Chapter CI: Epilogue (1)

μεστοι ...
οἱ δ' ἀμφορῆς οἴνου μέλανος ἀνθοσμίου

"The poets pour us wine--"
Said the dearest poet I ever knew,
Dearest and greatest and best to me.
You clamor athirst for poetry--
We pour. "But when shall a vintage be"--
You cry--"strong grape, squeezed gold from screw.
Yet sweet juice, flavored flowery-fine?
That were indeed the wine!"

One pours your cup--stark strength,
Meat for a man; and you eye the pulp
Strained, turbid still, from the viscous blood
Of the snaky bough: and you grumble "Good!
For it swells resolve, breeds hardihood;
Dispatch it, then, in a single gulp!"
So, down, with a wry face, goes at length
The liquor: stuff for strength.

One pours your cup--sheer sweet,
The fragrant fumes of a year condensed:
Suspicion of all that 's ripe or rathe,
From the bud on branch to the grass in swathe.
"We suck mere milk of the seasons," saith
A curl of each nostril--"dew, dispensed
Nowise for nerving man to feat:
Boys sip such honeyed sweet!"

And thus who wants wine strong,
Waves each sweet smell of the year away;
Who likes to swoon as the sweets suffuse
His train with a mixture of beams and dews
Turned syrupy drink--rough strength eschews:
"What though in our veins your wine-stock stay?
The lack of the bloom does our palate wrong.
Give us wine sweet, not strong!"

Yet wine is--some affirm--
Prime wine is found in the world somewhere,
Of portable strength with sweet to match.
You double your heart its dose, yet catch--
As the draught descends--a violet-smatch,
Softness--however it came there,
Through drops expressed by the fire and worm:
Strong sweet wine--some affirm.

Body and bouquet both?
'T is easy to ticket a bottle so;
But what was the case in the cask, my friends?
Cask? Nay, the vat--where the maker mends
His strong with his sweet (you suppose) and blends
His rough with his smooth, till none can know
How it comes you may tipple, nothing loth,
Body and bouquet both.

"You" being just--the world.
No poets--who turn, themselves, the winch
Of the press; no critics--I 'll even say,
(Being flustered and easy of faith, to-day,)
Who for love of the work have learned the way
Till themselves produce home-made, at a pinch:
No! You are the world, and wine ne'er purled
Except to please the world!

"For, oh the common heart!
And, ah the irremissible sin
Of poets who please themselves, not us!
Strong wine yet sweet wine pouring thus,
How please still--Pindar and Æschylus!--
Drink--dipt into by the bearded chin
Alike and the bloomy lip--no part
Denied the common heart!

"And might we get such grace,
And did you moderns but stock our vault
With the true half-brandy half-attar-gul,
How would seniors indulge at a hearty pull
While juniors tossed off their thimbleful!
Our Shakespeare and Milton escaped your fault,
So, they reign supreme o'er the weaker race
That wants the ancient grace!"

If I paid myself with words
(As the French say well) I were dupe indeed!
I were found in belief that you quaffed and bowsed
At your Shakespeare the whole day long, caroused
In your Milton pottle-deep nor drowsed
A moment of night--toped on, took heed
Of nothing like modern cream-and-curds.
Pay me with deeds, not words!

For--see your cellarage!
There are forty barrels with Shakespeare's brand.
Some five or six are abroach: the rest
Stand spigoted, fauceted. Try and test
What yourselves call best of the very best!
How comes it that still untouched they stand?
Why don't you try tap, advance a stage
With the rest in cellerage?

For--see your cellarage!
There are four big butts of Milton's brew.
How comes it you make old drips and drops
Do duty, and there devotion stops?
Leave such an abyss of malt and hops
Embellied in butts which bungs still glue?
You hate your bard! A fig for your rage!
Free him from cellarage!

'T is said I brew stiff drink,
But the deuce a flavor of grape is there.
Hardly a May-go-down, 't is just
A sort of a gruff Go-down-it-must--
No Merry-go-down, no gracious gust
Commingles the racy with Springtide's rare!
"What wonder," say you, "that we cough, and blink
At Autumn's heady drink?"

Is it a fancy, friends?
Mighty and mellow are never mixed,
Though mighty and mellow be born at once.
Sweet for the future,--strong for the nonce!
Stuff you should stow away, ensconce
In the deep and dark, to be found fast-fixed
At the century's close: such time strength spends
A-sweetening for my friends!

And then--why, what you quaff
With a smack of lip and a cluck of tongue,
Is leakage and leavings--just what haps
From the tun some learned taster taps
With a promise "Prepare your watery chaps!
Here 's properest wine for old and young!
Dispute its perfection--you make us laugh!
Have faith, give thanks, but--quaff!"

Leakage, I say, or--worse--
Leavings suffice pot-valiant souls.
Somebody, brimful, long ago,
Frothed flagon he drained to the dregs; and, lo,
Down whisker and beard what an overflow!
Lick spilth that has trickled from classic jowls,
Sup the single scene, sip the only verse--
Old wine, not new and worse!

I grant you: worse by much!
Renounce that new where you never gained
One glow at heart, one gleam at head,
And stick to the warrant of age instead!
No dwarfs-lap! Fatten, by giants fed!
_You_ fatten, with oceans of drink undrained?
_You_ feed--who would choke did a cobweb smutch
The Age you love so much?

A mine's beneath a moor:
Acres of moor roof fathoms of mine
Which diamonds dot where you please to dig;
Yet who plies spade for the bright and big?
Your product is--truffles, you hunt with a pig!
Since bright-and-big, when a man would dine,
Suits badly: and therefore the Koh-i-noor
May sleep in mine 'neath moor!

Wine, pulse in might from me!
It may never emerge in must from vat,
Never fill cask nor furnish can,
Never end sweet, which strong began--
God's gift to gladden the heart of man;
But spirit 's at proof, I promise that!
No sparing of juice spoils what should be
Fit brewage--mine for me.

Man's thoughts and loves and hates!
Earth is my vineyard, these grew there:
From grape of the ground, I made or marred
My vintage; easy the task or hard,
Who set it--his praise be my reward!
Earth's yield! Who yearn for the Dark Blue Sea's,
Let them "lay, pray, bray"--the addle-pates!
Mine be Man's thoughts, loves, hates!

