{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_19559/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_19559","id":"gutenberg_19559","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19559","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Classics of Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Plays/Films/Dramas","Greek drama (Tragedy) -- Translations into English"],"text":"Produced by Al Haines\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK OF\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nANCIENT TRAGEDY\n\n\n\n\nRICHARD G. MOULTON\n\n\n\n\nCHICAGO\n\nThe University of Chicago Press\n\n1904\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n\nTHE ANCIENT DRAMA\n\n(TRAGEDY)\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nSTORY OF ORESTES [_Oresteia_], A TRILOGY BY Aeschylus\n  AGAMEMNON\n  THE SEPULCHRAL RITES [_Choephori_]\n  THE GENTLE GODDESSES [_Eumenides_]\n\nELECTRA, by Sophocles\n\nELECTRA, by Euripides\n\nALCESTIS, by Euripides\n\nTHE CYCLOPS, by Euripides\n\nTHE BACCHANALS, by Euripides\n\nMISCELLANEOUS PASSAGES\n\n\n\n\nREFERENCES\n\n_In the case of Aeschylus and Sophocles the numbering of lines agrees\nwith that in the translations of Plumptre and in the original.  In the\nplays from Euripides the numbering is that of the lines in the cheap\ntranslation (Routledge's Universal Library)._\n\n\n[Transcriber's note: In the original book, the line numbers mentioned\nabove were right-justified.  In this e-book, they are enclosed in curly\nbraces, and placed immediately after their associated line of text,\ne.g. \". . . a line of text  {123}\".]\n\n\n\n\nA CONDENSATION OF THE TRILOGY\n\n\nSTORY OF ORESTES\n\n[_ORESTEIA_]\n\n\n\nBEING THE ONLY GREEK TRILOGY, OR THREE-PLAY DRAMA, WHICH HAS COME DOWN\nTO US COMPLETE\n\n\n\nCONSISTING OF\n\n\nMORNING PLAY:\n\nAGAMEMNON\n\n\nMIDDAY PLAY:\n\nTHE SEPULCHRAL RITES\n\n[_CHOEPHORI_]\n\n\nAFTERNOON PLAY:\n\nTHE GENTLE GODDESSES\n\n[_EUMENIDES_]\n\n\n\nCOMPOSED BY AESCHYLUS, AND BROUGHT ON THE STAGE AT ATHENS AT THE\nFESTIVAL OF THE 'GREATER DIONYSIA,' IN MARCH OF 458 B. C., DURING THE\nPOLITICAL EXCITEMENT OCCASIONED BY THE POPULAR ATTACK ON THE\nARISTOCRATIC COURT OF MARS' HILL, OR AREOPAGUS\n\n\n\nThe passages quoted are from Plumptre's Translation\n\n\n\n\nMEMORANDUM\n\nThe Sacred Legends touched by this Trilogy would be familiar, in\noutline, to the Auditors: e. g.:\n\nThe woes of the House of Atreus: the foundation of them laid by Atreus\nwhen, to take vengeance on his brother Thyestes, he served up to him at\na banquet the flesh of his own sons;\n\nHis grandsons were Agamemnon and Menelaus: Menelaus' wife, Helen, was\nstolen by a guest, Paris of Troy, which caused the great Trojan war.\n\nAgamemnon, who commanded the Greek nations in that war, fretting at the\ncontrary winds which delayed the setting out of the fleet, was\npersuaded by the Seers to slay his own daughter Iphigenia, to appease\nthe Deities;\n\nHer mother Clytaemnestra treasured up this wrong all through the ten\nyears' war, and slew Agamemnon on his return, in the moment of victory,\nslew him while in his bath by casting a net over him and smiting him to\ndeath with her own arm;\n\nThen she reigned in triumph with Aegisthus her paramour (himself one of\nthe fatal house), till Orestes her son, who had escaped as an infant\nwhen his father was slaughtered, returned at last, and slew the guilty\npair;\n\nFor this act of matricide, though done by the command of Apollo,\nOrestes was given up to the Furies, and driven over the earth, a\nmadman, till in Athens, on Mars' Hill they say, he was cleansed and\nhealed.\n\nCassandra too was involved in the fall of Agamemnon: the Trojan maiden\nbeloved of Apollo, who bestowed upon her the gift of prophecy; when she\nslighted the God's love, Apollo--for no gift of a god can be\nrecalled--left her a prophetess, with the doom that her true\nforebodings should ever be disbelieved.  She, having thus vainly sought\nto save Troy, with its fall fell into captivity, and to the lot of\nAgamemnon, with whom she died.\n\nThe name of Orestes would suggest the proverbial friendship of Qrestes\n[Transcriber's note: Orestes?] and Pylades, formed in Orestes' trouble\nand never broken.\n\n\n\n\nTRILOGY OF THE ORESTEIA\n\n\nFIRST PLAY: IN THE MORNING:\n\n_AGAMEMNON_\n\n\nPROLOGUE\n\n_The Permanent Scene is decorated to represent the facade of the Palace\nof Agamemnon, at Argos; the platform over the Central door appearing as a\nWatch-tower.  At intervals along the front of the Palace, and especially\nby the three doors, are statues of Gods, amongst them Apollo, Zeus, and\nHermes.  The time is supposed to be night, verging on morning.  Both\nOrchestra and Stage are vacant: only a Watchman is discovered on the\nTower, leaning on his elbow, and gazing into the distance._\n\n\nThe Watchman soliloquizes on his toilsome task of watching all night\nthrough for the first sight of the signal which is to tell of the capture\nof Troy: he has kept his post for years, till the constellations which\nusher in winter and harvest-time are his familiar companions; he must\nendure weather and sleeplessness, and when he would sing to keep his\nspirits up he is checked by thoughts of his absent master's household, in\nwhich, he darkly hints, things are \"not well.\"  [_He is settling himself\ninto an easier posture, when suddenly he springs to his feet._]  The\nbeacon-fire at last!  [_He shouts the signal agreed upon, and begins\ndancing for joy._]  Now all will be well; a little while and his hand\nshall touch the dear hand of his lord; and then--ah! \"the weight of an ox\nrests on his tongue,\" but if the house had a voice it could tell a tale!\n[_Exit to bring tidings to the queen._]  {39}\n\n\nPARODE, OR CHORUS-ENTRY\n\n_As if roused by the Watchman's shout, enter the Chorus: Twelve Elders of\nArgos: in the usual processional order, combining music, chanting and\ngesture-dance, to a rhythm conventionally associated with marching.  They\nenter on the right (as if from the city), and the Processional Chant\ntakes them gradually round the Orchestra towards the Thymele, or Altar of\nDionysus, in the centre._\n\n_The Chorus_ in their Processional Chant open the general state of\naffairs, especially bringing out the doublesidedness of the situation\n[which is the key-note of the whole Drama]: the expected triumph over\nTroy, which cannot be far distant now, combined with misgivings as to\nmisfortunes sure to come as nemesis for the dark deeds connected with the\nsetting out of the expedition.  They open thus:\n\n      Lo! the tenth year now is passing  {40}\n      Since, of Priam great avengers,\n      Menelaos, Agamemnon,\n      Double-throned and double-sceptred,\n      Power from sovran Zeus deriving--\n      Mighty pair of the Atreidae--\n      Raised a fleet of thousand vessels\n      Of the Argives from our country,\n      Potent helpers in their warfare,\n      Shouting cry of Ares fiercely;\n      E'en as vultures shriek who hover,\n      Wheeling, whirling o'er their eyrie,  {50}\n      In wild sorrow for their nestlings,\n      With their oars of stout wings rowing,\n      Having lost the toil that bound them\n      To their callow fledglings' couches.\n      But on high One--or Apollo,\n      Zeus, or Pan,--the shrill cry hearing,\n      Cry of birds that are his clients,\n      Sendeth forth on men transgressing\n      Erinnys, slow but sure avenger;\n      So against young Alexandros\n      Atreus' sons the Great King sendeth,\n      Zeus, of host and guest protector:  {60}\n      He, for bride with many a lover,\n      Will to Danai give and Troians\n      Many conflicts, men's limbs straining,\n      When the knee in dust is crouching,\n      And the spear-shaft in the onset\n      Of the battle snaps asunder.\n      But as things are now, so are they,\n      So, as destined, shall the end be.\n      Nor by tears nor yet libations\n      Shall he soothe the wrath unbending  {70}\n      Caused by sacred rites left fireless.\n\nThey are going on to soliloquize how they themselves have been shut out\nof the glorious expedition, for, in matters of War, old age is but a\nreturn to boyhood; when  {82}\n\n_The Chorus-Procession having reached the Thymele, turn towards the\nStage.  Meanwhile the great Central Door of the Stage has opened, and a\nsolemn Procession filed out on the Stage, consisting of the Queen and her\nAttendants, bearing torches and incense, and offerings for the Gods; they\nhave during the Choral Procession silently advanced to the different\nStatues along the front of the Palace, made offerings and commenced the\nsacrificial riles.  When the Chorus turn towards the Stage, the whole\nScene is ablaze with fires and trembling with clouds of incense, rich\nunguents perfume the whole Theatre, while a solemn Religious ritual is\nbeing celebrated in dumb show._\n\n_The Chorus_ break off their Processional Chant [_keeping the same\nrhythm_] to enquire what is the meaning of these solemn rites, and\nwhether the Queen can solve their doubt, which wavers between hope and\nforeboding:\n\n_The Queen signifying, by a gesture, that the Ritual must not be\ninterrupted by speech, the Chorus proceed to take their regular position\nround the Thymele, and address themselves to their_  {104}\n\nPRELUDE\n\n_the Music, Poetry, and Gesture-dance changing from a March to a highly\nLyrical rhythm; the evolutions of the Dance taking Right and Left hand\ndirections, but without the Chorus quitting their position round the\nAltar_.[1]\n\n_Strophe: during which the evolutions take a Right Hand direction._\n\n_The Chorus_ resume: though shut out from War their old age has still\nsuasive power of song, and they can tell of the famous omen seen by the\ntwo kings and the whole army as they waited to embark: two eagles on the\nleft devouring a pregnant hare:\n\n          Sing a strain of woe\n          But may the good prevail!  {120}\n\n_Antistrophe: the same rhythm line for line as the Strophe, but the\nevolutions taking Left Hand direction._\n\nand the Prophet Calchas interpreted; they shall lay Troy low, only beware\nlest the Victors suffer from the wrath of some God, Artemis who hates the\neagle:\n\n          Sing a strain of woe,\n          But may the good prevail!  {137}\n\n_Epode: a different rhythm, and the evolutions without any special\ndirection._\n\nMay some Healer, Calchas added, avert her wrath, lest she send delays\nupon the impatient host and irritate them to some dread deed, some\nsacrifice of children to haunt the house for ever!  So he prophesied in\npiercing strains.\n\n          Sing a strain of woe,\n          But may the good prevail  {154}\n\n\nENTRY-ODE\n\n_With a change of rhythm, the Chorus pass into their first regular Choral\nOde; Strophes and Antistrophes as in the Prelude, but the Evolutions now\nleading them from the central Altar to the extreme Right and Left of the\nOrchestra._\n\n_Strophe I: Evolutions leading Chorus from Thymele to extreme Right of\nOrchestra._\n\nIt must be Zeus--no other God will suffice--Zeus alone who shall lift\nfrom my[2] mind this cloud of anxiety;\n\n_Antistrophe I: Evolutions the same, rhythm for rhythm, as the Strophe,\nbut leading the Chorus back from the Right of Orchestra to the central\nAltar._\n\nFor on Zeus, before whom all the elder Gods gave way, they must rely who\nare bent on getting all the wisdom of the wise.  {168}\n\n_Strophe II: a change of rhythm: evolutions leading Chorus from the\ncentral Altar to the extreme Left of Orchestra._\n\nYes: Zeus leads men to wisdom by his fixed law that pain is gain; by\ninstilling secret care in the heart, it may be in sleep, he forces the\nunwilling to yield to wiser thoughts: no doubt this anxiety is a gift of\nthe Gods, whose might is irresistible.  {176}\n\n_Antistrophe II: same rhythm, but evolutions leading back from Left of\nOrchestra to central Altar._\n\nWhen Agamemnon, not repining, but tempering himself to the fate which\nsmote him, waited amidst adverse winds and failing stores:  {184}\n\n_Strophe III: fresh change of rhythm, Chorus moving to Right of\nOrchestra._\n\nand the contrary winds kept sweeping down from the Strymon, and the host\nwas being worn out with delays, and the prophet began to speak of 'one\nmore charm against the wrath of Artemis, though a bitter one to the\nChiefs,'  {195}\n\n_Antistrophe III: same rhythm, movement back from Right of Orchestra to\nAltar._\n\nat last the King spoke: great woe to disobey the prophet, great woe to\nslay my child! how shed a maiden's blood? yet how lose my expedition, my\nallies?  May all be well in the end!  {210}\n\n_Strophe IV: change of rhythm; movements to the left of Orchestra._\n\n          So when he himself had harnessed\n          To the yoke of Fate unbending,\n          With a blast of strange new feeling\n          Sweeping o'er his heart and spirit,\n          Aweless, godless and unholy,\n          He his thoughts and purpose altered\n          To full measure of all daring,\n          (Still base counsel's fatal frenzy,\n          Wretched primal source of evils,\n          Gives to mortal hearts strange boldness,)\n          And at last his heart be hardened\n          His own child to slay as victim,\n          Help in war that they were waging\n          To avenge a woman's frailty,\n          Victim for the good ship's safety.  {219}\n\n_Antistrophe IV: back to Altar._\n\n          All her prayers and eager callings\n          On the tender name of Father,\n          All her young and maiden freshness,\n          They but set at naught, those rulers,\n          In their passion for the battle.\n          And her father gave commandment\n          To the servants of the Goddess,\n          When the prayer was o'er, to lift her,\n          Like a kid, above the altar,\n          In her garments wrapt, face downwards,--\n         Yea, to seize with all their courage,\n          And that o'er her lips of beauty\n          Should be set a watch to hinder\n          Words of curse against the houses,\n          With the gag's strength silence-working.\n\n_Strophe V: Altar to Sight of Orchestra._\n\n          And she upon the ground\n        Pouring rich folds of veil in saffron dyed,\n        Cast at each one of those who sacrificed\n          A piteous glance that pierced\n          Fair as a pictured form,\n          And wishing,--all in vain,--\n          To speak; for oftentimes\n        In those her father's hospitable halls\n        She sang, a maiden pure with chastest song,\n          And her dear father's life\n        That poured its threefold cup of praise to God,\n          Crowned with all choicest good,\n          She with a daughter's love\n          Was wont to celebrate.  {238}\n\n_Antistrophe V: Back to Altar._\n\n          What then ensued mine eyes\n        Saw not, nor may I tell, but Calchas' arts\n        Were found not fruitless.  Justice turns the scale\n          For those to whom through pain\n          At last comes wisdom's gain.\n          But for our future fate,\n          Since help for it is none,\n        Good-bye to it before it comes, and this\n        Has the same end as wailing premature;\n          For with to-morrow's dawn\n        It will come clear; may good luck crown our fate!\n          So prays the one true guard,\n          Nearest and dearest found,\n          Of this our Apian land.  {248}\n\n\nEPISODE I\n\n_The Ritual on the Stage being now concluded, Clytaemnestra advances to\nthe front.  At the same moment the Choral Ode is finished and the Chorus\ntake up their usual position during the Episodes, drawn up in two lilies\nin front of the Altar facing the Stage.  They speak only by their Foreman\n(or Corypliceus), and use the ordinary Iambic Metre (equivalent to our\nBlank Verse)._\n\n_The Foreman of the Chorus_ repeats his enquiries of Clytaemnestra as to\nthe meaning of this sudden rejoicing, guardedly adding that it is his\nduty to pay respect to his lord's wife in his absence--_Clytaemnestra_\nannounces that Troy has been taken this last night--rapid interchange of\nstichomuthic dialogue, the Chorus expressing their amazement as to how\nthe news could travel so fast.\n\n  _Cho._     What herald could arrive with speed like this?\n  _Clytaem._ Hephiestos flashing forth bright flames from Ida:\n             Beacon to beacon from that courier-fire\n             Sent on its tidings; Ida to the rock\n             Hermaean named, in Lemnos: from the isle\n             The height of Athos, dear to Zeus, received\n             A third great torch of flame, and lifted up,\n             So as on high to skim the broad sea's back,\n             The stalwart fire rejoicing went its way;\n             The pine wood, like a sun, sent forth its light\n             Of golden radiance to Makistos' watch;\n             And he, with no delay, nor unawares\n             Conquered by sleep, performed his courier's part.\n             Far off the torch-light to Euripos' straits\n             Advancing, tells it to Messapion's guard:\n             They, in their turn, lit up and passed it on,\n             Kindling a pile of dry and aged heath.\n             Still strong and fresh the torch, not yet grown dim,\n             Leaping across Asopos' plain in guise\n             Like a bright moon, towards Kithaeron's rock,\n             Roused the next station of the courier flame.\n             And that far-travelled light the sentries there\n             Refused not, burning more than all yet named:\n             And then the light swooped o'er Gorgopis' lake,\n             And passing on to Aegiplanctos' mount,\n             Bade the bright fire's due order tarry not;\n             And they, enkindling boundless store, send on\n             A mighty beard of flame, and then it passed\n             The headland e'en that looks on Saron's gulf\n             Still blazing.  On it swept, until it came\n             To Arachnaean heights, the watch-tower near;\n             Then here on the Atreidae's roof it swoops,\n             This light, of Ida's fire no doubtful heir.\n             Such is the order of my torch-race games;\n             One from another taking up the course,\n             But here the winner is both first and last;\n             And this sure proof and token now I tell thee,\n             Seeing that my lord hath sent it me from Troia.  {307}\n\nWhile the _Chorus_ are still overcome with amazement, _Clytaemnestra_\ntriumphs over the condition of Troy that morning: like a vessel\ncontaining oil and vinegar, the conquered, bewailing their first day of\ncaptivity over the corpses of husbands and sons, the victors enjoying\ntheir first rest free from the chill dews of night and the sentry's\ncall--and all will be well, _if_ they remember the rights of the Gods in\ntheir sack of the city: ah! may they not in their exultation commit some\nsacrilegious deed of plunder, forgetting that they have only reached the\ngoal, and have the return to make!  If they should, the curse of those\nwho have perished might still awake against them [_Cl._ thus darkly\nharping upon her secret hope that vengeance may still overtake them for\nthe sacrifice of her daughter.]  {345}\n\n_Exit Clytaemnestra, with Attendants._\n\nAfter a few words of triumph (_in marching rhythm_), that Zeus, protector\nof host and guest, has visited the proud Trojans, and brought them into a\nnet of bondage that neither young nor full-grown can overleap, the Chorus\nproceed to a more formal expression of their feelings in  {357}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE I\n\n_breaking, as regularly in the Choral Odes, into highly Lyrical rhythms\naccompanied with Music and Gesture-dance, the evolutions of which lead\nthem alternately to Right and Left of Orchestra and back to Altar._\n\n_Strophe I: evolutions from Altar to Right._\n\nYes: it is the hand of Zeus we may trace in all this!  Now what will they\nsay who contend that the Gods care not when mortal men trample under foot\nthe inviolable?  Troy knows better now, that once relied on its abounding\nwealth: ah! moderate fortune is best for the seeker after Wisdom; Wealth\nis no bulwark to those who in wantonness have spurned the altar of the\nRight and Just.  {375}\n\n_Antistrophe I: evolutions front Right back to Altar, rhythm as in\nStrophe._\n\nSuch a man is urged on by Impulse, offspring of Infatuation, till his\nmischief stands out clear, as worthless bronze stripped of its varnish.\nSo Paris sees now his light-hearted crime has brought his city low.  He\ncame to the house of the Sons of Atreus, and stole a Queen away, leaving\nShame where he had sat as Guest.  {392}\n\n_Strophe II: change of rhythm, evolutions from Altar to Left._\n\n          She, leaving to her countrymen at home\n          Wild din of spear and shield and ships of war,\n              And bringing, as her dower,\n              To Ilion doom of death,\n          Passed very swiftly through the palace gates,\n              Daring what none should dare;\n              And many a wailing cry\n          They raised, the minstrel prophets of the house,\n              \"Woe for that kingly home!\n          Woe for that kingly home and for its chiefs!\n          Woe for the marriage-bed and traces left\n              Of wife who loved her lord!\"\n          There stands he silent; foully wronged and yet\n              Uttering no word of scorn,\n          In deepest woe perceiving she is gone;\n              And in his yearning love\n              For one beyond the sea,\n          A ghost shall seem to queen it o'er the house;\n              The grace of sculptured forms\n              Is loathed by her lord,\n          And in the penury of life's bright eyes\n              All Aphrodite's charm\n              To utter wreck has gone.  {409}\n\n_Antistrophe II: back to Altar._\n\n          And phantom shades that hover round in dreams\n          Come full of sorrow, bringing vain delight;\n              For vain it is, when one\n              Sees seeming shows of good,\n          And gliding through his hands the dream is gone,\n              After a moment's space,\n              On wings that follow still\n          Upon the path where sleep goes to and fro.\n              Such are the woes at home\n          Upon the altar hearth, and worse than these.\n          But on a wider scale for those who went\n              From Hellas' ancient shore,\n          A sore distress that causeth pain of heart\n              Is seen in every house.\n          Yea, many things there are that touch the quick:\n              For those whom each did send\n              He knoweth; but, instead\n          Of living men, there come to each man's home\n              Funereal urns alone,\n              And ashes of the dead.  {425}\n_Strophe III: change of rhythm, evolutions from Altar to Right._\n\nWar is a trafficker; in the rush of battle he holds scales, and for the\ngolden coin you spend on him he sends you back lifeless shapes of men;\nthey sent out men, the loving friends receive back well-smoothed ashes\nfrom the funeral pyre.  They sing the heroic fall of some--all for\nanother's wife; and some murmur discontent against the sons of Atreus,\nand some have won a grave in the land they had conquered.  {441}\n\n_Antistrophe III: evolutions repeated, but from Right back to Altar._\n\nSo sullen discontent has been doing the work of a people's curse:\ntherefore it is that I am awaiting with dim forebodings the full news.\nThe Gods do not forget those who have shed much blood, and sooner or\nlater the dark-robed Deities of the Curse consign the evil-doer to\nimpassable, hopeless gloom.  Away with the dazzling success that attracts\nthe thunderbolt! be mine the moderate lot that neither causes nor suffers\ncaptivity.  {458}\n\n_Epode: change of rhythm and Chorus not moving from the Altar._\n\nThe courier flame has brought good news--but who knows whether it be\ntrue?--Yet it is childish when the heart is all aglow with the message of\nthe flame to be turned round by everchanging rumour.--Yet it is the\nnature of a woman to believe too soon.  [Observe how the Chorus, setting\nout on an ode of triumph, have come back to their persistent\nforebodings.]  {471}\n\n_Suddenly at the Side-door on the extreme Left of the Stage (signifying\ndistance) appears a Herald, covered with dust, crowned with olive in\ntoken of victory.  The Chorus immediately fall into their Episode\nposition to receive him, the Foreman expressing their anticipations as\nthe Herald traverses the long stage to the point opposite the Chorus._\n\nEPISODE II\n\n_Foreman of Chorus_.  Now we shall have a clearer message than that of\nthe beacon-fires: all is well or . . . but I cannot put the other\nalternative.  _The Herald_ (_arrived opposite the Chorus_) solemnly\nsalutes the land of Argos he had never hoped to see again, salutes the\nseveral Gods whose statues are now bright with the morning sun,\nespecially Apollo who has proved himself a Healer, and Hermes, patron of\nHeralds; and then announces Agamemnon is close at hand, victorious over\nTroy and having sent Paris to his merited punishment.--Observe how in the\nparallel dialogue that follows the foreboding tone creeps in again in the\nmidst of the news of triumph.  {520}\n\n  _Chor._  Joy, joy, thou herald of the Achaean host!\n  _Her._   All joy is mine: I shrink from death no more.\n  _Chor._  Did love for this thy fatherland so try thee?\n  _Her._   So that mine eyes weep tears for very joy.\n  _Chor._  Disease full sweet then this ye suffered from . . .\n  _Her._   How so?  When taught, I shall thy meaning master.\n  _Chor._  Ye longed for us who yearned for you in turn.\n  _Her._   Say'st thou this land its yearning host yearned o'er?\n  _Chor._  Yea, so that oft I groaned in gloom of heart.\n  _Her._   Whence came these bodings that an army hates?\n  _Chor._  Silence I've held long since a charm for ill.\n  _Her._   How, when your lords were absent, feared ye any?\n  _Chor._  To use thy words, death now would welcome be.  {533}\nThe Herald, not understanding the source of the Chorus' misgiving, goes\non to say of course their success is mixed: so fare all but the Gods.\nThey have had their tossings on the sea, their exposure to the night dews\ntill their hair is shaggy as beasts'; but why remember these now? our\ntoil is past--so he suddenly recollects is that of the dead they have\nleft behind--but he will shake off these feelings: Troy is captured.  The\n_Chorus_ feel youthful with such happy tidings.  {569}\n\n_Enter Clytaemnestra from the Palace._\n\n_Clyt._  Now they will believe me, who were saying just now that women\nbelieved too soon.  What joy for a wife equal to that of a husband's\nreturn? and I have kept my trust as stainless as bronze.  [_Exit into\nPalace._]  The Foreman goes on to enquire as to Menelaus: the Herald\nwould fain not answer, and brings out the Greek dread of mingling bad\nnews with good--at last he is forced to acknowledge Menelaus has\ndisappeared, his ship sundered from the fleet by a terrible storm in which\n\n            They a compact swore who erst were foes,\n        Ocean and Fire,  {634}\n\nand the sea 'blossomed with wrecks of ships and dead Achaeans:' the fleet\nitself barely escaped.  [Thus: foreboding indirectly assisted by its\nappearing that one of the two sons of Atreus has already been overtaken\nby Nemesis.]  {663}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE II\n\n[_Positions, etc., as before._]\n\n_Strophe I: to the Right._\n\nWho could foresee so well and give her the name _Helen_--a _Hell_[3] to\nmen and ships and towers?  She came out of bowers of gorgeous curtains,\nshe sailed with breezes soft as Zephyrs yet strong as Titans, and unseen\nreached the leafy banks of the Simois; but bloodshed was in her train,\nand on her track followed hosts of hunters that carried shields.  {680}\n\n_Antistrophe I: back to Altar._\n\nSo there is a wrath that works vengeance after long waiting: to the\n_Ilion_ that received her she was a dear bride: then there was a shout of\n'Paris, Paris,' in the Bridal Song: now his city has celebrated a Wedding\nof Death, and called on Paris' name in other tones.  {695}\n\n_Strophe II: Altar to Left._\n\n          So once a lion's cub,\n          A mischief in his house,\n          As foster child one reared,\n          While still it loved the teats;\n          In life's preluding dawn\n          Tame, by the children loved,\n          And fondled by the old,\n          Oft in his arms 'twas held,\n          Like infant newly born,\n        With eyes that brightened to the hand that stroked,\n        And fawning at the hest of hunger keen.  {704}\n\n_Antistrophe II: back to Altar._\n\n            But when full-grown, it showed\n            The nature of its sires;\n            For it unbidden made\n            A feast in recompense\n            Of all their fostering care,\n            By banquet of slain sheep;\n            With blood the house was stained,\n            A curse no slaves could check,\n            Great mischief murderous:\n          By God's decree a priest of Ate thus\n          Was reared, and grew within the man's own house.  {715}\n\n_Strophe III: Altar to Right._\n\n          So I would tell that thus to Ilion came\n          Mood as of calm when all the air is still,\n          The gentle pride and joy of kingly state,\n              A tender glance of eye,\n          The full-blown blossom of a passionate love,\n              Thrilling the very soul;\n              And yet she turned aside,\n          And wrought a bitter end of marriage feast,\n              Coming to Priam's race,\n              Ill sojourner, ill friend,\n          Sent by great Zeus, the God of host and guest--\n          Erinnys, for whom wives weep many tears.  {726}\n\n_Antistrophe III: back to Altar._\n\nThe time-honored saying is that Prosperity grown big will not die\nchildless, its offspring will be a Woe insatiable.  I say no, it is not\nthe Prosperity, it is an Impious deed that breeds Impious deeds like the\nparent stock.  {737}\n\n_Strophe IV: from Altar to Left._\n\nRecklessness begets Recklessness, this begets full-flushed Lust and\nGodforgetting Daring, two black curses to a household.  {746}\n\n_Antistrophe IV: back to Altar._\n\nJustice will dwell in houses blackened with smoke where life is ruled by\nlaw, but averts her eyes from gold-decked mansions conjoined with hands\ndenied: and it is this Justice that is directing the course of things to\nits appointed goal.  {755}\n\n_At this point, a grand Procession of the returning Warriors from Troy\nenters Stage and Orchestra by the Left Side-Door (signifying distance):\nAgamemnon in his chariot, followed in another chariot by Cassandra as\ncaptive, but still in the garb of prophetess: then a train of Soldiers\nladen with trophies and leading a train of Troian captive women.  The\nChorus fall into their Episode position to receive them._\n\nEPISODE III\n\n_Chorus_ (_in marching rhythm as the Procession traverses the long\nStage._)\n\nSon of Atreus, how are we to hit upon welcome that shall be fit for thee,\nnot missing or overshooting the mark?  In both condolence and\ncongratulation men's faces often belie their hearts; thou who knowest\nthine own sheep, should'st be able to tell kindness from flattery.  We\nconfess, when thou wentest forth on thy expedition, thou wast to us like\na face limned by an unskilled artist, in the deed thou did'st to inspire\nfalse courage.  Now, without a thought unfriendly, we say--all is well\nthat ends well, and thou wilt soon hear who has deserved well of thee in\nthy absence.  [Observe their guarded tone.]  {782}\n\n_Agamemnon_ [_the metre now settling into ordinary 'Blank Verse'_].\nFirst thanks to the Gods by whose help we have laid Troy low, the ruins\nof which are still sending up clouds of smoke as sweet incense to the\nDeities of Vengeance.  And your sentiments, both then and now, I approve:\nprosperity too often misses true sympathy amidst the envy it excites;\nenvy that has the double pang of missing its own and seeing another's\ngood.  Experience has taught me the difference between professing and\ntrue friends: my unwilling comrade Ulysses alone proved true to me.  As\nto the state we will deliberate in full counsel as to what needs\npreserving, and where disease calls for surgery.  At present I must give\nthanks at my own hearth for my safe return.\n\n_Here the Central Door of the Stage is thrown open, and enter\nClytaemnestra to welcome her lord, followed by attendants bearing rich\ndraperies of purple and dazzling colors._  {827}\n\n_Clyt._  Notwithstanding your presence, Senators of Argos, I must pour\nout my heart to my lord.  Ah! a sad thing is a wife waiting at home for\nher absent husband! hearing of wounds, which if true would have made you\na riddled net, of deaths enough for a three-lived Geryon: again and again\nI have been stopped with the noose already on my neck!  This is the\nreason why you see not your son Orestes: wonder not, he is being brought\nup by an ally to whom I sent him, lest danger befall us.  I cannot weep;\nmy tears have run dry by my weepings and sleepless watchings for the\nbeacon.  Now at ease I hail my lord--\n\n             as watch-dog of the fold,\n          The stay that saves the ship, of lofty roof  {870}\n          Main column-prop, a father's only child,\n          Land that beyond all hope the sailor sees,\n          Morn of great brightness following after storm,\n          Clear-flowing fount to thirsty traveller.\n\nThe bare ground is not fit for the foot that has trampled on Ilion: strew\n(_to Attendants_) tapestry on the floor as the Conqueror steps from his\ncar.  The Attendants commence to lay down the draperies: _Agamemnon_\n(_hastening to stop them_) rebukes Clytaemnestra for the excessive tone\nof her welcome, and bids her not make him offensive to the Gods, by\nassuming an honor fit for the Gods alone, no man being safe in prosperity\ntill he has died; fame, not foot-mats, and never to lose the path of\nWisdom, are his glories.  A contest ensues [the false Clytaemnestra\nanxious to entangle him in an act of Infatuation]; at last he yields, but\nremoves the shoe from his foot, to avert the ill omen of such\npresumptuous display.  He then commends the captive Cassandra to the\nQueen's kind treatment, and _Clyt._ renews her lofty expressions of joy:\nthere is a store of purple in the palace, and many such robes would she\nbestow to welcome his return, the root of the household bringing warmth\nin winter and coolness in the dog-days.  Ah! may Zeus work out for me\n\"all that I wish for.\"  [_So Exeunt: Ag. walking barefoot on the rich\ntapestry.  Cassandra alone remains on the Stage in her chariot._]  {949}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE III\n\n_Strophe I: to the Right._\n\nWhy is it that forebodings haunt the gate of our hearts, and we lack\nsteadfast trust to fling them away as visions?  It is not long since that\nfatal starting for Troy,  {959}\n\n_Antistrophe I: back to Altar_\n\nand now we have seen with our own eyes the safe return: and yet our mind,\nself-taught, keeps chanting within itself a dirge of fate.  These inner\npulses cannot be in vain: heaven send they prove false oracles!  {971}\n\n_Strophe II: to the Left._\n\nWhen Wealth o'erflows, Restlessness, as a near neighbor with only a wall\nbetween, presses it on with perpetual desire for more, till Prosperity\nstrikes suddenly on an unseen rock--yet even then, by sacrificing a\nportion of the cargo, the rest may be saved; so by plenteous harvests\nsent from Zeus, hunger and pestilence may be allayed:  {986}\n\n_Antistrophe II: back to Altar._\n\nbut when blood has once been poured upon the ground, what charm can bring\nit back?  Zeus struck dead the Healer who found how to restore life.  I\nwould give my misgiving relief in pouring out words of warning: but I\nknow that fate is certain and can never be escaped; so I am plunged in\ngloom, with little hope ever to unravel my soul that burns with its hot\nthoughts.  {1001}\n\n\nEXODUS, OR FINALE\n\n_Re-enter Clytaemnestra to fetch Cassandra_.  _Clyt._ addresses Cassandra\nin moderate tone, bidding her adapt herself to her new life and yield to\nthose who wish to soften her captivity.  [_Cassandra pays no attention\nand seems gazing into vacancy._]  The Chorus endorses Clytaemnestra's\nadvice.  At length it occurs to Clytaemnestra that Cassandra cannot speak\nGreek, and she bids her give some sign.  [_No sign, but a shudder\nconvulses her frame._]  Thinking she is obstinate Clytaemnestra will wait\nno longer [_exit Clyt. into Palace to the sacrifice_].  The Chorus renew\ntheir advice to Cassandra: _She at length leaves the chariot and suddenly\nbursts into a cry of horror_.  {1038}\n\nThen follows, marking the crisis of the drama, a burst of lyrical\nexcitement.  The dialogue between Chorus and Cassandra falls into lyrical\nstrophes and antistrophes: Cassandra, by her prophetic gift, can see all\nthat is going on and about to be consummated within the Palace.  Her\nwailings reproach her patron and lover Apollo, who has conducted her to a\nhouse of blood; she sees the past murders that have stained the house,\nshe sees the preparations for the present deed, the bath, the net, the\naxe; then her wailings wax yet wilder as she sees that she herself is to\nbe included in the sacrifice.  Meantime her excitement gradually passes\nover to the Chorus: at first they have mistaken her cries for the\nordinary lamentations of captives (and borne their part in the dialogue\nin the ordinary 'blank verse'); then their emotions are roused (and their\nspeech falls into lyrics) as they recognize the old woes of the family\nhistory and remember Cassandra's prophetic fame; as she passes to the\ndeed going on at the moment they feel a thrill of horror, but only half\nunderstand and take her words for prophecy of _distant_ events, which\nthey connect with their own forebodings; thus in her struggles to get her\nwords believed Cassandra becomes more and more graphic in her notices of\nthe scene her mental eye is seeing, and the excitement crescendoes until:\n{1148}\n\nAs if the crisis were now determined the dialogue settles down into\n'blank verse' again.  _Cassandra ascends from Orchestra to Stage_.  She\nwill no longer speak veiled prophecy: it shall flow clear as wave against\nthe sunlight.  She begins with the Furies that never quit the house since\nthat primal woe that defiled it--as she describes this the _Chorus_\nwonder an alien can know the house's history so well--_Cassandra_ lets\nthem know of her amour with Apollo, and how she gained the gift of\nprophecy and then deceived the God and was doomed to have her prophecies\nscorned.--Continuing her vision she points to the phantom children,\n'their palms filled full with meat of their own flesh,' sitting on the\nhouse: in revenge for that deed another crime is this moment about to\nstain further the polluted dwelling, a brave hero falling at the hands of\na coward, and by a plot his monster of a wife has contrived.--The\n_Chorus_ still perplexed, _Cassandra_ NAMES Agamemnon, the Chorus\nessaying vainly to stop the ill-fated utterance.--Then _Cassandra_ goes\non to describe how she herself must be sacrificed with her new lord, a\nvictim to the jealous murderess; bitterly reproaching Apollo, she strips\nfrom her the symbols and garb of her prophetic art, which the god has\nmade so bitter to her, and moves to the 'butcher's block,' foretelling\nhow the Son shall come as his father's avenger and hers.--The _Chorus_\nask, why go to meet your fate instead of escaping?  _Cassandra_ knows\nFate is inevitable.--Again and again she shrinks back from the door,\n'tainted with the scent of death;' then gazing for the last time on the\nloved rays of the Sun, and invoking him as witness and avenger, she\nabandons herself to her doom.\n\n          Ah, life of man! when most it prospereth,  {1298}\n          It is but limned in outline; and when brought\n          To low estate, then doth the sponge, full soaked,\n          Wipe out the picture with its frequent touch.\n\n[_Passes through the Central Door into Palace._]\n\n_The Chorus_ (_in lyrical rhythm_).  It is true good fortune can never be\nfended from the visitation of evil, which no strong palace can bar out.\nWhat will it avail Agamemnon to have taken Troy and come in honor home,\nif it be really his destiny to pay the penalty of that old deed of\nbloodguiltiness?  {1313}\n\n(_Here a loud cry is heard from within the Palace._)\n\nThe Chorus recognize the voice of the King, and fear the deed is\naccomplished.  In extreme excitement the Chorus break up, and each\nmember, one after another, suggests what is to be done; at last they\ncompose their ranks to learn what has actually occurred.  {1342}\n\n_Suddenly, by the machinery of the Roller-stage [Eccyclema], the interior\nof the Palace is moved to the front of the Stage, and discovers\nClytaemnestra in blood-stained robes, standing with attendants by the\ncorpses of Agamemnon and Cassandra, the former lying in a silvered bath\ncovered with a net._\n\n_Clytaemnestra_, in an elaborate speech, glories in her deed.  Deceit was\nnecessary in dealing with foes: now standing where she did the deed, she\nglories in it: glories in the net in which she entangled and rendered him\npowerless, in the blows, one, two, three, like a libation, which she\nstruck, glories in the gush of death-blood which has bespattered her.  A\nlate triumph: he had come home to drain the goblet of curses his old deed\nhad been long heaping up.  After an interruption of astonishment from the\n_Foreman_, she repeats: it is the handiwork of my artist hand.  After the\n_Chorus_ have recovered from their astonishment they (_in a lyrical\nburst_) denounce her: her confession is the incense on the Victim's head,\nshe shall feel the people's strong hate, and have an exile's\ndoom.--_Clyt._ (_calmly in Blank Verse_): they denounced no such exile\nagainst Agamemnon when he sacrificed her daughter, the first of her\ntravail pangs.  Besides, are they sure they are the stronger?  Perchance,\nthough old, they may yet have to learn.--_Chorus_ (_in a similar lyrical\nburst_): she is now maddened with the spirit of vengeance, but she will\none day find a nemesis, blow for blow.  _Clyt._ solemnly (_in Blank\nVerse_) swears by the deed she has done, and the curse for which she did\nit, she has no fear of Nemesis, as lone as Aegisthus is her shield.\nMeanwhile, there they lie: the wife-wronger and his mistress.   {1377}\n\nThen follows an elaborate lyrical scene: the _Chorus_ giving vent to\ntheir excitement in _Strophes and Antistrophes irregularly succeeding one\nanother_, _Clytaemnestra_ occasionally joining in.  O for death, sudden\nand without lingering, now that our beloved Protector is gone!  Ah!\nHelen! one more deed of woe to your account!--_Clyt._ No need to wish for\ndeath or upbraid Helen.--_Cho._ (_interrupting_) O dread Power that dost\nattack this household, working even through women deeds of\ndread!--_Clyt._ Now thou art right: it is the Evil Genius of the House\nthat feeds in their hearts the lust of blood; bringing fresh blood-guilt\nere the old is healed.