of no account.
Prayer said, her father bade the ministers
Lift her that, fainting, in her robes sank down
Upon the altar, as it were a kid,
And guard upon her beauteous lips to set
Of forceful silence, lest
A curse might issue from them on the house.
Letting her saffron veil fall on the ground,
She smote each minister of sacrifice
With piteous glances, mute
As is a picture, and in vain essayed
To speak. She many a time
In hospitable hall
Had sung, and with her innocent, chaste voice
Wished to her sire health and prosperity.
What then ensued I saw not nor recount.
The seer's behest was done.
* * * * *
THE MEETING OF AGAMEMNON AND CLYTAEMNESTRA.
LINES 828-947.
CLYTAEMNESTRA.
Friends, aged citizens of Argos here,
I will not shrink from speaking of my love,
Since years wear off a woman's bashfulness.
Myself alone can tell the life I led
While my lord lay before the walls of Troy.
Sad, passing sad, the lot of woman left
Lorn of her consort in the lonely home,
And hearing day by day reports of ill;
Every new comer bringing evil news,
And the last worse than him that went before.
Had my lord met all wounds that rumour gave,
His body had been but one net of wounds;
Had he, as oft as rumour blew him, died,
He must have been a three-lived Geryon,
And thrice put on a shroud of funeral earth
Above him, reckoning not the earth below,
Thrice dead, and in three several graves interred.
Driven to despair mid all these dark reports,
By hanging oft I sought to end my days,
And was by others saved and forced to live.
Hence is it that thy child, pledge of our love,
Orestes, is not here to greet his sire,
As had been meet. Let not that trouble thee.
Strophios the Phocian took the boy in trust,
Thine ancient friend in arms, forewarning us
That troublous times might come, should aught befall
My lord, and the unbridled multitude
O'erthrow the senate, as mankind are wont
To trample on the fallen. 'Tis truth I tell.
The very fountains of my tears are dry,
Sorrow no drop hath left, my eyes are sore
Through my night watchings for the beacon light
That should bring news of thee, but brought it not.
A gnat's light whirring broke the dream of thee
That in an hour compressed an age of woe.
Now all this past, from carking sorrow free,
I hail my lord, the watchdog of our fold,
The ship's main stay, the pillar that upbears
A lofty roof, dear as an only child,
Welcome as land to seamen tossed at sea,
As cheerful day after the stormiest night,
As well-spring to the thirsty traveller.
Sweet after careful stress is careless ease.
Such is my salutation to my lord,
Which should not draw on us the evil eye.
Enough we've borne already. Now, beloved,
Step from thy chariot; yet not on the earth
Shall Ilium's glorious conqueror set his foot.
Haste, haste, ye handmaidens, to whom the charge
Was given to spread the ground with tapestry,
And make a purple pathway for my lord,
Whom justice brings to his unlooked for home.
For aught beside, care, lovingly awake,
The gods so willing, shall good order take.
AGAMEMNON.
Daughter of Leda, guardian of my home,
Thy speech is as my absence, long drawn out.
Well measured praise from other lips must come;
I pray thee stint thy woman's blandishments,
Nor, like some proud barbarian's minion vile,
Crawl to my feet with abject flatteries.
I would not have thy draperies on me draw
The evil eye; to gods such state belongs,
Not mortals; for a mortal thus to tread
On broidery were to tempt the wrath of heaven.
Pay to me honours human, not divine.
Foot-cloths or broidery need I none to tell
What fame will voice aloud. Discretion still
Is the best gift of heaven, and he alone
Is truly blest who prospers to the end.
Let but this fortune hold, I've naught to fear.