But some one says, "Good Sir!"
('T is a worthy versed in what concerns
The making such labor turn out well,)
"You don't suppose that the nosegay-smell
Needs always come from the grape? Each bell
At your foot, each bud that your culture spurns,
The very cowslip would act like myrrh
On the stiffest brew--good Sir!

"Cowslips, abundant birth
O'er meadow and hillside, vineyard too,
--Like a schoolboy's scrawlings in and out
Distasteful lesson-book--all about
Greece and Rome, victory and rout--
Love-verses instead of such vain ado!
So, fancies frolic it o'er the earth
Where thoughts have rightlier birth.

"Nay, thoughtlings they themselves:
Loves, hates--in little and less and least!
Thoughts? '_What is a man beside a mount!_'
Loves? '_Absent--poor lovers the minutes count!_'
Hates? '_Fie--Pope's letters to Martha Blount!_'
These furnish a wine for a children's-feast:
Insipid to man, they suit the elves
Like thoughts, loves, hates themselves."

And, friends, beyond dispute
I too have the cowslips dewy and dear.
Punctual as Springtide forth peep they:
I leave them to make my meadow gay.
But I ought to pluck and impound them, eh?
Not let them alone, but deftly shear
And shred and reduce to--what may suit
Children, beyond dispute?

And, here 's May-month, all bloom,
All bounty: what if I sacrifice?
If I out with shears and shear, nor stop
Shearing till prostrate, lo, the crop?
And will you prefer it to ginger-pop
When I 've made you wine of the memories
Which leave as bare as a churchyard tomb
My meadow, late all bloom?

Nay, what ingratitude
Should I hesitate to amuse the wits
That have pulled so long at my flask, nor grudged
The headache that paid their pains, nor budged
From bunghole before they sighed and judged
"Too rough for our taste, to-day, befits
The racy and right when the years conclude!"
Out on ingratitude!

Grateful or ingrate--none,
No cowslip of all my fairy crew
Shall help to concoct what makes you wink,
And goes to your head till you think you think!
I like them alive: the printer's ink
Would sensibly tell on the perfume too.
I may use up my nettles, ere I 've done;
But of cowslips--friends get none!

Don't nettles make a broth
Wholesome for blood grown lazy and thick?
Maws out of sorts make mouths out of taste.
My Thirty-four Port--no need to waste
On a tongue that 's fur and a palate--paste!
A magnum for friends who are sound! the sick--
I 'll posset and cosset them, nothing loth,
Henceforward with nettle-broth!

THE AGAMEMNON OF ÆSCHYLUS

May I be permitted to chat a little, by way of recreation, at the end of a somewhat toilsome and perhaps fruitless adventure?

If, because of the immense fame of the following Tragedy, I wished to acquaint myself with it, and could only do so by the help of a translator, I should require him to be literal at every cost save that of absolute violence to our language. The use of certain allowable constructions which, happening to be out of daily favor, are all the more appropriate to archaic workmanship, is no violence: but I would be tolerant for once--in the case of so immensely famous an original--of even a clumsy attempt to furnish me with the very turn of each phrase in as Greek a fashion as English will bear: while, with respect to amplifications and embellishments,--anything rather than, with the good farmer, experience that most signal of mortifications, "to gape for Æschylus and get Theognis." I should especially decline--what may appear to brighten up a passage--the employment of a new word for some old one,--πόνος, or μέγας, or τέλοσ, with its congeners, recurring four times in three lines: for though such substitution may be in itself perfectly justifiable, yet this exercise of ingenuity ought to be within the competence of the unaided English reader if he likes to show himself ingenious. Learning Greek teaches Greek, and nothing else: certainly not common sense, if that have failed to precede the teaching. Further,--if I obtained a mere strict bald version of thing by thing, or at least word pregnant with thing, I should hardly look for an impossible transmission of the reputed magniloquence and sonority of the Greek; and this with the less regret, inasmuch as there is abundant musicality elsewhere, but nowhere else than in his poem the ideas of the poet. And lastly, when presented with these ideas, I should expect the result to prove very hard reading indeed if it were meant to resemble Æschylus, ξυμβαλεῖν οὐ ῥᾴδιος, "not easy to understand," in the opinion of his stoutest advocate among the ancients; while, I suppose, even modern scholarship sympathizes with that early declaration of the redoubtable Salmasius, when, looking about for an example of the truly obscure for the benefit of those who found obscurity in the sacred books, he protested that this particular play leaves them all behind in this respect, with their "Hebraisms, Syriasms, Hellenisms, and the whole of such bag and baggage."[6] For, over and above the proposed ambiguity of the Chorus, the text is sadly corrupt, probably interpolated, and certainly mutilated; and no unlearned person enjoys the scholar's privilege of trying his fancy upon each obstacle whenever he comes to a stoppage, and effectually clearing the way by suppressing what seems to lie in it.

All I can say for the present performance is, that I have done as I would be done by, if need were. Should anybody, without need, honor my translation by a comparison with the original, I beg him to observe that, following no editor exclusively, I keep to the earlier readings so long as sense can be made out of them, but disregard, I hope, little of importance in recent criticism so far as I have fallen in with it. Fortunately, the poorest translation, provided only it be faithful,--though it reproduce all the artistic confusion of tenses, moods, and persons, with which the original teems,--will not only suffice to display what an eloquent friend maintains to be the all-in-all of poetry--"the action of the piece"--but may help to illustrate his assurance that "the Greeks are the highest models of expression, the unapproached masters of the grand style: their expression is so excellent because it is so admirably kept in its right degree of prominence, because it is so simple and so well subordinated, because it draws its force directly from the pregnancy of the matter which it conveys ... not a word wasted, not a sentiment capriciously thrown in, stroke on stroke"[7] So may all happen!