--_Cho._ Yes, there is a Power wrathful to the\nHouse; but it must be through Zeus he works; what amongst mortal men is\nwrought apart from Zeus?\n\n              Ah me!  Ah me!  {1467}\n          My king, my king, how shall I weep for thee?\n          What shall I speak from heart that truly loves?\n          And now thou liest there, breathing out thy life,\n              In impious deed of death,\n              In this fell spider's web!\n              Yes woe is me! woe, woe!\n          Woe for this couch of thine unhonorable!\n              Slain by a subtle death\n          With sword two-edged, which her right hand did wield.\n\n_Clyt._ You speak of me as the doer: it was the Avenger of the seed of\nAtreus who did the deed in the semblance of this dead man's wife.--_Cho._\nNone will hold thee guiltless of the deed; yet, perchance, thou mayest\nhave had as helper the avenging Fiend of that ancestral time; he presses\non this rush of murders of near kin.\n\n              Ah me!  Ah me!\n          My king, my king, how shall I weep for thee?\n          What shall I speak from heart that truly loves?\n          And now thou liest there, breathing out thy life,\n              In impious deed of death,\n              In this fell spider's web!\n              Yes woe is me! woe, woe!\n          Woe for this couch of thine unhonorable!\n              Slain by a subtle death\n          With sword two-edged, which her right hand did wield.\n\n_Clyt._ This deed brings no dishonor to me: he slew my daughter and his\nown, wept over with many a tear; now slain in recompense he is gone to\nHell with nothing to boast over.--_Cho._ Whither escape from this House?\nNo longer drops, but fierce pelting storm of blood shakes it to its\nbasement.--_Cho._ Oh that earth had received me ere I saw this sad sight!\nWho will perform funeral rites and chant the dirge?  Wilt thou who hast\nslain dare to mourn him?--_Clyt._ It is no care of thine: we will give\nhim burial; and for mourning--perhaps Iphigenia will greet him kindly by\nthe dark streams below.--_Cho._ Hard it is to judge; the hand of Zeus is\nin all this; ever throughout this household we see the fixed law, the\nspoiler still is spoiled.  Who will drive out from this royal house this\nbrood of curses dark?--_Clyt._ Thou art right; but here let the demon\nrest content; suffice it for me that my hand has freed the house from the\nmadness that sets each man's hand against each.  [Observe: in this last\ninfatuated confidence and throughout Clytaemnestra's exultation in the\ndeed the dramatist is laying the foundation for the second play of the\nTrilogy.]  {1534}\n\n_Enter Aegisthus by one of the two Inferior doors in front of the scene\n[representing the inferior parts of the Palace in which he has been\nconcealed since the return of Agamemnon]._\n\n_Aegisthus_ salutes the happy day of vengeance which shows him Agamemnon\npaying penalty for the deeds of his father: he relates the quarrel\nbetween this father Atreus and his own father Thyestes, how when the one\nbrother came as suppliant to the other Atreus spread before him the\nhorrid banquet of his own child's flesh, at the knowledge of which he\ndied.  Aegisthus himself had suffered banishment at the hands of Atreus\nwhile yet a child, and now has returned full grown to work vengeance on\nthe son of his wronger, to see the long contrived nemesis brought to full\nconclusion.--_Chorus_ note that he confesses the deed, and he shall not\nescape the righteous curse a people hurls with stones.--_Aeg._ Know your\nplace: you are oarsmen, we command the ship; prison and fasting are\nadmirable devices for helping old people to keep their tempers within\nbounds.  Defiances are interchanged: the _Chorus_ taunting him that he\nhad to get a woman to do the deed he dared not do himself,--_Aeg._\ncontemptuously says the working out of the fraud was the proper province\nof a woman, especially as he was a known foe.--The Chorus threaten\nvengeance and suggest the name ORESTES as avenger: At this Clytaemnestra\nstarts, _Aegisthus_ enraged gives the signal at which  {1626}\n\n_Bodyguard of Aegisthus pour in through both the Inferior doors on either\nside of the Central door of the Palace, and fill the stage [thus\nproducing one of the Scenic Tableaux of which Aeschylus was fond].  The\nChorus, though of course outnumbered, are nothing daunted, as\nrepresenting the legitimate authority of the State now Agamemnon is dead,\nand therefore sure to be backed by the City; they make as if to ascend\nthe stage._\n\nContest in blows between Chorus and Bodyguard of Aegisthus appears\ninevitable, but Clytaemnestra throws herself between them, urges that\nenough ill has already been done, and after further defiances, forces\nAegisthus away and play abruptly terminates: _the Chorus returning to the\nRight into the City, and the Bodyguard into the Palace_.\n\n\n\n\n[1] This is a mere guess: we have no information as to how the evolutions\nof a Proem differed from those of a regular Choral Ode.\n\n[2] The Chorus generally speak of themselves in the Singular.\n\n[3] This is simply an English pun substituted for a Greek one: the name\nHelen resembles a Greek root which signifies captivity.\n\n\n\n\nSECOND PLAY: MIDDAY:\n\n\nTHE SEPULCHRAL RITES\n\n(_CHOEPHORI_)\n\n\nPROLOGUE\n\n_The Permanent Scene, as before, represents the Palace of Agamemnon at\nArgos.  The only difference is that the place of the Thymele in the\ncentre of the Orchestra is taken up by Agamemnon's Sepulchre.  Enter by\nthe Left Side-door (signifying distance) Orestes and Pylades, and\ndescending the Orchestra-staircase advance to the Sepulchre._\n\n_Orestes_, invoking the Conductor of the Dead, lays locks of hair and\nfragments of garments as offerings on his Father's tomb, cut off as he\nhad been by exile from being present at the actual Funeral-rites:\n\n_He is interrupted by the opening of one of the Inferior Doors of the\nPalace, out of which comes Electra, and a train of Trojan\nCaptive-maidens bearing urns of libations, all with dishevelled hair\nand the well-known gestures proper to Sepulchral rites.  They descend\n(with the exception of Electra) the Orchestra-staircase, and perform a\nChoral Ode with funeral rhythm and gestures.  Orestes and Pylades,\nrecognizing them, stand aside._   {19}\n\nSEPULCHRAL ODE AS CHORUS-ENTRY\n\n_in three Strophes, Antistrophes, and an Epode,_\n\ndescribes in words the tearings of cheeks, rending of garments, and\ngroans, which are actually the gestures of their dance, and are proper\nto a Sepulchral rite such as they have been sent to perform by their\nQueen, terrified as she has been by a dream the night before, a dream\nsignifying how the Dead were wroth with those that slew them.  But the\nChorus like not this graceless deed of grace: what ransom can be found\nfor the overthrow of the lord of a house? with him Awe has been\noverthrown, and Fear takes its place, or yet more Success is God.  {53}\n\n              Yet stroke of Vengeance swift\n              Smites some in life's clear day;\n          For some who tarry long their sorrows wait\n          In twilight dim, on darkness' borderland;\n              And some an endless night\n              Of nothingness holds fast.\n\nYes: for blood once spilt, for the marriage tie defiled, there is no\nremedy--yet the Chorus must, as part of their bitter captive lot,\nperform the rite they have no heart in.   {75}\n\n_Through this Ode Electra, who ought to have taken the lead, has stood\non the stage irresolute: she now addresses the Chorus, who at her word\nfall into their Episode positions._\n\nEPISODE I\n\n_Electra_ puts to the Chorus the same difficulty they have been feeling:\n\n          What shall I say as these funereal gifts\n          I pour?  How shall I speak acceptably?\n          How to my father pray?  What?  shall I say\n          \"I bring from loving wife to husband loved\n          Gifts\"--from my mother?  No, I am not bold\n          Enough for that, nor know I what to speak,\n          Pouring this chrism on my father's tomb:\n          Or shall I say this prayer, as men are wont,\n          \"Good recompense make thou to those who bring\n          These garlands,\" yea, a gift full well deserved\n          By deeds of ill?  Or, dumb with ignominy\n          Like that with which he perished, shall I pour\n          Libations on the earth, and like a man\n          That flings away the lustral filth, shall I\n          Throw down the urn and walk with eyes not turned?  {97}\n\nThe _Chorus-Leader_ breaking ranks to lay her hand on the Sepulchre as\nsign of fidelity, advises to throw off all disguise and pray boldly for\nfriend and against foe.  Electra in this sense offers the Prayer:\nsetting forth the wrongs of the house and praying for Orestes and\nVengeance: then calling on the Chorus for a Sepulchral Song she\ndescends to the tomb.  {144}\n\n_Sepulchral Paean of short Strophe and Antistrophe_: for these\nlibations' sake may the curse be averted--yet who strong enough to come\nas Averter: _while Electra is pouring the libations on the tomb_.  {157}\n\n_Electra returns to Stage, her whole manner changed_: as if the prayer\nhad already begun to be fulfilled, she has found the mysterious locks\nwhich, she bit by bit lets out, must be those of Orestes--the Chorus,\nlike sailors in a storm, can only invoke the gods: if the day has come,\nfrom a small seed a mighty trunk may grow--Electra then discovers\nfoot-prints [_as if leading from the Side Stage-door to the\nOrchestra-staircase_] of two travellers; one foot-print agrees with her\nbrother's:  {203}\n\n_Orestes and Pylades_ come forward: recognition and joy, Electra hardly\nbelieving.  She addresses him by four-fold name: as father dear,\n\n          The love I owe my mother turns to thee,\n          My sister's too that ruthlessly was slain,\n          And thou wast ever faithful brother found.\n\nOrestes compares his family to an eagle's brood orphaned by the\nspoiler.  Electra catching at the omen of eagle, dear bird of Zeus who\nwill avenge his own--_Chorus_ are afraid that their noisy joy may be\noverheard and ruin all--Orestes has no fear of ruin after the strong\noracles of Apollo that bade him come under terrible penalties if he\ndisobeyed:  {261}\n\n              Leprous sores that creep\n          All o'er the flesh, and as with cruel jaws\n          Eat out its ancient nature, and white hairs\n          On that foul ill to supervene: and still\n          He spake of other onsets of the Erinnyes,\n          As brought to issue from a father's blood;\n          For the dark weapon of the Gods below\n          Winged by our kindred that lie low in death,\n          And beg for vengeance, yea, and madness too,\n          And vague, dim fears at night disturb and haunt me,\n          Seeing full clearly, though I move my brow\n          In the thick darkness . . . . and that then my frame\n          Thus tortured should be driven from the city\n          With brass-knobbed scourge: and that for such as I\n          It was not given to share the wine-cup's taste,\n          Nor votive stream in pure libation poured;\n          And that my father's wrath invisible\n          Would drive me from all altars, and that none\n          Should take me in or lodge with me: at last,\n          That loathed of all and friendless I should die,\n          A wretched mummy, all my strength consumed.\n          Must I not trust such oracles as these?  {297}\n\n_The Chorus, breaking into lyrics, feel that Justice has at last taken\ntheir side: then follows an elaborate_\n\nKOMMOS, OR LYRIC CONCERTO\n\n_by Orestes, Electra and Chorus, in highly intricate and interwoven\nStrophes and Antistrophes, with funereal gesture_.  The jaws of flame\ndo not reduce the corpse to senselessness; they can hear below this our\nRite and will send answer--what a fate was Agamemnon's, not that of the\nwarrior who dies leaving high fame at home and laying strong and sure\nhis children's paths in life, but to be struck down by his own kin!\nBut there is a sense of Vengeance being at hand, Erinnys and the Curses\nof the slain; they make the heart quiver: _the Dirge crescendoes till\nit breaks into the 'Arian rhythm,' a foreign funeral rhythm with\nviolent gestures (proper to the Chorus as Asiatics); and so as a climax\nbreaks up into two semi-choruses: one sings of woe, the other of\nvengeance, and then the formal Dirge terminates and the Blank Verse\nrecommences_.  {469}\n\nIn a composed frame (and in Blank Verse) _Orestes and Electra_ repeat\nthe distinct prayer for Vengeance and the death of Aegisthus and then\naddress themselves to the means.  _Orestes_ enquires as to the meaning\nof the Sepulchral rites, and the dream is narrated, which he interprets\nas good omen.\n\n  _Orest._  And have ye learnt the dream, to tell it right?  {517}\n  _Chor._   As she doth say, she thought she bare a snake.\n  _Orest._  How ends the tale, and what its outcome then?\n  _Chor._   She nursed it, like a child, in swaddling clothes.\n  _Orest._  What food did the young monster crave for then?\n  _Chor._   She in her dream her bosom gave to it.\n  _Orest._  How 'scaped her breast by that dread beast unhurt?\n  _Chor._   Nay, with the milk it sucked out clots of blood.\n  _Orest._  Ah, not in vain comes this dream from her lord.\n  _Chor._   She, roused from sleep, cries out all terrified,\n            And many torches that were quenched in gloom\n            Blazed for our Mistress' sake within the house.\n            Then these libations for the dead she sends,\n            Hoping they'll prove good medicine of ills.\n  _Orest._  Now to earth here, and my sire's tomb I pray,\n            They leave not this strange vision unfulfilled.\n            So I expound it that it all coheres;\n            For if, the self-same spot that I left leaving,\n            The snake was then wrapt in my swaddling clothes,\n            And sucked the very breast that nourished me,\n            And mixed the sweet milk with a clot of blood,\n            And she in terror wailed the strange event,\n            So must she, as that monster dread she nourished,\n            Die cruel death: and I, thus serpentised,\n            Am here to slay her, as this dream portends;\n            I take thee as my dream-interpreter.\n\nThey rapidly arrange their plan to appear as foreigners, and get\nadmission to the Palace, or, if Aegisthus come out, strike him down at\nonce--with a prayer to Apollo _exeunt Electra, Orestes, and Pylades by\nthe Distance Sidedoor_.   {575}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE I\n\n_in four Strophes and Antistrophes._\n\nMonsters and woes are many, but most terrible of all is a\npassion-driven woman: Thestias, who burnt out the mystic brand that\nmeasured her son's life; Scylla, who robbed her father of his\nlife-charm; another--but the woman who slew her warrior-chief it is\nmeet for me to pass over in silence.  Then there is the great Lemnian\nCrime, foremost of all crimes; yet this might well be compared to it;\nand as that race perished, so is judgment at hand here; the anvil-block\nof Vengeance firm is set, and Fate is swordsmith hammering; in due time\nthe debt of guilt is paid.  {639}\n\nEPISODE II\n\n_Enter by the Distance Side-door Orestes, Pylades, and attendants, and\nadvance to the Central Door._\n\n_Orestes_ calls loudly for admission, telling the slave who opens that\nhe is a traveller, and must do his message to those within ere night\nfalls; to a lady if a lady rules, though a lord is seemlier.  _Enter\nClytaemnestra_, who gives a formal offer of hospitality (having noticed\nhis irreverent tone), and to whom he bluffly gives a message from a\nfellow traveller, who learning he was bound for Argos, begged him to\nseek out Orestes' kinsmen and give the news of his death.\n_Clytaemnestra_ affects a burst of grief; the curse has taken another\nvictim as he was disentangling himself from the net.  _Orestes_ regrets\nhe cannot hope for the welcome of those who bear good news.\n_Clytaemnestra_ (with a dim feeling of suspicion) assures him he shall\nwant for nothing 'that is fitting', orders Orestes to be led one way,\nand the rest another, and goes to call Aegisthus 'and friends.'\n_Exeunt Clytaemnestra by Left Inferior Door to the Women's Quarters,\nOrestes and Porter through Central and Pylades, etc., through Right\nInferior Door.  Chorus, in marching rhythm_, catch the touch of\nsuspense, and invoke Hermes and the Spirit of Persuasion for Orestes.\n{720}\n\n_Enter from Women's Quarters, Cilissa_, Orestes' Nurse, bidden to seek\nAegisthus, as the stranger looks like one meaning to cook some ill.\nShe is in tears at the death of her boy, and details all the petty\ncares she had over his helpless infancy, and how they are now all\nprofitless.\n\n  _Chor._   And how equipped then doth she bid him come?  {753}\n  _Nurse_  How?  Speak again that I may better learn.\n  _Chor._   By spearmen followed, or himself alone?\n  _Nurse_  She bids him bring his guards with lances armed.\n  _Chor._   Nay, say not that to him thy lord doth hate,\n            But bid him 'come alone,' (that so he hear\n            Without alarm), 'full speed, with joyous mind,'\n            Since 'secret speech with messenger goes best.'\n  _Nurse_  And art thou of good cheer at this my tale?\n  _Chor._   But what if Zeus will turn the tide of ill?\n  _Nurse_  How so?  Orestes, our One hope is gone.\n  _Chor._   Not yet; a sorry seer might know thus much.\n  _Nurse_  What say'st thou?  Know'st thou aught besides my tale?\n  _Chor._   Go tell thy message; do thine errand well:\n            The Gods for what they care for, care enough.\n  _Nurse_  I then will go, complying with thy words:\n            May all, by God's gift, end most happily!  {769}\n\n_Exit Nurse by Right Side-Door, signifying neighborhood._\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE II\n\n_in four interwoven Strophes and Antistrophes, with Mesode,_\n\ninvokes the Gods the house had worshipped.  Zeus, father of the Gods,\nthe twin-brothers, Apollo in his glorious shrine at Delphi, Hermes who\nis the conductor of enterprises: the dear son of the house is harnessed\nto the car of calamity, moderate its pace--and may Murder cease to\nbreed new Murder.  But the Avenger, like Perseus, must not look on the\ndeed as he does it; as she calls the name Mother let him hurl back the\ncry of Father.  {820}\n\nEPISODE III\n\n_Aegisthus entering from the Right Side-Door_ (_of Neighborhood_)\nspeaks of this summons; it may after all be women's fears 'that leap up\nhigh and die away to nought.'  The _Chorus_ say there is nothing like\nasking.  _Aeg._ will do so: they cannot cheat a man with his eyes open.\n_Exit through Central Door_.  {839}\n\n_Chorus, in short lyric burst_, mark critical moment that decides\nsuccess or failure.  {853}\n\nThen _cries from within, and Porter rushes from Central Door to Door of\nWomen's Quarters_ (_Left Inferior_), loudly summoning Clytaemnestra,\nand when she appears informs her 'the dead are slaying the living.'\nShe sees in a moment the truth, and is looking hurriedly for aid, _when\nenter, from Central Door, Orestes, joined at once by Pylades and\nAttendants, from Right Inferior_.\n\n  _Orest._    'Tis thee I seek: he there has had enough.  {878}\n  _Clytaem._  Ah me!  my loved Aegisthus!  Art thou dead?\n  _Orest._    Lov'st the man?  Then in the self-same tomb\n              Shalt thou now lie, nor in his death desert him.\n  _Clytaem._  [baring her bosom]\n              Hold, boy!  Respect this breast of mine, my son,\n              Whence thou full oft, asleep, with toothless gums,\n              Hast sucked the milk that sweetly fed thy life.\n  _Orest._    What shall I do, my Pylades?  Shall I\n              Through this respect forbear to slay my mother?\n  _Pyl._      Where, then, are Loxias' other oracles,\n              The Pythian counsels, and the fast-sworn vows?\n              Have all men hostile rather than the gods.\n  _Orest._    My judgment goes with thine; thou speakest well.\n              [_To Clytaemnestra._] Follow: I mean\n                      to slay thee where he lies,\n              For while he lived thou held'st him far above\n              My father.  Sleep thou with him in thy death,\n              Since thou lov'st him, and whom thou should'st love hatest.\n  _Clytaem._  I reared thee, and would fain grow old with thee.\n  _Orest._    What!  Thou live with me, who did'st slay my father?\n  _Clytaem._  Fate, O my son, must share the blame of that.\n  _Orest._    This fatal doom, then, it is Fate that sends.\n  _Clytaem._  Dost thou not fear a parent's curse, my son?\n  _Orest._    Thou, though my mother, did'st to ill chance cast me.\n  _Clytaem._  No outcast thou so sent to house allied.\n  _Orest._    I was sold doubly, though of free sire born.\n  _Clytaem._  Where is the price, then, that I got for thee?\n  _Orest._    I shrink for shame from pressing that charge home.\n  _Clytaem._  Nay, tell thy father's wantonness as well.\n  _Orest._    Blame not the man that toils when thou'rt at ease.\n  _Clytaem._  'Tis hard, my son, for wives to miss their husband.\n  _Orest._    The husband's toil keeps her that sits at home.\n  _Clytaem._  Thou seem'st, my son, about to slay thy mother.\n  _Orest._    It is not I that slay thee, but thyself.\n  _Clytaem._  Take heed, beware a mother's vengeful hounds.\n  _Orest._    How, slighting this, shall I escape my father's?\n  _Clytaem._  I seem in life to wail as to a tomb.\n  _Orest._    My father's fate ordains this doom for thee.\n  _Clytaem._  Ah me!  The snake is here I bare and nursed.\n  _Orest._    An o'er-true prophet was that dread dream-born.\n              Thou slewest one thou never should'st have slain,\n              Now suffer fate should never have been thine.  {916}\n\n_Exeunt Orestes and Pylades, forcing Clytaemnestra through the Central\nDoor, their attendants remaining to guard the door.  Chorus, after a\nword of pity for even this 'twain mischance,' break into_\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE III\n\n_in three interwoven Strophes and Antistrophes._\n\nLate came vengeance on Troy, late now has it blest this heaven-sent\nexile, and our Master's house is freed.  On a lover of the war of guile\nhas Revenge come subtle-souled, Vengeance who\n\n              Is guileful without guile,\n          Halting of foot and tarrying over-long;\n          The will of Gods is strangely over-ruled,\n              It may not help the vile.\n\nAt last we see the light.  All-working Time with cleansing rites will\npurify the house; Fortune's throws shall fall with gladsome cast: at\nlast we see the light.  {959}\n\nEXODUS, OR FINALE\n\n_Enter from Main Door Orestes and Pylades, their Attendants bearing the\nCorpses, and the net in which Agamemnon had been murdered._\n\n_Orestes_ solemnly declares that they have perished as murderers; they\nswore to live and die together and they have kept the oath.  He bids\nthe Attendants stretch out in full light of the Sun, the great\nPurifier, the fatal net, as pledge that he did his dread deed only as\ndeed of necessary vengeance--he dwells on the cruel device--but\n_Chorus_ seeing side by side the net and the slaughter by which it has\nbeen avenged, can think of nothing but the woe which its avenger by his\ndeed of vengeance must bring on himself.  _Orestes_ reiterates the\ncrime of which this deed is the reminder.  The _Chorus_ cannot help\nrepeating the unhappy omen.  {1009}\n\nAt this very moment Orestes changes and begins to feel the oncoming\nmadness--while reason yet stays with him he repeats his innocence and\nputs on the suppliant's fillet, with which he will go to Delphi, and\nchallenge the God who sent him on the errand to free him from its dire\nconsequences.  Madness increases, and he can see the Furies in bodily\nshape dark-robed, and all their long tresses entwined with serpents.\nIn rapid dialogue the _Chorus_ bid him cling to the idea of Apollo, and\nhe _bursts away through Distance-Door on Left_ to commence his long\ncareer of wanderings.  The Chorus conclude:\n\n          Here, then, upon this palace of our kings\n              A third storm blows again;\n          The blast that haunts the race has run its course.\n          First came the wretched meal of children's flesh;\n              Next what befel our king:\n          Slain in the bath was he who ruled our host,\n              Of all the Achaeans lord;\n          And now a third has come, we know not whence,\n          To save . . . or shall I say,\n            To work a doom of death?\n          Where will it end?  Where will it cease at last,\n              The mighty Ate dread,\n              Lulled into slumber deep?\n\n\n\n\nTHIRD PLAY: AFTERNOON:\n\nTHE GENTLE GODDESSES\n\n\nEUMENIDES[1]\n\n_The Scene represents the Oracle of Delphi: the Central Doors being the\nGate of the 'Adytum,' or Innermost shrine.  From the left Inferior Door\nenter the Priestess of the Oracle, who stands in front of the Central\nGate, to offer the Morning Prayer._\n\nPROLOGUE\n\nThe _Priestess's_ Prayer enumerates the Deities who have connection\nwith the Ancient Oracle, how Apollo is its main guardian, after it has\npassed through many hands; other Deities have a share in it, even Zeus\nthe Supreme Accomplisher.  Praying that her divinations that day may\nexcel even her past, she calls on the Pilgrims to come as the lot\npermits.  {28}\n\n_Exit through the Main Gate into the Inner Shrine.  In a moment she\nreturns, pale and disordered, flinging open the Central Gates, through\nwhich can dimly be discerned dreadful forms in the Inner Shrine._\n\nShe can hardly stand for the terror of the sight she has seen; the\nsacred shrine polluted by the presence of a man in suppliant garb,\nbunch of olives and tufts of wool, his sword yet reeking with a recent\nmurder; and sitting round about him yet more dreaded beings.\n\n                    A troop  {46}\n          Of women strange to look at sleepeth there\n          Before this wanderer, seated on their stools;\n          Not women they, but Gorgons I must call them;\n          Nor yet can I to Gorgon forms compare them;\n          I have seen painted shapes that bear away\n          The feast of Phineus.  Wingless, though, are these,\n          And swarth, and every way abominable.\n          They snort with breath that none may dare approach,\n          And from their eyes a loathsome humour pours,\n          And such their garb as neither to the shrine\n          Of Gods is meet to bring, nor mortal roof.\n          Ne'er have I seen a race that owns this tribe,\n          Nor is there land can boast it rears such brood,\n          Unhurt and free from sorrow for its pains.\n          Henceforth, be it the lot of Loxias,\n          Our mighty lord, himself to deal with them:\n          True prophet-healer he, and portent-seer,\n          And for all others cleanser of their homes.  {63}\n\n_At her word, in the entrance of the Inner Shrine appears Apollo with\nHermes, and they lead Orestes out._\n\n_Apollo_ will never fail his suppliant; it is he who has sent sleep on\nthese loathly Beings, born out of evils, with whom neither Gods nor men\nhold intercourse.  They will still pursue, but he must fly to the\nancient City of Pallas and clasp her statue; there 'judges of these\nthings' and 'a means' will be found to rid him of his evils.  _Orestes_\nexpresses confidence in Apollo's justice, who reiterates his pledge in\nthe name of Zeus and commits the wanderer to the charge of his own\nbrother Hermes, the Escort-God, to take him safe to Athens.  {93}\n\n_Apollo disappears into his shrine, and Hermes and Orestes leave by the\nLeft side or Distance-door.  The stage being thus left vacant, the\nmachinery of the roller-stage brings the interior of the cave to the\nfront, showing the sleeping Furies scattered over the floor.  The Ghost\nof Clytaemnestra rises in front of the entrance to the Inner Shrine._\n\n  _Clytaem._  What ho!  Sleep on!  What need of sleepers now?\n              And I am put by you to foul disgrace\n              Among the other dead, nor fails reproach\n              Among the shades that I a murderess am;\n              And so in shame I wander, and I tell you\n              That at their hands I bear worst forms of blame.\n              And much as I have borne from nearest kin,     {100}\n              Yet not one god is stirred to wrath for me,\n              Though done to death by matricidal hands.\n              See ye these heart-wounds, whence and how they came?\n              Yea, when it sleeps, the mind is bright with eyes;\n              But in the day it is man's lot to lack\n              All true discernment.  