The Agamemnon of Aeschylus | Page 6

again
Aching with remembered pain,

Bleeds and sleepeth not, until
Wisdom comes against his will.
'Tis the gift of One by
strife
Lifted to the throne of life.
(AGAMEMNON _accepted the sign. Then came long delay, and storm while the fleet lay
at Aulis._)
So that day the Elder Lord,
Marshal of the Achaian ships,
Strove not with the
prophet's word,
Bowed him to his fate's eclipse,
When with empty jars and lips

Parched and seas impassable
Fate on that Greek army fell,
Fronting Chalcis as it lay,

By Aulis in the swirling bay.
(_Till at last Calchas answered that Artemis was wroth and demanded the death of_
AGAMEMNON'S _daughter. The King's doubt and grief_.)
And winds, winds blew from Strymon River,
Unharboured, starving, winds of waste
endeavour,
Man-blinding, pitiless to cord and bulwark,
And the waste of days was
made long, more long,
Till the flower of Argos was aghast and withered;
Then
through the storm rose the War-seer's song,
And told of medicine that should tame the
tempest,
But bow the Princes to a direr wrong.
Then "Artemis" he whispered, he
named the name;
And the brother Kings they shook in the hearts of them,
And smote
on the earth their staves, and the tears came.
But the King, the elder, hath found voice and spoken:
"A heavy doom, sure, if God's
will were broken;
But to slay mine own child, who my house delighteth,
Is that not
heavy? That her blood should flow
On her father's hand, hard beside an altar?
My
path is sorrow wheresoe'er I go.
Shall Agamemnon fail his ships and people,
And the
hosts of Hellas melt as melts the snow?
They cry, they thirst, for a death that shall break
the spell, For a Virgin's blood: 'tis a rite of old, men tell.
And they burn with
longing.--O God may the end be well!"
(_But ambition drove him, till he consented to the sin of slaying his daughter, Iphigenia,
as a sacrifice._)
To the yoke of Must-Be he bowed him slowly,
And a strange wind within his bosom
tossed,
A wind of dark thought, unclean, unholy;
And he rose up, daring to the
uttermost.
For men are boldened by a Blindness, straying
Toward base desire, which
brings grief hereafter,
Yea, and itself is grief;
So this man hardened to his own child's
slaying,
As help to avenge him for a woman's laughter
And bring his ships relief!
Her "Father, Father," her sad cry that lingered,
Her virgin heart's breath they held all as

naught,
Those bronze-clad witnesses and battle-hungered;
And there they prayed, and
when the prayer was wrought
He charged the young men to uplift and bind her,
As ye
lift a wild kid, high above the altar,
Fierce-huddling forward, fallen, clinging sore
To
the robe that wrapt her; yea, he bids them hinder
The sweet mouth's utterance, the cries
that falter,
--His curse for evermore!--
With violence and a curb's voiceless wrath.
Her stole of saffron then to the ground she
threw,
And her eye with an arrow of pity found its path
To each man's heart that slew:
A face in a picture, striving amazedly;
The little maid
who danced at her father's board,
The innocent voice man's love came never nigh,

Who joined to his her little paean-cry
When the third cup was poured....
What came thereafter I saw not neither tell.
But the craft of Calchas failed not.--'Tis
written, He
Who Suffereth Shall Learn; the law holdeth well.
And that which is to be,
Ye will know at last; why weep before the hour?
For come it
shall, as out of darkness dawn.
Only may good from all this evil flower;
So prays this
Heart of Argos, this frail tower
Guarding the land alone.
[_As they cease,_ CLYTEMNESTRA _comes from the Palace with Attendants. She has
finished her prayer and sacrifice, and is now wrought up to face the meeting with her
husband. The Leader approaches her_.
LEADER.
Before thy state, O Queen, I bow mine eyes.
'Tis written, when the man's throne empty
lies,
The woman shall be honoured.--Hast thou heard
Some tiding sure? Or is it Hope,
hath stirred
To fire these altars? Dearly though we seek
To learn, 'tis thine to speak or
not to speak.
CLYTEMNESTRA.
Glad-voiced, the old saw telleth, comes this morn,
The Star-child of a dancing midnight
born,
And beareth to thine ear a word of joy
Beyond all hope: the Greek hath taken
Troy.
LEADER.
How?
Thy word flies past me, being incredible.
CLYTEMNESTRA.

Ilion is ours. No riddling tale I tell.
LEADER.
Such joy comes knocking at the gate of tears.
CLYTEMNESTRA.
Aye, 'tis a faithful heart that eye declares.
LEADER.
What warrant hast thou? Is there proof of this?
CLYTEMNESTRA.
There is; unless a God hath lied there is.
LEADER.
Some dream-shape came to thee in speaking guise?
CLYTEMNESTRA.
Who deemeth me a dupe of drowsing eyes?
LEADER.
Some word within that hovereth without wings?
CLYTEMNESTRA.
Am I a child to hearken to such things?
LEADER.
Troy fallen?--But how long? When fell she, say?
CLYTEMNESTRA.
The very night that mothered this new day.
LEADER.
And who of heralds with such fury came?
CLYTEMNESTRA.
A Fire-god, from Mount Ida scattering flame.
Whence