Just a word more on the subject of my spelling--in a transcript from the Greek and there exclusively--Greek names and places precisely as does the Greek author. I began this practice, with great innocency of intention, some six-and-thirty years ago. Leigh Hunt, I remember, was accustomed to speak of his gratitude, when ignorant of Greek, to those writers (like Goldsmith) who had obliged him by using English characters, so that he might relish, for instance, the smooth quality of such a phrase as "hapalunetai galené;" he said also that Shelley was indignant at "Firenze" having displaced the Dantesque "Fiorenza," and would contemptuously English the intruder "Firence." I supposed I was doing a simple thing enough: but there has been till lately much astonishment at _os_ and _us_, _ai_ and _oi_, representing the same letters in Greek. Of a sudden, however, whether in translation or out of it, everybody seems committing the offence, although the adoption of _u_ for υ still presents such difficulty that it is a wonder how we have hitherto escaped "Eyripides." But there existed a sturdy Briton who, Ben Jonson informs us, wrote "The Life of the Emperor Anthony Pie"--whom we now acquiesce in as Antoninus Pius: for "with time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes satin." Yet there is on all sides much profession of respect for what Keats called "vowelled Greek"--"consonanted," one would expect; and, in a criticism upon a late admirable translation of something of my own, it was deplored that, in a certain verse corresponding in measure to the fourteenth of the sixth Pythian Ode, "neither Professor Jebb in his Greek, nor Mr. Browning in his English, could emulate that matchlessly musical γόνον ἰδὼν κάλλιστον ἀνδρῶν." Now, undoubtedly, "Seeing her son the fairest of men" has more sense than sound to boast of: but then, would not an Italian roll us out "Rimirando il figliuolo bellissimo degli uomini?" whereat Pindar, no less than Professor Jebb and Mr. Browning, τριακτῆρος οἴχεται τυχών.

It is recorded in the Annals of Art[8] that there was once upon a time, practising so far north as Stockholm, a painter and picture-cleaner--sire of a less unhappy son--Old Muytens: and the annalist, Baron de Tessé, has not concealed his profound dissatisfaction at Old Muytens' conceit "to have himself had something to do with the work of whatever master of eminence might pass through his hands." Whence it was--the Baron goes on to deplore--that much detriment was done to that excellent piece "The Recognition of Achilles," by Rubens, through the perversity of Old Muytens, "who must needs take on him to beautify every nymph of the twenty by the bestowment of a widened eye and an enlarged mouth." I, at least, have left eyes and mouths everywhere as I found them, and this conservatism is all that claims praise for--what is, after all ἀκέλευστος ἄμισθος ἀοιδά. No, neither "uncommanded" nor "unrewarded:" since it was commanded of me by my venerated friend Thomas Carlyle, and rewarded will it indeed become, if I am permitted to dignify it by the prefatory insertion of his dear and noble name.

R. B.

LONDON, _October 1, 1877_.

AGAMEMNON

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA

WARDER.
CHOROS OF OLD MEN.
KLUTAIMNESTRA.
TALTHUBIOS, _Herald_.
AGAMEMNON.
AIGISTHOS.
KASSANDRA.

_Warder._ The gods I ask deliverance from these labors,
Watch of a year's length whereby, slumbering through it
On the Atreidai's roofs on elbow,--dog-like--
I know of nightly star-groups the assemblage,
And those that bring to men winter and summer,
Bright dynasts, as they pride them in the æther
--Stars, when they wither, and the uprisings of them.
And now on ward I wait the torch's token,
The glow of fire, shall bring from Troia message
And word of capture: so prevails audacious
The man's-way-planning hoping heart of woman.
But when I, driven from night-rest, dew-drenched, hold to
This couch of mine--not looked upon by visions,
Since fear instead of sleep still stands beside me,
So as that fast I fix in sleep no eyelids--
And when to sing or chirp a tune I fancy,
For slumber such song-remedy infusing,
I wail then, for this House's fortune groaning,
Not, as of old, after the best ways governed.
Now, lucky be deliverance from these labors,
At good news--the appearing dusky fire!
O hail, thou lamp of night, a day-long lightness
Revealing, and of dances the ordainment!
Halloo, halloo!
To Agamemnon's wife I show, by shouting,
That, from bed starting up at once, i' the household
Joyous acclaim, good-omened to this torch-blaze,
She send aloft if haply Ilion's city
Be taken, as the beacon boasts announcing.
Ay, and, for me, myself will dance a prelude,
For, that my masters' dice drop right, I 'll reckon:
Since thrice-six has it thrown to me, this signal.
Well, may it hap that, as he comes, the love hand
O' the household's lord I may sustain with this hand!
As for the rest, I 'm mute: on tongue a big ox
Has trodden. Yet this House, if voice it take should,
Most plain would speak. So, willing I myself speak
To those who know: to who know not--I 'm blankness.

_Choros._ The tenth year this, since Priamos' great match,
King Menelaos, Agamemnon King,
--The strenuous yoke-pair of the Atreidai's honor
Two-throned, two-sceptred, whereof Zeus was donor--
Did from this land the aid, the armament dispatch,
The thousand-sailored force of Argives clamoring
"Ares" from out the indignant breast, as fling
Passion forth vultures which, because of grief
Away,--as are their young ones,--with the thief,
Lofty above their brood-nests wheel in ring,
Row round and round with oar of either wing,
Lament the bedded chicks, lost labor that was love:
Which hearing, one above
--Whether Apollon, Pan or Zeus--that wail,
Sharp-piercing bird-shriek of the guests who fare
Housemates with gods in air--
Such-an-one sends, against who these assail,
What, late-sent, shall not fail
Of punishing--Erinus. Here as there,
The Guardian of the Guest Zeus, the excelling one,
Sends against Alexandros either son
Of Atreus: for that wife, the many-husbanded,
Appointing many a tug that tries the limb,
While the knee plays the prop in dust, while, shred
To morsels, lies the spear-shaft; in those grim
Marriage-prolusions when their Fury wed
Danaoi and Troes, both alike. All 's said:
Things are where things are, and, as fate has willed,
So shall they be fulfilled.
Not gently-grieving, not just doling out
The drops of expiation--no, nor tears distilled--
Shall he we know of bring the hard about
To soft--that intense ire
At those mock rites unsanctified by fire.
But we pay naught here: through our flesh, age-weighed,
Left out from who gave aid
In that day,--we remain,
Staying on staves a strength
The equal of a child's at length.
For when young marrow in the breast doth reign,
That 's the old man's match,--Ares out of place
In either: but in oldest age's case,
Foliage a-fading, why, he wends his way
On three feet, and, no stronger than a child,
Wanders about gone wild,
A dream in day.
But thou, Tundareus' daughter, Klutaimnestra queen,
What need? What new? What having heard or seen,
By what announcement's tidings, everywhere
Settest thou, round about, the sacrifice aflare?
For, of all gods the city-swaying,
Those supernal, those infernal,
Those of the fields', those of the mart's obeying,--
The altars blaze with gifts;
And here and there, heaven-high the torch uplifts
Flame--medicated with persuasions mild,
With foul admixture unbeguiled--
Of holy unguent, from the clotted chrism
Brought from the palace, safe in its abysm.
Of these things, speaking what may be indeed
Both possible and lawful to concede,
Healer do thou become!--of this solicitude
Which, now, stands plainly forth of evil mood,
And, then ... but from oblations, hope, to-day
Gracious appearing, wards away
From soul the insatiate care,
The sorrow at my breast, devouring there!