Many a gift of mine\n              Have ye lapped up, libations pure from wine,\n              And soothing rites that shut out drunken mirth;\n              And I dread banquets of the night would offer\n              On altar-hearth, at hour no god might share.\n              And lo! all this is trampled under foot.\n              He is escaped, and flees, like fawn, away,\n              And even from the midst of all your toils\n              Has nimbly slipped, and draws wide mouth at you.\n              Hear ye; for I have spoken for my life;\n              Give heed, ye dark, earth-dwelling goddesses,\n              I, Clytaemnestra's phantom, call on you.\n                            [_The Erinnyes moan in their sleep._]\n              Moan on, the man is gone, and flees far off;\n              My kindred find protectors; I find none.\n                            [_Moan as before._]\n              Too sleep-oppressed art thou, nor pitiest me:\n              Orestes, murderer of his mother, 'scapes.\n                            [_Noises repeated._]\n              Dost snort?  Dost drowse?  Wilt thou not rise and speed?\n              What have ye ever done but work out ill?\n                            [_Noises as before._]\n              Yea, sleep and toil, supreme conspirators,\n              Have withered up the dreaded dragon's strength.\n\n_Chorus of Furies, starting up suddenly with a yell._\n\n                            Seize him,  {125}\n              Seize, seize, yea, seize: look well to it.\n  _Clytaem._  Thou, phantom-like, dost hunt thy prey and criest,\n              Like hound that never rests from care of toil.\n              What dost thou?  (_To one Erinnys._)  Rise and let\n                            not toil o'ercome thee,\n              Nor, lulled to sleep, lose all thy sense of loss.\n              Let thy soul (to another) feel the pain of just reproach:\n              The wise of heart find that their goad and spur.\n              And thou (to a third) breathe on him with thy\n                            blood-flecked breath,\n              And with thy vapour, thy maw's fire, consume him;\n              Chase him, and wither with a fresh pursuit.\n\n  _Leader of the Chor._  Wake, wake, I say; wake her, as I wake thee.\n              Dost slumber?  Rise, I say, and shake off sleep.\n              Let's see if this our prelude be in vain.  {134}\n\n_The Furies start up and (still on the roller-stage) perform a Fury\nDance for Prelude in three short Strophes and Antistrophes._\n\nOur prey is gone!  Apollo, ever known as a robber-god, has now\ndelivered a matricide from his due doom.  Even in my dreams a feeling\nof reproach stung me as a whip.  Such are the doings of these 'younger\ngods.'  See Earth's Central Shrine is stained with blood, and Apollo\nhas taken sides with a mortal against a god; but though the god may vex\nthem, the culprit shall not escape.  {169}\n\n_Apollo, re-appearing from the Inner Shrine, threatens the Furies with\nhis bow_.  He bids them leave his sacred precincts and seek scenes more\nfitted to them.\n\n          There where heads upon the scaffold lie,\n          And eyes are gouged and throats of men are cut,\n          Where men are maimed and stoned to death, and groan\n          With bitter wailing 'neath the spine impaled.\n\nA stichomuthic contest ensues; the Furies reproach Apollo with taking\nthe part of a matricide.  He urges she had first slain her\nhusband--they retort that husband is not kin, to which Apollo pleads\nthe sanctity of the marriage tie; this authorized by the great example\nof Zeus and Hera, with its special patroness Cypris, this \"assigned by\nFate and guided by the Right is more than any oath.\"  Neither party\nwill give way; Apollo appeals to Pallas as Umpire, the Furies declare\nthey will never desist from the pursuit.  {225}\n\nCHANGE OF SCENE\n\n_By the turning of the periacti and other mechanical changes the scene\nis shifted to the familiar Acropolis of Athens itself, the open Central\nDoors being arranged to represent the Porch of the Temple of 'Athene,\nGuardian of the City.'  Enter by Distance side-door Orestes, who\nadvances to the Centre and clasps the Statue of Pallas._  {226}\n\n_Orestes_ has come as suppliant, but no longer with the stain of blood\non his hands; that during his long wanderings has been by due rites\nwashed away.\n\n_Suddenly by the same door the Furies enter upon the Stage, their faces\nto the ground and tracking Orestes' steps._  {235}\n\n_Chorus of Furies_: they have been long off the track, at last the\n'dumb informer' is clear again, already they catch the loved scent of\nblood.--There he is clasping in confidence the statue of the Goddess,\nbut watch, he escapes not: no trial, as he hopes, for the matricide;\nhis own blood they must suck from his living members, and when they\nhave had their fill of this drink undrinkable they will drag him down\nalive to bear the fate of a matricide.  _Orestes not yet perceiving\nthem continues his prayer_: long experience has taught him the various\ncleansing rites, and they have all been paid; he has dwelt amongst men\nand no impurity has been brought on them; this and all-cleansing Time\nshow that the stain of matricide is removed, and with pure hands he can\nclasp Athene, queen of this land, and pledge the Argive alliance for\nher City [_one of the political hits of the piece_] if she will\nbefriend him.  _The Furies suddenly spring up_: Not Apollo nor Athene\ncan save thee from thy doom!  _Orestes clings convulsively to the\nStatue_.  Thou resistest? then feel our spell!  {296}\n\n_Chanting in marching rhythm they rapidly descend the Orchestra\nstaircase, form about the Altar and then proceed to_\n\nCHORAL SPELL (FOR ENTRY ODE)\n\n_in four Strophes and Antistrophes._\n\n_Strophe I_\n\n          O Mother who didst bear me, mother Night,\n          A terror of the living and the dead,\n              Hear me, oh hear!\n          The son of Leto puts me to disgrace\n              And robs me of my spoil,\n          This crouching victim for a Mother's blood:\n              And over him as slain,\n          We raise this chant of madness, frenzy-working,\n              The hymn the Erinnyes love,\n          A spell upon the soul, a lyreless strain\n              That withers up men's strength.\n\n_Antistrophe I_\n\n          This lot the all-pervading destiny\n          Hath spun to hold its ground for evermore,\n              That we should still attend\n          On him on whom there rests the guilt of blood\n              Of kin, shed causelessly,\n          Till earth lie o'er him; nor shall death set free.\n              And over him as slain,\n          We raise this chant of madness, frenzy-working,\n              The hymn the Erinnyes love,\n          A spell upon the soul, a lyreless strain,\n              That withers up men's strength.    {328}\n\n_Strophe II_\n\n          Such lot was then assigned us at our birth:\n          From us the Undying Ones must hold aloof:\n              Nor is there one who shares\n              The banquet-meal with us;\n          In garments white I have nor part nor lot;\n          My choice was made for overthrow of homes,\n          Where home-bred slaughter works a loved one's death:\n              Ha! hunting after him,\n              Strong though he be, 'tis ours\n          To wear the newness of his young blood down.\n\n_Antistrophe II_\n\n          Since 'tis our work another's task to take,\n          The Gods indeed may bar the force of prayers\n              Men offer unto me,\n              But may not clash in strife;\n          For Zeus doth cast us from his fellowship,\n          \"Blood-dropping, worthy of his utmost hate.\"\n          For leaping down as from the topmost height,\n              I on my victim bring\n              The crushing force of feet,\n          Limbs that o'erthrow e'en those that swiftly run,\n              An Ate hard to bear.  {350}\n\n_Strophe III_\n\n          And fame of men, though very lofty now\n              Beneath the clear, bright sky,\n          Below the earth grows dim and fades away\n          Before the attack of us, the black-robed ones,\n              And these our dancings wild,\n              Which all men loathe and hate.\n\n_Antistrophe III_\n\n          Falling in frenzied guilt, he knows it not;\n              So thick the blinding cloud\n          That o'er him floats; and Rumour widely spread\n          With many a sigh reports the dreary doom,\n              A mist that o'er the house\n              In gathering darkness broods.  {358}\n\n_Strophe IV_\n\n          Fixed is the law, no lack of means find we;\n              We work out all our will,\n          We, the dread Powers, the registrars of crime,\n              Whom mortals fail to soothe,\n          Fulfilling tasks dishonoured, unrevered,\n              Apart from all the Gods,\n              In foul and sunless gloom,\n          Driving o'er rough steep road both those that see,\n              And those whose eyes are dark.\n\n_Antistrophe IV_\n\n          What mortal man then doth not bow in awe\n              And fear before all this,\n          Hearing from me the destined ordinance\n              Assigned me by the Gods?\n          This task of mine is one of ancient days;\n              Nor meet I here with scorn,\n              Though 'neath the earth I dwell,\n          And live there in the darkness thick and dense,\n              Where never sunbeam falls.  {374}\n\nEPISODE I\n\n_Enter in her Chariot [along the balcony of the permanent scene]\nAthene._\n\n_Athene_ has heard far off Orestes' cry, and has come in her swift\nchariot.  What is this strange presence in her own city, and who is\nthis suppliant?  The _Chorus_, in parallel dialogue, explain who they\nare, and seek to enlist Athene against the matricide; but _Athene_\nanswers she has only heard one side.  _Chorus_ rejoin that the\nadversary dares not rest his case on oath for oath [_political allusion\nto procedure of ordinary Athenian Courts_]; Athene thinks that a poor\nway of getting at truth, and as Chorus express confidence in her\njudgment she calls on _Orestes_; he details again all the rites of\npurification he has gone through, and how Apollo bade him do the deed.\n_Athene_ pauses: Murder stirred by wrath [_i.e., homicide as\ndistinguished from murder, the special province of the Court of\nAreopagus_] is too much for mortal or even herself to decide; but she\nhereby appoints jurors on oath [_the special distinction of the\nAreopagus_] as a perpetual institution for dealing with such cases.\nLet the parties prepare, she will return soon with the best of her\ncitizens [_observe, the Court was an Aristocratic Court_] as Jurors.\n{467}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE\n\n_in four Strophes and Antistrophes._\n\nUnless the right cause gains here there will be an outbreak of new\nlaws, general recklessness, and woes of slain kindred with no Furies to\navenge.  Awe is good as watchman of the soul, and calm Wisdom gained by\nsorrow; it is not the lawless life that is to be praised, but from the\nsoul's true health comes the fair fortune, loved of all mankind and aim\nof many a prayer.  He who reveres not the High Altar of Justice, but\ndareth and transgresseth all, will, perforce, as time wears on, have to\ntake in sail,\n\n          When trouble makes him hers, and each yard-arm\n                    Is shivered by the blast,\n\nand in vain he struggles mid the whirling waves, ever failing to\nweather round the perilous promontory till he is wrecked on the reefs\nof Vengeance.  {535}\n\nCHANGE OF SCENE\n\n_to Mars' Hill.  Enter Athene, followed by Herald and Twelve Citizens._\n\nEXODUS, OR FINALE\n\n_Athene_ bids the Herald sound a summons, for the whole city is to\nlearn the laws she makes for all time to come.  _Apollo enters above_.\nThe Chorus challenging his right, Apollo declares himself Witness and\nAdvocate for Orestes.  {551}\n\n_The Proceedings from this part are exactly modelled on those of the\nCourt of the Areopagus_.  The _Chorus_ called on to open, cross-examine\nOrestes in stichomuthic dialogue, who admits the deed, and pleads\njustification that she slew his father.--_Cho._ rejoin she has been\npaid by death, Orestes still lives.  Why, then, _Orestes_ enquires, did\nthey not pursue her while alive?  _Chorus_ rest on plea that hers was\nnot kindred blood.  On this _Orestes_ joins issue and appeals to\n_Apollo_.  He answers: Though the Jurors are on oath, yet Zeus gave the\noracle, and he is mightier than an oath.--_Cho._ What, Zeus take a\nmatricide's part?--_Apollo_ details the base manner of Agamemnon's\nmurder.--_Cho._ taunt Apollo that Zeus himself rose by imprisoning his\nfather.--_Apollo_ rejoins that imprisonment is remediable, but blood\nonce spilt can never be brought back.--_Cho._ appeal to impossibility\nof restoring such a criminal to the house he has polluted.--Then\n_Apollo_ puts forth the essence of his case (in a subtle plea which\nwould delight the litigious Athenians): the mother is only the nurse,\nthe father is the true parent; as proof here is Pallas sprung from a\nFather without any Mother; none can be shown born without Father.  {650}\n\nBoth parties join issue, and then (_amidst intense political\nexcitement_) _Athene_ delivers the Inauguration Address of the Court of\nthe Areopagus.\n\n  _Athene_.  Hear ye my order, O ye Attic people,\n             In act to judge your first great murder-cause.\n             And henceforth shall the host of Aegeus' race\n             For ever own this council-hall of judges:\n             And for this Ares' hill, the Amazons' seat\n             And camp when they, enraged with Theseus, came\n             In hostile march, and built as counterwork\n             This citadel high-reared, a city new,\n             And sacrificed to Ares, whence 'tis named\n             As Ares' hill and fortress: in this, I say,\n             The reverent awe its citizens shall own,\n             And fear, awe's kindred, shall restrain from wrong\n             By day, nor less by night, so long as they,\n             The burghers, alter not themselves their laws:\n             But if with drain of filth and tainted soil\n             Clear river thou pollute, no drink thou'lt find.\n             I give my counsel to you, citizens,\n             To reverence and guard well that form of State\n             Which is nor lawless, nor tyrannical,\n             And not to cast all fear from out the city;\n             For what man lives devoid of fear and just?