LEADER.
Soon surely shall we read the message right;
Were fire and beacon-call and lamps of light
True speakers, or but happy lights, that seem
And are not, like sweet voices in a dream.
I see a Herald yonder by the shore,
Shadowed with olive sprays. And from his sore
Rent raiment cries a witness from afar,
[Dry Dust, born brother to the Mire of war],
That mute he comes not, neither through the smoke
Of mountain forests shall his tale be spoke;
But either shouting for a joyful day,
Or else…. But other thoughts I cast away.
As good hath dawned, may good shine on, we pray!
—And whoso for this City prayeth aught
Else, let him reap the harvest of his thought!
[Enter the [HERALD], running. His garments are torn and war-stained. He falls upon his knees and kisses the Earth, and salutes each Altar in turn.]
HERALD.
Land of my fathers! Argos! Am I here …
Home, home at this tenth shining of the year,
And all Hope’s anchors broken save this one!
For scarcely dared I dream, here in mine own
Argos at last to fold me to my rest….
But now—All Hail, O Earth! O Sunlight blest!
And Zeus Most High!
[Checking himself as he sees the altar of Apollo.]
And thou, O [Pythian Lord];
No more on us be thy swift arrows poured!
Beside Scamander well we learned how true
Thy hate is. Oh, as thou art Healer too,
Heal us! As thou art Saviour of the Lost,
Save also us, Apollo, being so tossed
With tempest! … All ye Daemons of the Pale!
And Hermes! Hermes, mine own guardian, hail!
Herald beloved, to whom all heralds bow….
Ye Blessèd Dead that sent us, receive now
In love your children whom the spear hath spared.
O House of Kings, O roof-tree thrice-endeared,
O solemn thrones! O gods that face the sun!
Now, now, if ever in the days foregone,
After these many years, with eyes that burn,
Give hail and glory to your King’s return!
For Agamemnon cometh! A great light
Cometh to men and gods out of the night.
Grand greeting give him—aye, it need be grand—
Who, God’s avenging mattock in his hand,
Hath wrecked Troy’s towers and digged her soil beneath,
Till her gods’ houses, they are things of death;
Her altars waste, and blasted every seed
Whence life might rise! So perfect is his deed,
So dire the yoke on Ilion he hath cast,
The first Atreides, King of Kings at last,
And [happy among men]! To whom we give
Honour most high above all things that live.
For Paris nor his guilty land can score
The deed they wrought above the pain they bore.
“Spoiler and thief,” he heard God’s judgement pass;
Whereby he lost his plunder, and like grass
Mowed down his father’s house and all his land;
And Troy pays twofold for the sin she planned.
LEADER.
Be glad, thou Herald of the Greek from Troy!
HERALD.
So glad, I am ready, if God will, to die!
LEADER.
Did love of this land work thee such distress?
HERALD.
The tears stand in mine eyes for happiness.