Empowered am I to sing
The omens, what their force which, journeying,
Rejoiced the potentates:
(For still, from God, inflates
My breast, song-suasion: age,
Born to the business, still such war can wage)
--How the fierce bird against the Teukris land
Dispatched, with spear and executing hand,
The Achaian's two-throned empery--o'er Hellas' youth
Two rulers with one mind:
The birds' king to these kings of ships, on high,
--The black sort, and the sort that's white behind,--
Appearing by the palace, on the spear-throw side,
In right sky-regions, visible far and wide,--
Devouring a hare-creature, great with young,
Balked of more racings they, as she from whom they sprung!
Ah, Linos, say--ah, Linos, song of wail!
But may the good prevail!

The prudent army-prophet seeing two
The Atreidai, two their tempers, knew
Those feasting on the hare
The armament-conductors were;
And thus he spoke, explaining signs in view.
"In time, this outset takes the town of Priamos:
But all before its towers,--the people's wealth that was,
Of flocks and herds,--as sure, shall booty-sharing thence
Drain to the dregs away, by battle violence.
Only, have care lest grudge of any god disturb
With cloud the unsullied shine of that great force, the curb
Of Troia, struck with damp
Beforehand in the camp!
For envyingly is
The virgin Artemis
Toward--her father's flying hounds--this House--
The sacrificers of the piteous
And cowering beast,
Brood and all, ere the birth: she hates the eagles' feast.
Ah, Linos, say--ah, Linos, song of wail!
But may the good prevail!

"Thus ready is the beauteous one with help
To those small dewdrop things fierce lions whelp,
And udder-loving litter of each brute
That roams the mead; and therefore makes she suit,
The fair one, for fulfilment to the end
Of things these signs portend--
Which partly smile, indeed, but partly scowl--
The phantasms of the fowl.
I call Ieïos Paian to avert
She work the Danaoi hurt
By any thwarting waftures, long and fast
Holdings from sail of ships:
And sacrifice, another than the last,
She for herself precipitate--
Something unlawful, feast for no man's lips,
Builder of quarrels, with the House cognate--
Having in awe no husband: for remains
A frightful, backward-darting in the path,
Wily house-keeping chronicler of wrath,
That has to punish that old children's fate!"
Such things did Kalchas,--with abundant gains
As well,--vociferate,
Predictions from the birds, in journeying,
Above the abode of either king.
With these, symphonious, sing--
Ah, Linos, say--ah, Linos, song of wail!
But may the good prevail!

Zeus, whosoe'er he be,--if that express
Aught dear to him on whom I call--
So do I him address.
I cannot liken out, by all
Admeasurement of powers,
Any but Zeus for refuge at such hours,
If veritably needs I must
From off my soul its vague care-burden thrust.

Not--whosoever was the great of yore,
Bursting to bloom with bravery all round--
Is in our mouths: he was, but is no more.
And who it was that after came to be,
Met the thrice-throwing wrestler,--he
Is also gone to ground.
But "Zeus"--if any, heart and soul, that name--
Shouting the triumph-praise--proclaim,
Complete in judgment shall that man be found.
Zeus, who leads onward mortals to be wise,
Appoints that suffering masterfully teach,
in sleep, before the heart of each,
A woe-remembering travail sheds in dew
Discretion,--ay, and melts the unwilling too
By what, perchance, may be a graciousness
Of gods, enforced no less,--
As they, commanders of the crew,
Assume the awful seat.

And then the old leader of the Achaian fleet,
Disparaging no seer--
With bated breath to suit misfortune's inrush here
--(What time it labored, that Achaian host,
By stay from sailing,--every pulse at length
Emptied of vital strength,--
Hard over Kalchis shore-bound, current-crost
In Aulis station,--while the winds which post
From Strumon, ill-delayers, famine-fraught,
Tempters of man to sail where harborage is naught,
Spendthrifts of ships and cables, turning time
To twice the length,--these carded, by delay,
To less and less away
The Argeians' flowery prime:
And when a remedy more grave and grand
Than aught before--yea, for the storm and dearth--
The prophet to the foremost in command
Shrieked forth, as cause of this
Adducing Artemis,
So that the Atreidai striking staves on earth
Could not withhold the tear)--
Then did the king, the elder, speak this clear.

"Heavy the fate, indeed--to disobey!
Yet heavy if my child I slay,
The adornment of my household: with the tide
Of virgin-slaughter, at the altar-side,
A father's hands defiling: which the way
Without its evils, say?
How shall I turn fleet-fugitive,
Failing of duty to allies?
Since for a wind-abating sacrifice
And virgin blood,--'t is right they strive,
Nay, madden with desire.
Well may it work them--this that they require!"

But when he underwent necessity's
Yoke-trace,--from soul blowing unhallowed change
Unclean, abominable,--thence--another man--
The audacious mind of him began
Its wildest range.
For this it is gives mortals hardihood--
Some vice-devising miserable mood
Of madness, and first woe of all the brood.
The sacrificer of his daughter--strange!--
He dared become, to expedite
Woman-avenging warfare,--anchors weighed
With such prelusive rite!

Prayings and callings "Father"--naught they made
Of these, and of the virgin-age,--
Captains heart-set on war to wage!
His ministrants, vows done, the father bade--
Kid-like, above the altar, swathed in pall,
Take her--lift high, and have no fear at all,
Head-downward, and the fair mouth's guard
And frontage hold,--press hard
From utterance a curse against the House
By dint of bit--violence bridling speech.
And as to ground her saffron-vest she shed,
She smote the sacrificers all and each
With arrow sweet and piteous,
From the eye only sped,--
Significant of will to use a word,
Just as in pictures: since, full many a time,
In her sire's guest-hall, by the well-heaped board
Had she made music,--lovingly with chime
Of her chaste voice, that unpolluted thing,
Honored the third libation,--paian that should bring
Good fortune to the sire she loved so well.