\n             But rightly shrinking, owning awe like this,\n             Ye then would have a bulwark of your land,\n             A safeguard for your city, such as none\n             Boast or in Skythia's or in Pelops' clime.\n             This council I establish pure from bribe,\n             Reverend, and keen to act, for those that sleep\n             An ever-watchful sentry of the land.  {676}\n\nAfter a rapid stichomuthic interchange of promises and threats by the\ntwo parties the voting is proceeded with, _Athene_ first giving her\ncasting vote, in case of equality, to Orestes, as preferring the male\ncause.  [_This was a political allusion to the 'vote of Athene' or\ncustom of the Areopagite Court to give the casting vole to the\naccused._]  The votes are counted, found equal, and Athene declares\nOrestes acquitted.--_Orestes_, in a burst of gratitude, declares his\nArgive people shall always be firm friends with the people of Athens.\n[Political hit.]  {747}\n\n_The Chorus breaking into Strophic Lyrics_ vow vengeance and long train\nof ills on the city for this, Athene (_in Blank Verse_) propitiating\nthem, and pleading that the cause has been fairly tried.  Moreover they\nwould lose all the good things the city will do for them if friendly,\noffering them a house in its midst.  Gradually the _Chorus_ calm down,\nand having (_in parallel dialogue_) gained a repeated promise from\nAthene they change their tone and (_in Strophic Lyrics_) promise all\ngood to the land, Athene making acknowledgment on behalf of the city\n(_in marching rhythm as signifying exultation_).  Finally Athene offers\nto conduct them at once to their homes, the cave-chapels where the\nEumenides were worshipped.\n\n_Enter on the stage an array of Matrons and Girls in festal robes, as\nworn in the rites of the Furies, now called Eumenides or 'Gentle\nGoddesses' [thus spectacular effect with which Aeschylus loved to\nconclude].  They, with Athene, chanting the Ritual hymn, file down into\nthe Orchestra, and so lead the Chorus out in the direction of the\nShrines of the Eumenides._\n\n\n\n\n[1] Euphemism for the Furies, as the popular name 'Good Neighbours' for\nMischievous Fairies.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ELECTRA OF SOPHOCLES[1]\n\n\n_Scene Mycenae; the Stage and Orchestra arranged to represent the\nMarket Place, Portico of a Temple in the Centre; Inferior door on one\nside is the gate to Palace of Aegisthus and Clytaemnestra, that on the\nother leads to the tomb of Agamemnon; Side-scene on one side gives a\nview of Argos.  Enter from Distance side-door Orestes, Pylades and\nAttendant._\n\nPROLOGUE\n\nThe aged _Attendant_ points out to Orestes Argos, the Grove of Io, the\nTemple and other details of the Scene; it was just here he received\nOrestes as a boy when his father was slain and bore him to a place of\nsafety; now the long wished for day of vengeance is come.  _Orestes_\nacknowledges his long fidelity; relates how Phoebus has sent him with\nthis oracle:\n\n          That I myself unarmed with shield or host  {36}\n          Should subtly work the righteous deed of blood,\n\nand details his plan: the Attendant, whose age will save him from\nrecognition, shall announce the death of Orestes, while Orestes and\nPylades shall perform the rites enjoined at his father's tomb; then,\nwhen the wrong-doers believe themselves secure, the avenger will easily\ngain admittance.  [_At this moment a woman's wail is heard within._]\nOrestes wonders if it may be his own Electra and would stop, the\nAttendant hurries him away to do the God's behest.  {85}\n\n_Exeunt Orestes and Pylades on left to Tomb of Agamemnon; Attendant\nback through the Distance side-door.  Enter from Palace Electra moaning\nand weeping._\n\nMONODY\n\n_Electra in Lyric Monody_.  The light, the air, the loathed house and\nbed she sleeps on, all are witnesses of her ceaseless misery and woe,\norphaned as she is of a father foully slain.  She calls on the Curses,\nthe Furies and other dread Powers who watch over evil slaughter to send\nOrestes, she can no longer bear up with sorrow's great burden cast into\nthe balance.  {120}\n\n_Enter by the Orchestral door Chorus of Argive Maidens to condole with\nElectra._\n\nLYRIC CONCERTO (FOR PARODE)\n\n_Cho._  Why mourn for ever the guileful slaughter of thy Father,\naccursed deed?--_Electra._ I know your kind and tender friendship, yet\nwill never be dissuaded.--_Cho._ Yet what groans and prayers can raise\nthy sire from the doomed pool of Hades? you go from woes bearable to\nwoes beyond bearing.--_Elec._ It is weak to forget parents so lost;\nrather for me the nightingale that ever wails 'Itys,' or Niobe weeping\nin stone.--_Cho._ Thou art not the only one who feels sorrow: there are\nthy sisters, and another now mourning in a youth obscure, but who will\none day return to save.--_Elec._ Ah! him I yearn for, but he mocks my\nmessages, and promises yet never comes.--_Cho._ Take heart: Time is a\ncalm and patient deity; trusting in Zeus you will find neither Orestes\nnor the God of Acheron forgetful.--_Elec._ Yet meanwhile the larger\nportion of my life is gone; orphaned, un-wed, an alien stranger I serve\nin the house where I was wont to reign.--_Cho._ Ah! that sad day!\nGuile devised the blow and lust struck it!--_Elec._ Oh, most horrible\nday, most horrible night! the foul banquet! the dread forms of death he\nmet with at their accursed hands, he who was my life!--_Cho._ But take\ncare: excess of grief makes you utter what may bring you into\ntrouble.--_Elec._ I know, but will never cease from uttering woe on\nwoe: leave me, I am beyond soothing, and will never pause to count my\ntears.--_Cho._ It is with pure good will, as if a mother, I beg you not\nto heap ills on ills.--_Elec._ Is misery limited? is it noble to\nneglect the dead? if they escape without penalty fear of the Gods will\nbe swept from the earth.  {250}\n\nEPISODE I\n\n_Chorus now changing to Blank Verse_.  We meant well, but do as you\nwill, we will follow you.--_Elec._ I am indeed ashamed; but remember\nthe trouble I am in: to be hated by my mother, house-mate with my\nfather's murderers; with Aegisthus sitting on my father's throne by day\nand pouring libations on the hearth he violated; my mother not living\nin fear of the Erinnys, but making a red-letter day of the day my\nfather died: I, alas! keep his birth day in solitary feast.  I am\nbitterly chidden when caught weeping, and threatened when news comes of\nOrestes: all hope is far.--Aegisthus is from home, or she dared not\nhave indulged her grief even thus far.  {327}\n\n_Enter her sister, Chrysothemis, bearing funeral offerings_.  She\nremonstrates with Electra for uselessly wailing, instead of adapting\nherself to her fate.--_Elec._ retorts that she has learned her lesson\nby rote.  She advises to hate when there is strength to back hatred,\nyet she will not join in working revenge.--_Electra_ covets not her\nchoice of ease and wealth, and to be called her mother's child, while\nit is open to her to be her father's!--_Cho._ moderates: each may learn\nsomething from the other.--_Chrysoth._ is accustomed to Electra's want\nof charity and would not now have accosted her except to warn her of\nnew evils: they mean to get her out of the country and shut up in a\ndungeon where she shall never see the light of day.--A rapid\nstichomuthic dialogue follows as to temporizing and resisting, and then\n_Chrys._ is going to do her errand.--_Elec._ enquires what this is, and\nlearns that Clytaemnestra, disturbed by a dream, is sending\npropitiatory libations.\n\n                    A rumor ran   {417}\n          That she had seen our father's presence come\n          (Yes, thine and mine) a second time to light,\n          And then that he upon the hearth stood up,\n          And took the sceptre which he bore of old,\n          Which now Aegisthus bears, and fixed it there,\n          And from it sprang a sucker fresh and strong,\n          And all Mycenae rested in its shade.\n          This tale I heard from some one who was near\n          When she declared her vision to the Sun;\n          But more than this I heard not, save that she\n          Now sends me hither through that fright of hers.\n\nElectra catching a gleam of hope, adjures her to disobey, and in place\nof Clytaemnestra's offerings to put on the tomb their own: Electra's\nown withered lock and untrimmed girdle; and instead of propitiatory\nprayer pray to send Orestes.--_Cho._ approves and _Chrysothemis_\ncatches the spirit and _exit_.  {471}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE I\n\n_in Strophe, Antistrophe and Epode._\n\nIf my mind misleads me not, Vengeance is coming with hands that bear\nthe might of Righteousness; a new courage springs through my veins at\nthese propitious dreams, that Agamemnon will not forget for aye, nor\nthe axe that slew him.  She too is coming, Erinnys shod with brass,\ndread form with many a foot and many a hand: never will the boding sign\ncome falsely to those who did the deed, or men will find no prophecies\nin dreams.--Ah dreadful chariot race of Pelops, foundation of all the\nills which have never since left the house.  {315}\n\nEPISODE II\n\n_Enter from Palace Clytaemnestra and Attendant_.--_Clyt._ It is\nAegisthus' absence that makes you bold enough to appear outside the\nPalace and disgrace us.  I know your reproaches: but it was Justice,\nnot I, that slew your father; what right had he to slay _my_ child,\nborn of my travails, and not some other Argive children, Menelaus's for\nexample, whose the quarrel was?  Had Hades a special lust to feed on my\nchildren?--_Elec._ This time at least it is not I who begin.  I could\nreply if permitted.--_Clyt._ permits.--_Elec._ You admit the monstrous\nadmission, that you slew your husband--for justice sake? or for the\n'coward base' who is your paramour?  You well know that the offence for\nwhich Artemis demanded the sacrifice was Agamemnon's slaughter of the\nSacred Stag, and from his seed therefore the atonement must come which\nso unwillingly he made.  And if not, is your plea blood for blood? then\nyou will be the first to suffer.  How can you plead thus while living\nin open guilt with him who slew your husband?  It is a cruel mistress,\nnot a mother, I revile: you charge me with rearing Orestes as minister\nof vengeance, I would indeed if I had strength!  So proclaim me a\nmonster, that will make me a fitting daughter of my mother.--_Cho._\nHere is passion rather than care to speak right.--_Clyt._ Thus to show\nscorn for her mother! she will go all lengths and feel no\nshame.--_Elec._ Shame I do feel, but the deeds which beget the shame\nare yours.--_Clyt._ By Artemis, you shall pay for this when Aegisthus\ncomes!--_Elec._ I thought I had leave to speak.--_Clyt._ Will you not\nbe silent and let me perform my rites without disorder?--_Elec._ Now I\nam silent (_Retires_).--_Clyt._ then proceeds to offer her gifts to\nPhoebus, with prayer to avert the ill omen of the past night: as her\nprayer \"is not amongst friends,\" she can allude but darkly to all she\nmeans, but He is a God and will understand all she leaves unsaid.  {659}\n\n_Enter by the Distance-door Attendant of Orestes._\n\nEnquiring of Chorus he finds he is arrived before the people he is\nseeking, and announces to Clytaemnestra that Orestes is dead.\n_Electra_ utters a wail of agony, while _Clyt._ asks for particulars.\nThen follows the regular 'Messenger's Speech,' a detailed and graphic\naccount of a chariot race, in which he was thrown and killed.--_Clyt._\ntrembles between joy at deliverance from her suspense, and a touch of\nmotherly feeling; still she triumphs over the now hopeless Electra: for\nhim, what is is well.\n\n  _Elec._  Hear this, thou Power avenging him who died!\n  _Clyt._  Right well she heard, and what she heard hath wrought.\n\nThe Messenger is taken into the Palace, _Electra_ left to wail without,\nwith attempt of Chorus to condole (_lyric concerto_).  {870}\n\n_Enter from Tomb of Agamemnon Chrysothemis jubilant and bearing a lock\nof hair of Orestes._\n\nShe eagerly insists that Orestes is come; shows the lock and describes\nthe libations that no other would pour on that tomb.  Bit by bit\n_Electra_ checks her joy, and informs her of the news.  They mourn\ntogether, till Electra breaks out with proposal, that since their\nfriends are snatched from them, and they two are left alone, they shall\nthemselves work their revenge; that will be the safest and will bring\nglory: 'the sisters twain who saved their father's house.'--_Chor._\nThis requires consideration.--_Chry_. Will you never learn that you are\na woman and not a man?  _Elec._ then declares she will do it herself,\nand after a stichomuthic contest _exit Chrysothemis_.  {1057}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE II\n\n_In two Strophes and Antistrophes._\n\nThe storks show a pattern of filial piety: why do not men follow it?\nBy Zeus and Themis there is a punishment for the unfilial; may the\nvoice crying for vengeance reach the sons of Atreus below!  Their house\nis full of woe; Electra, alone faithful, is ready to face death if only\nshe may destroy the twin furies.  The great and good will purchase\nglory with life; so may'st thou prevail and gain the name of the best\nof daughters.  {1096}\n\nEPISODE III\n\n_Enter from Distance-door Orestes, Pylades and Attendants._\n\nOrestes informs the Chorus, and Electra as one of the household, that\nthey bear the urn containing the ashes of Orestes, whose death they had\nsent forward a messenger to announce.  Electra begs to clasp the urn\nand pours over it a flood of grief; here is nothingness to represent\nthe dear boy she sent out in bloom of youth; and all her forethought\nhas perished!  And he died amid strangers without her to take part in\nthe funeral rites!  All her sweet toil in nursing him with more than\nmother's love is gone!  All is gone--father, mother, brother!  She\nwould go too; they ever shared an equal lot; now let her go to him,\nashes to ashes!  {1170}\n\n  _Chor._  Thou, O Electra, take good heed, wast born\n           Of mortal father; mortal, too, Orestes,\n           Yield not too much to sorrow.\n  _Ores._  [Trembling.]  Woe is me.\n           What shall I say?  Ah, whither find my way,\n           In words that have no issue? for I fail\n           In strength to curb my speech.