What followed--those things I nor saw nor tell.
But Kalchas' arts--whate'er they indicate--
Miss of fulfilment never: it is fate.
True, justice makes, in sufferers, a desire
To know the future woe preponderate.
But--hear before is need!
To that, farewell and welcome! 't is the same, indeed,
As grief beforehand: clearly, part for part,
Conformably to Kalchas' art,
Shall come the event.
But be they as they may, things subsequent,--
What is to do, prosperity betide
E'en as we wish it!--we, the next allied,
Sole guarding barrier of the Apian land.

I am come, reverencing power in thee,
O Klutaimnestra! For 't is just we bow
To the ruler's wife,--the male-seat man-bereaved.
But if thou, having heard good news,--or none,--
For good news' hope dost sacrifice thus wide,
I would hear gladly: art thou mute,--no grudge!

_Klutaimnestra._ Good-news-announcer, may--as is the by-word--
Morn become, truly,--news from Night his mother!
But thou shalt learn joy past all hope of hearing.
Priamos' city have the Argeioi taken.

_Cho._ How sayest? The word, from want of faith, escaped me.

_Klu._ Troia the Achaioi hold: do I speak plainly?

_Cho._ Joy overcreeps me, calling forth the tear-drop.

_Klu._ Right! for, that glad thou art, thine eye convicts thee.

_Cho._ For--what to thee, of all this, trusty token?

_Klu._ What 's here! how else? unless the god have cheated.

_Cho._ Haply thou flattering shows of dreams respectest?

_Klu._ No fancy would I take of soul sleep-burdened.

_Cho._ But has there puffed thee up some un-winged omen?

_Klu._ As a young maid's my mind thou mockest grossly.

_Cho._ Well, at what time was--even sacked, the city?

_Klu._ Of this same mother Night--the dawn, I tell thee.

_Cho._ And who of messengers could reach this swiftness?

_Klu._ Hephaistos--sending a bright blaze from Idé.
Beacon did beacon send, from fire the poster,
Hitherward: Idé to the rock Hermaian
Of Lemnos: and a third great torch o' the island
Zeus' seat received in turn, the Athoan summit.
And,--so upsoaring as to stride sea over,
The strong lamp-voyager, and all for joyance--
Did the gold-glorious splendor, any sun like,
Pass on--the pine-tree--to Makistos' watch-place;
Who did not,--tardy,--caught, no wits about him,
By sleep,--decline his portion of the missive.
And far the beacon's light, on stream Euripos
Arriving, made aware Messapios' warders.
And up they lit in turn, played herald onwards,
Kindling with flame a heap of gray old heather.
And, strengthening still, the lamp, decaying nowise,
Springing o'er Plain Asopos,--fullmoon-fashion
Effulgent,--toward the crag of Mount Kithairon,
Roused a new rendering-up of fire the escort--
And light, far escort, lacked no recognition
O' the guard--as burning more than burnings told you.
And over Lake Gorgopis light went leaping,
And, at Mount Aigiplanktos safe arriving,
Enforced the law--"to never stint the fire-stuff."
And they send, lighting up with ungrudged vigor,
Of flame a huge beard, ay, the very foreland
So as to strike above, in burning onward,
The look-out which commands the Strait Saronic,
Then did it dart until it reached the outpost
Mount Arachnaios here, the city's neighbor;
And then darts to this roof of the Atreidai
This light of Idé's fire not unforefathered!
Such are the rules prescribed the flambeau-bearers:
He beats that 's first and also last in running.
Such is the proof and token I declare thee,
My husband having sent me news from Troia.

_Cho._ The gods, indeed, anon will I pray, woman!
But now, these words to hear, and sate my wonder
Thoroughly, I am fain--if twice thou tell them.

_Klu._ Troia do the Achaioi hold, this same day.
I think a noise--no mixture--reigns i' the city.
Sour wine and unguent pour thou in one vessel--
Standers-apart, not lovers, would'st thou style them:
And so, of captives and of conquerors, partwise
The voices are to hear, of fortune diverse.
For those, indeed, upon the bodies prostrate
Of husbands, brothers, children upon parents
--The old men, from a throat that 's free no longer,
Shriekingly wail the death-doom of their dearest:
While these--the after-battle hungry labor,
Which prompts night-faring, marshals them to breakfast
On the town's store, according to no billet
Of sharing, but as each drew lot of fortune.
In the spear-captured Troic habitations
House they already: from the frosts upæthral
And dews delivered, will they, luckless creatures,
Without a watch to keep, slumber all night through.
And if they fear the gods, the city-guarders,
And if the gods' structures of the conquered country,
They may not--capturers--soon in turn be captive.
But see no prior lust befall the army
To sack things sacred--by gain-cravings vanquished!
For there needs homeward the return's salvation,
To round the new limb back o' the double race-course.
And guilty to the gods if came the army,
Awakened up the sorrow of those slaughtered
Might be--should no outbursting evils happen.
But may good beat--no turn to see i' the balance!
For, many benefits I want the gain of.

_Cho._ Woman, like prudent man thou kindly speakest.
And I, thus having heard thy trusty tokens,
The gods to rightly hail forthwith prepare me;
For, grace that must be paid has crowned our labors.

O Zeus the king, and friendly Night
Of these brave boons bestower--
Thou who didst fling on Troia's every tower
The o'er-roofing snare, that neither great thing might,
Nor any of the young ones, overpass
Captivity's great sweep-net--one and all
Of Até held in thrall!
Ay, Zeus I fear--the guest's friend great--who was
The doer of this, and long since bent
The bow on Alexandros with intent
That neither wide o' the white
Nor o'er the stars the foolish dart should light.
The stroke of Zeus--they have it, as men say!
This, at least, from the source track forth we may!
As he ordained, so has he done.
"No"--said some one--
"The gods think fit to care
Nowise for mortals, such
As those by whom the good and fair
Of things denied their touch
Is trampled!" but he was profane.
That they do care, has been made plain
To offspring of the over-bold,
Outbreathing "Ares" greater than is just--
Houses that spill with more than they can hold.
More than is best for man. Be man's what must
Keep harm off, so that in himself he find
Sufficiency--the well-endowed of mind!
For there 's no bulwark in man's wealth to him
Who, through a surfeit, kicks--into the dim
And disappearing--Right's great altar.

Yes--
It urges him, the sad persuasiveness,
Até's insufferable child that schemes
Treason beforehand: and all cure is vain.
It is not hidden: out it glares again,
A light dread-lamping-mischief, just as gleams
The badness of the bronze;
Through rubbing, puttings to the touch,
Black-clotted is he, judged at once.
He seeks--the boy--a flying bird to clutch,
The insufferable brand
Setting upon the city of his land
Whereof not any god hears prayer;
While him who brought about such evils there,
That unjust man, the god in grapple throws.
Such an one, Paris goes
Within the Atreidai's house--
Shamed the guest's board by robbery of the spouse.

And, leaving to her townsmen throngs a-spread
With shields, and spear-thrusts of sea-armament,
And bringing Ilion, in a dowry's stead,
Destruction--swiftly through the gates she went,
Daring the undareable. But many a groan outbroke
From prophets of the House as thus they spoke.
"Woe, woe the House, the House and Rulers,--woe
The marriage-bed and dints
A husband's love imprints!
There she stands silent! meets no honor--no
Shame--sweetest still to see of things gone long ago!
And, through desire of one across the main,
A ghost will seem within the house to reign:
And hateful to the husband is the grace
Of well-shaped statues: from--in place of eyes,
Those blanks--all Aphrodité dies.

"But dream-appearing mournful fantasies--
There they stand, bringing grace that's vain.
For vain 't is, when brave things one seems to view:
The fantasy has floated off, hands through;
Gone, that appearance,--nowise left to creep,--
On wings, the servants in the paths of sleep!"
Woes, then, in household and on hearth, are such
As these--and woes surpassing these by much.
But not these only: everywhere--
For those who from the land
Of Hellas issued in a band,
Sorrow, the heart must bear,
Sits in the home of each, conspicuous there.
Many a circumstance, at least,
Touches the very breast.
For those
Whom any sent away,--he knows:
And in the live man's stead,
Armor and ashes reach
The house of each.

For Ares, gold-exchanger for the dead,
And balance-holder in the fight o' the spear,
Due-weight from Ilion sends--
What moves the tear on tear--
A charred scrap to the friends:
Filling with well-packed ashes every urn,
For man--that was--the sole return.
And they groan--praising much, the while,
Now this man as experienced in the strife,
Now that, fallen nobly on a slaughtered pile,
Because of--not his own--another's wife.
But things there be, one barks,
When no man harks:
A surreptitious grief that 's grudge
Against the Atreidai who first sought the judge.
But some there, round the rampart, have
In Ilian earth, each one his grave:
All fair-formed as at birth,
It hid them--what they have and hold--the hostile earth.

And big with anger goes the city's word,
And pays a debt by public curse incurred.
And ever with me--as about to hear
A something night-involved--remains my fear:
Since of the many-slayers--not
Unwatching are the gods.
The black Erinues, at due periods--
Whoever gains the lot
Of fortune with no right--
Him, by life's strain and stress
Back-again-beaten from success,
They strike blind: and among the out-of-sight
For who has got to be, avails no might.
The being praised outrageously
Is grave, for at the eyes of such an one
Is launched, from Zeus, the thunder-stone.
Therefore do I decide
For so much and no more prosperity
Than of his envy passes unespied.
Neither a city-sacker would I be,
Nor life, myself by others captive, see.

A swift report has gone our city through,
From fire, the good-news messenger: if true,
Who knows? Or is it not a god-sent lie?
Who is so childish and deprived of sense
That, having, at announcements of the flame
Thus novel, felt his own heart fired thereby,
He then shall, at a change of evidence,
Be worsted just the same?
It is conspicuous in a woman's nature,
Before its view to take a grace for granted:
Too trustful,--on her boundary, usurpature
Is swiftly made;
But swiftly, too, decayed,
The glory perishes by woman vaunted.

_Klu._ Soon shall we know--of these light-bearing torches,
And beacons and exchanges, fire with fire--
If they are true, indeed, or if, dream-fashion,
This gladsome light came and deceived our judgment.
Yon herald from the shore I see, o'ershadowed
With boughs of olive: dust, mud's thirsty brother,
Close neighbors on his garb, thus testify me
That neither voiceless, nor yet kindling for thee
Mountain-wood-flame, shall he explain by fire-smoke:
But either tell out more the joyance, speaking ...
Word contrary to which, I ought but love it!
For may good be--to good that 's known--appendage!

_Cho._ Whoever prays for aught else to this city
--May he himself reap fruit of his mind's error!

_Herald._ Ha, my forefathers' soil of earth Argeian!
Thee, in this year's tenth light, am I returned to--
Of many broken hopes, on one hope chancing;
For never prayed I, in this earth Argeian
Dying, to share my part in tomb the dearest.
Now, hail thou earth, and hail thou also, sunlight,
And Zeus, the country's lord, and king the Puthian
From bow no longer urging at us arrows!
Enough, beside Skamandros, cam'st thou adverse:
Now, contrary, be saviour thou and healer,
O king Apollon! And gods conquest-granting,
All--I invoke too, and my tutelary
Hermes, dear herald, heralds' veneration,--
And Heroes our forthsenders,--friendly, once more
The army to receive, the war-spear's leavings!
Ha, mansions of my monarchs, roofs beloved,
And awful seats, and deities sun-fronting--
Receive with pomp your monarch, long time absent!
For he comes bringing light in night-time to you,
In common with all these--king Agamemnon.
But kindly greet him--for clear shows your duty--
Who has dug under Troia with the mattock
Of Zeus the Avenger, whereby plains are out-ploughed,
Altars unrecognizable, and god's shrines,
And the whole land's seed thoroughly has perished.
And such a yoke-strap having cast round Troia,
The elder king Atreides, happy man--he
Comes to be honored, worthiest of what mortals
Now are. Nor Paris nor the accomplice-city
Outvaunts their deed as more than they are done-by:
For, in a suit for rape and theft found guilty,
He missed of plunder and, in one destruction,
Fatherland, house and home has mowed to atoms:
Debts the Priamidai have paid twice over.

_Cho._ Hail, herald from the army of Achaians!

_Her._ I hail:--to die, will gainsay gods no longer!

_Cho._ Love of this fatherland did exercise thee?

_Her._ So that I weep, at least, with joy, my eyes full.

_Cho._ What, of this gracious sickness were ye gainers?

_Her._ How now? instructed, I this speech shall master.

_Cho._ For those who loved you back, with longing stricken.

_Her._ This land yearned for the yearning army, say'st thou?

_Cho._ So as to set me oft, from dark mind, groaning.

_Her._ Whence came this ill mind--hatred to the army?

_Cho._ Of old, I use, for mischief's physic, silence.

_Her._ And how, the chiefs away, did you fear any?

_Cho._ So that now--late thy word--much joy were--dying!

_Her._ For well have things been worked out: these,--in much time,
Some of them, one might say, had luck in falling,
While some were faulty: since who, gods excepted,
Goes, through the whole time of his life, ungrieving?
For labors should I tell of, and bad lodgments,
Narrow deckways ill-strewn, too,--what the day's woe
We did not groan at getting for our portion?
As for land-things, again, on went more hatred!
Since beds were ours hard by the foemen's ramparts,
And, out of heaven and from the earth, the meadow
Dews kept a-sprinkle, an abiding damage
Of vestures, making hair a wild-beast matting.
Winter, too, if one told of it--bird-slaying--
Such as, unbearable, Idaian snow brought--
Or heat, when waveless, on its noontide couches
Without a wind, the sea would slumber falling
--Why must one mourn these? O'er and gone is labor:
O'er and gone is it, even to those dead ones,
So that no more again they mind uprising.
Why must we tell in numbers those deprived ones,
And the live man be vexed with fate's fresh outbreak?
Rather, I bid full farewell to misfortunes!
For us, the left from out the Argeian army,
The gain beats, nor does sorrow counterbalance.
So that 't is fitly boasted of, this sunlight,
By us, o'er sea and land the aery flyers,
"Troia at last taking, the band of Argives
Hang up such trophies to the gods of Hellas
Within their domes--new glory to grow ancient!"
Such things men having heard must praise the city
And army-leaders: and the grace which wrought them--
Of Zeus, shall honored be. Thou hast my whole word.

_Cho._ O'ercome by words, their sense I do not gainsay.
For, aye this breeds youth in the old--"to learn well."
But these things most the house and Klutaimnestra
Concern, 't is likely: while they make me rich, too.

_Klu._ I shouted long ago, indeed, for joyance,
When came that first night-messenger of fire
Proclaiming Ilion's capture and dispersion.
And some one, girding me, said, "Through fire-bearers
Persuaded--Troia to be sacked now, thinkest?
Truly, the woman's way,--high to lift heart up!"
By such words I was made seem wit-bewildered:
Yet still I sacrificed; and,--female-song with,--
A shout one man and other, through the city,
Set up, congratulating in the gods' seats,
Soothing the incense-eating flame right fragrant.
And now, what 's more, indeed, why need'st thou tell me?
I of the king himself shall learn the whole word:
And,--as may best be,--I my revered husband
Shall hasten, as he comes back, to receive: for--
What 's to a wife sweeter to see than this light
(Her husband, by the god saved, back from warfare)
So as to open gates? This tell my husband--
To come at soonest to his loving city.
A faithful wife at home may he find, coming!
Such an one as he left--the dog o' the household--
Trusty to him, adverse to the ill-minded,
And, in all else, the same: no signet-impress
Having done harm to, in that time's duration.
I know nor pleasure, nor blameworthy converse
With any other man more than--bronze-dippings!

_Her._ Such boast as this--brimful of the veracious--
Is for a high-born dame not bad to send forth!

_Cho._ Ay, she spoke thus to thee--that hast a knowledge
From clear interpreters--a speech most seemly!
But speak, thou, herald! Menelaos I ask of:
If he, returning, back in safety also
Will come with you--this land's beloved chieftain?

_Her._ There's no way I might say things false and pleasant
For friends to reap the fruits of through a long time.

_Cho._ How then, if, speaking good, things true thou chance on?

_Her._ For not well-hidden things become they, sundered.
The man has vanished from the Achaic army,
He and his ship too. I announce no falsehood.

_Cho._ Whether forth-putting openly from Ilion,
Or did storm--wide woe--snatch him from the army?

_Her._ Like topping bowman, thou hast touched the target,
And a long sorrow hast succinctly spoken.

_Cho._ Whether, then, of him, as a live or dead man
Was the report by other sailors bruited?

_Her._ Nobody knows so as to tell out clearly
Excepting Helios who sustains earth's nature.

_Cho._ How say'st thou then, did storm the naval army
Attack and end, by the celestials' anger?

_Her._ It suits not to defile a day auspicious
With ill-announcing speech: distinct each god's due:
And when a messenger with gloomy visage
To a city bears a fall'n host's woes--God ward off!--
One popular wound that happens to the city,
And many sacrificed from many households--
Men, scourged by that two-thonged whip Ares loves so,
Double spear-headed curse, bloody yoke-couple,--
Of woes like these, doubtless, whoe'er comes weighted,
Him does it suit to sing the Erinues' paian.
But who, of matters saved a glad-news-bringer,
Comes to a city in good estate rejoicing....
How shall I mix good things with evil, telling
Of storm against the Achaioi, urged by gods' wrath?
For they swore league, being arch-foes before that,
Fire and the sea: and plighted troth approved they,
Destroying the unhappy Argeian army,
At night began the bad-wave-outbreak evils;
For, ships against each other Threkian breezes
Shattered: and these, butted at in a fury
By storm and typhoon, with surge rain-resounding,--
Oft they went, vanished, through a bad herd's whirling.
And, when returned the brilliant light of Helios,
We view the Aigaian sea on flower with corpses
Of men Achaian and with naval ravage.
But us indeed, and ship, unhurt i' the hull too,
Either some one outstole us or outprayed us--
Some god--no man it was the tiller touching.
And Fortune, savior, willing on our ship sat.
So as it neither had in harbor wave-surge
Nor ran aground against a shore all rocky.
And then, the water-Haides having fled from
In the white day, not trusting to our fortune,
We chewed the cud in thoughts--this novel sorrow
O' the army laboring and badly pounded.
And now--if any one of them is breathing--
They talk of us as having-perished: why not?
And we--that they the same fate have, imagine.
May it be for the best! Meneleos, then,
Foremost and specially to come, expect thou!
If (that is) any ray o' the sun reports him
Living and seeing too--by Zeus' contrivings,
Not yet disposed to quite destroy the lineage--
Some hope is he shall come again to household.
Having heard such things, know, thou truth art hearing!

_Cho._ Who may he have been that named thus wholly with
exactitude--
(Was he some one whom we see not, by forecastings of the future
Guiding tongue in happy mood?)
--Her with battle for a bridegroom, on all sides contention-wooed,
Helena? Since--mark the suture!--
Ship's-Hell, Man's-Hell, City's-Hell,
From the delicately--pompous curtains that pavilion well,
Forth, by favor of the gale
Of earth-born Zephuros did she sail.
Many shield-bearers, leaders of the pack,
Sailed too upon their track,
Theirs who had directed oar,
Then visible no more,
To Simois' leaf-luxuriant shore--
For sake of strife all gore!

To Ilion Wrath, fulfilling her intent,
This marriage-care--the rightly named so--sent:
In after-time, for the tables' abuse
And that of the hearth-partaker Zeus,
Bringing to punishment
Those who honored with noisy throat
The honor of the bride, the hymenæal note
Which did the kinsfolk then to singing urge.
But, learning a new hymn for that which was,
The ancient city of Priamos
Groans probably a great and general dirge,
Denominating Paris
"The man that miserably marries:"--
She who, all the while before,
A life, that was a general dirge
For citizens' unhappy slaughter, bore,

And thus a man, by no milk's help,
Within his household reared a lion's whelp
That loved the teat
In life's first festal stage:
Gentle as yet,
A true child-lover, and, to men of age,
A thing whereat pride warms;
And oft he had it in his arms
Like any new-born babe, bright-faced, to hand
Wagging its tail, at belly's strict command.

But in due time upgrown,
The custom of progenitors was shown:
For--thanks for sustenance repaying
With ravage of sheep slaughtered--
It made unbidden feast;
With blood the house was watered,
To household came a woe there was no staying:
Great mischief many-slaying!
From God it was--some priest
Of Até, in the house, by nurture thus increased.

At first, then, to the city of Ilion went
A soul, as I might say, of windless calm--
Wealth's quiet ornament,
An eyes'-dart bearing balm,
Love's spirit-biting flower.
But--from the true course bending--
She brought about, of marriage, bitter ending:
Ill-resident, ill-mate, in power
Passing to the Priamidai--by sending
Of Hospitable Zeus--
Erinus for a bride,--to make brides mourn, her dower.

Spoken long ago
Was the ancient saying
Still among mortals staying:
"Man's great prosperity at height of rise
Engenders offspring nor unchilded dies;
And, from good fortune, to such families,
Buds forth insatiate woe."
Whereas, distinct from any,
Of my own mind I am:
For 't is the unholy deed begets the many,
Resembling each its dam.
Of households that correctly estimate,
Ever a beauteous child is born of Fate.
But ancient Arrogance delights to generate
Arrogance, young and strong 'mid mortals' sorrow,
Or now, or then, when comes the appointed morrow.
And she bears young Satiety;
And, fiend with whom nor fight nor war can be,
Unholy Daring--twin black Curses
Within the household, children like their nurses.

But Justice shines in smoke-grimed habitations,
And honors the well-omened life;
While,--gold-besprinkled stations
Where the hands' filth is rife,
With backward-turning eyes
Leaving,--to holy seats she hies,
Not worshipping the power of wealth
Stamped with applause by stealth:
And to its end directs each thing begun.

Approach then, my monarch, of Troia the sacker, of Atreus the son!
How ought I address thee, how ought I revere thee,--nor yet
overhitting
Nor yet underbending the grace that is fitting?
Many of mortals hasten to honor the seeming-to-be--
Passing by justice: and, with the ill-faring, to groan as he groans
all are free.
But no bite of the sorrow their liver has reached to:
They say with the joyful,--one outside on each, too,
As they force to a smile smileless faces.
But whoever is good at distinguishing races
In sheep of his flock--it is not for the eyes
Of a man to escape such a shepherd's surprise,
As they seem, from a well-wishing mind,
In watery friendship to fawn and be kind.
Thou to me, then, indeed, sending an army for Helena's sake,
(I will not conceal it,) wast--oh, by no help of the
Muses!--depicted
Not well of thy midriff the rudder directing,--convicted
Of bringing a boldness they did not desire to the men with existence
at stake.
But now--from no outside of mind, nor unlovingly--gracious thou art
To those who have ended the labor, fulfilling their part;
And in time shalt thou know, by inquiry instructed,
Who of citizens justly, and who not to purpose, the city conducted.

_Agamemnon._ First, indeed, Argos, and the gods, the local,
'T is right addressing--those with me the partners
In this return and right things done the city
Of Priamos: gods who, from no tongue hearing
The rights o' the cause, for Ilion's fate man-slaught'rous
Into the bloody vase, not oscillating,
Put the vote-pebbles, while, o' the rival vessel,
Hope rose up to the lip-edge: filled it was not.
By smoke the captured city is still conspicuous:
Até's burnt-offerings live: and, dying with them,
The ash sends forth the fulsome blasts of riches.
Of these things, to the gods grace many-mindful
'T is right I render, since both nets outrageous
We built them round with, and, for sake of woman,
It did the city to dust--the Argeian monster,
The horse's nestling, the shield-bearing people
That made a leap, at setting of the Pleiads,
And, vaulting o'er the tower, the raw-flesh-feeding
Lion licked up his fill of blood tyrannic.
I to the gods indeed prolonged this preface;
But--as for _thy_ thought, I remember hearing--
I say the same, and thou co-pleader hast me.
Since few of men this faculty is born with
To honor, without grudge, their friend successful.
For moody, on the heart, a poison seated
Its burden doubles to who gained the sickness:
By his own griefs he is himself made heavy,
And out-of-door prosperity seeing groans at.
Knowing, I 'd call (for well have I experienced)
"Fellowship's mirror," "phantom of a shadow,"
Those seeming to be mighty gracious to me:
While just Odusseus--he who sailed not willing--
When joined on, was to me the ready trace-horse.
This of him, whether dead or whether living,
I say. For other city-and-gods' concernment--
Appointing common courts, in full assemblage
We will consult. And as for what holds seemly
How it may lasting stay well, must be counselled:
While what has need of medicines Paionian
We, either burning or else cutting kindly,
Will make endeavor to turn pain from sickness.
And now into the domes and homes by altar
Going, I to the gods first raise the right-hand--
They who, far sending, back again have brought me.
And Victory, since she followed, fixed remain she!