\n  _Elec._          What sorrow now\n           Disturbs thee?  Wherefore art thou speaking thus?\n  _Ores._  Is this Electra's noble form I see?\n  _Elec._  That self-same form indeed, in piteous case.\n  _Ores._  Alas, alas, for this sad lot of thine.\n  _Elec._  Surely thou dost not wail, O friend, for me!\n  _Ores._  O form most basely, godlessly misused.\n  _Elec._  Thy words, ill-omened, fall, O friend, on none\n           But me alone.\n  _Ores._          Alas, for this thy state,\n           Unwedded, hopeless.\n  _Elec._          Why, O friend, on me\n           With such fixed glance still gazing dost thou groan?\n  _Ores._  How little knew I of my fortune's ills!\n  _Elec._  What have I said to throw such light on them?\n  _Ores._  Now that I see thee thus, with many woes\n           Clothed as a garment.\n  _Elec._               Yet thou dost but see\n           A few of all my evils.\n  _Ores._               What could be\n           More sad than these to look on?\n  _Elec._               This, to live\n           And sit at meat with murderers.\n  _Ores._                           With whose?\n           What evil dost thou indicate by this?\n  _Elec._  My father's; 'tis to them, against my will\n           I live in bondage.\n  _Ores._                Who constrains thee, then?\n  _Elec._  My mother she is called; and yet in nought\n           Is she what mother should be.\n  _Ores._                           In what acts?\n           By blows and stripes, or this unseemly life?\n  _Elec._  Both blows, unseemly life, and all vile deeds.\n  _Ores._  And is there none to help?  Not one to check?\n  _Elec._  No, none.  Who was . . . thou buryest him as dust.\n  _Ores._  O sad one!  How I pitied thee long since.\n  _Elec._  Know, then, thou art the only pitying one.  {1200}\n  _Ores._  For I alone am hurt by these thy woes.\n  _Elec._  Surely thou dost not come by line of blood\n           Connected with us.\n  _Ores._                I could tell thee all,\n           Were these thy friends.\n  _Elec._                Most friendly are they; speak\n           As unto faithful hearers.\n  _Ores._                                  Put away\n           That urn awhile that thou may'st hear the whole.\n  _Elec._  Ah!  By the Gods, O stranger, ask not that.\n  _Ores._  Do what I bid thee, and thou shalt not err.\n  _Elec._  Now, by thy beard, deprive me not of that\n           I hold most dear.\n  _Ores._                I say it cannot be.\n  _Elec._  Ah me, Orestes, wretched shall I be,\n           Bereaved of this thy tomb.\n  _Ores._                        Hush, hush such words;\n           Thou has no cause for wailing.\n  _Elec._                        Have no cause!\n           Do I not wail my brother, who is dead?\n  _Ores._  Thou hast no call to utter speech like this.\n  _Elec._  And am I so dishonoured by the dead?\n  _Ores._  By none art thou dishonoured.  But this thing\n           Is nought to thee.\n  _Elec._                   And yet it needs must be,\n           If 'tis Orestes' body that I bear.\n  _Ores._  Except in show of speech it is not his.\n  _Elec._  Where, then, is that poor exile's sepulchre?\n  _Ores._  Of those that live there is no sepulchre.  {1219}\n  _Elec._  What say'st thou, boy?\n  _Ores._                         No falsehood what I say.\n  _Elec._  And does he live?\n  _Ores._                         He lives, if I have life.\n  _Elec._  What, art thou he?\n  _Ores._                         Look thou upon this seal,\n           My father's once, and learn if I speak truth.\n  _Elec._  O blessed day!\n  _Ores._                        Most blessed, I too own.\n  _Elec._  O voice!  And art thou come?\n  _Ores._                        No longer learn\n           That news from others.\n  _Elec._                        And I have thee here,\n           Here in my grasp!\n  _Ores._                        So may'st thou always have me.\n  _Elec._  O dearest friends, my fellow-citizens,\n           Look here on this Orestes, dead indeed\n           In feigned craft, and by that feigning saved.\n  _Chor._  We see it, daughter; and at what has chanced\n           A tear of gladness trickles from our eyes.  {1231}\n\nA passionate dialogue (_in mixed verse: Electra, speaking lyrics,\nOrestes Blank Verse_) of exultation and weeping succeeds: until finally\nOrestes is calling back their thoughts to the plans of vengeance when\n_enter from Palace Attendant of Orestes_, who chides them for their\nloud joy, which he has barely been able to prevent from reaching the\nears of Clytaemnestra.  Electra is informed who this attendant is, and\njoyfully recognizes him and calls him father for his faithfulness.  He\ncuts conversation short and hurries Orestes and Pylades within.\n_Electra_ with a prayer retires.  {1383}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE III\n\nShort expression of the sense of a critical moment: _Strophe_, Ares and\nthe Avengers are on their way--_Antistrophe_, they have passed beneath\nthe roof-tree.  {1397}\n\nEXODUS, OR FINALE\n\n_Electra_ rushes out to stand on guard against Aegisthus while\nvengeance is being done on Clytaemnestra.--Cries from within; _Electra_\nand _Chorus_ perceive that the deed is done.--Enter _Orestes_ and\n_Pylades_ from the Palace red-handed; they are about to triumph when\n_Electra_ thrusts them back, for Aegisthus is at hand.--_Enter\nAegisthus_ enquiring for the strangers of Electra.  {1442}\n\n  _Aegis._  Where are the strangers, then?  Tell this to me.\n  _Elec._   Within; for they have found a loving hostess.\n  _Aegis._  And did they say distinctly he was dead?\n  _Elec._   Ah no! they showed it, not in words alone.\n  _Aegis._  And is it here, that we may see it plain?\n  _Elec._   'Tis here, a sight most pitiful to see.\n  _Aegis._  Against thy wont thou giv'st me cause for joy.\n  _Elec._   Thou may'st rejoice, if this be ground of joy.\n  _Aegis._  I hid you hush, and open wide the gates\n            That all of Argos and Mycenae see,\n            So if there be that once were lifted up\n            With hopes they had, vain hopes they fixed on him,\n            Now seeing him dead, they may receive my curb,\n            And finding me their master, sense may gain\n            Without coercion.\n  _Elec._                   And that end is reached\n            By me; for I by time have wisdom gained,\n            To yield to those more mighty.\n\n_The doors are thrown open, and disclose Orestes and Pylades standing\nby the dead body of Clytaemnestra, which is covered with a sheet and a\nveil over the face._\n\n  _Aegis._            Lo, I see,\n            O Zeus, a sight that comes right well for me.\n            (Without offence I say it; should it move\n            The wrath divine, I wish it all unsaid.)\n            Withdraw the veil which hides the face, that I\n            To kindred blood may pay the meed of tears.\n  _Ores._   Do thou uplift it.  'Tis thy task not mine,\n            To look on this, and kindly words to speak.\n  _Aegis._  Thou giv'st good counsel, and I list to thee,\n            And thou, if yet she tarries in the house,\n            Call Clytaemnestra.\n  _Ores._   (_as Aegisthus lifts the veil_) Here she lies before thee,\n            Seek her not elsewhere,  {1474}\n  _Aegis._            Oh what sight is this!\n  _Ores._   Whom fearest thou?  Who is't thou dost not know?\n  _Aegis._  Into whose snares, whose closely-tangled mesh\n            Have I, poor victim, fallen?\n  _Ores._             Saw'st thou not\n            Long since that thou didst speak to them that live\n            As they were dead?\n  _Aegis._  Ah me!  I catch thy words.\n            It needs must be that he who speaks to me\n            Is named Orestes.\n  _Ores._             Wert thou then deceived,\n            Thou excellent diviner?\n  _Aegis._            Woe is me!\n            I perish, yet permit me first to speak\n            One little word.\n  _Elec._             Give him no leave to speak,\n            By all the gods, my brother, nor to spin\n            His long discourse.  When men are plunged in ills\n            What gain can one who stands condemned to die\n            Reap from delay?  No, slay him out of hand;\n            And, having slain him, cast him forth, to find\n            Fit burial at their hands from whom 'tis meet\n            That he should have it, far away from view.\n            Thus only shall I gain a remedy\n            For all the evils of the years gone by.\n  _Ores._   [To _Aegisthus_.] Go thou within, and quickly.\n                Now our strife\n            Is not of words, but for thy life itself.\n  _Aegis._  Why dost thou force me in?  If this be right,\n            What need of darkness?  Why not slay at once?\n  _Ores._   Give thou no orders, but where thou did'st slay\n            My father go, that thou too there may'st die.\n  _Aegis._  Truly the doom is fixed, this house should see\n            The ills that on the house of Pelops fall,\n            Or present, or to come.\n  _Ores._             Yes, those that fall\n            On thee: of these I am a prophet true.\n  _Aegis._  Thou boastest of a skill which he had not--\n            Thy father.\n  _Ores._             Still thou bandiest many words,\n            And length'nest out the way.  Move on.\n  _Aegis._            Lead thou.\n  _Ores._   Not so, thou must go first.\n  _Aegis._                      Dost think I'll flee?\n  _Ores._   Thou must not die the death thou would'st desire.\n            I needs must make it utter.  Doom like this\n            Should fall on all who dare transgress the laws,\n            The doom of death.  Then wickedness no more\n            Would multiply its strength.\n  _Chor._   O seed of Atreus, after many woes,\n            Thou hast come forth, thy freedom hardly won,\n            By this emprise made perfect!\n\n\n\n[1] The quotations of Sophocles are (mostly) from Plumptre's\ntranslation.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ELECTRA OF EURIPIDES[1]\n\n\nPROLOGUE\n\n_The Scene is in front of a Peasant's Cottage: the Centre is the door\nof the Cottage, the scene on the two sides of it represents the ways to\nfields and to the river.  Time: early Morning, the stars still shining._\n\n_Enter from the Cottage the Peasant on his way to his day's work_.  In\nthe form of a Morning Prayer to the stream Inachus, he makes known the\nsituation of affairs, the murder of Agamemnon, etc.--and in particular\nhow Aegisthus, fearing lest some nobleman might marry Electra and be\nher avenger, had forced her into wedlock with himself, a peasant,\nhonest but in the lowest poverty.  But he is too good a friend to his\nmaster's house and to the absent Orestes to wrong Electra; he has been\na husband only in name, to give her the shelter of his humble roof.\n_Enter Electra from the Cottage with a watering pot_: not seeing the\nPeasant she in a similar soliloquy announces that she is on her way to\nthe river to prosecute her unnatural toil.\n\n  _Peas._  Why will thou thus, unhappy lady, toil\n           For my sake bearing labours, nor desist\n           At my desire?  Not thus hast thou been train'd.\n  _Elec._  Thee equal to the gods I deem my friend,\n           For in my ills thou hast not treated me\n           With insult.  In misfortunes thus to find\n           What I have found in thee, a gentle pow'r,\n           Lenient of grief, must be a mighty source\n           Of consolations.  It behoves me then,\n           Far as my pow'r avails, to ease thy toils,\n           That lighter thou may'st feel them, and to share\n           Thy labour, though unbidden; in the fields\n           Thou hast enough of work; be it my task\n           Within to order well.  The lab'rer tired\n           Abroad, with pleasure to his house returns.\n           Accustom'd all things grateful there to find.\n\n  _Peas._  Go then, since such thy will; nor distant far\n           The fountain from the house.  At the first dawn\n           My bullocks yoked I to the field will drive,\n           And sow my furrows; for no idle wretch\n           With the gods always in the mouth can gain\n           Without due labour the support of life.  {95}\n\n_Stage vacant a moment.  Then enter by Distance-door Orestes and\nPylades._\n\n_Orestes_ in conversation with his friend makes known he is come by\ndivine command to avenge his father's death: he has fulfilled the god's\nfirst charge to present offerings on his father's tomb; the second is\nthat he must not enter the walls of the city; thus he wishes to find\nhis sister--now, as he hears, wedded to a peasant!--and consult--they\nstep aside as they see one whom 'female slave her tresses show'\napproaching.  {127}\n\n_Re-enter Electra with her water-pot filled_: and in a _Monody_\n(_strophe, antistrophe and epode_) laments her situation: laments for\nher lost father, her brother afar off, in servitude it may be: and\nadjures her father's spirit to send vengeance.  {187}\n\nPARODE JOINING ON TO EPISODE I\n\n_Enter the Orchestra Chorus of Maidens of Mycenae, and in dialogue_\n(_two Strophes and Antistrophes_) beg Electra to join them in an\napproaching festival, as she had been wont in happier days.--Electra\ndeclares she is fit for tears and rags, not for festivities.--As for\nrags they will find her the festal robes; and vows, instead of tears\nmay gain the goddess's help.--No god, says Electra, has an ear for the\nwretched, and in wretched toil and obscure retreat her life is wasting\naway.--_A sob from the concealed Orestes startles them, and they are\nabout to flee, when Orestes and Pylades discover themselves and\nreassure them_.  With difficulty he restrains his emotions throughout a\nlong conversation, personating a messenger from himself to Electra.\n\n  _Ores._  Bearing thy brother's words to thee I come.  {251}\n  _Elec._  Most welcome: breathes he yet this vital air?\n  _Ores._  He lives: I first would speak what brings thee joy.\n  _Elec._  Oh be thou blest for these most grateful words!\n  _Ores._  To both in common this I give to share.\n  _Elec._  Where is th' unhappy outcast wand'ring now?\n  _Ores._  He wastes his life not subject to one state.\n  _Elec._  Finds he with toil what life each day requires?\n  _Ores._  Not so; but mean the wand'ring exile's state.\n  _Elec._  But with what message art thou from him charg'd?\n  _Ores._  T' inquire, if living, where thou bear'st thy griefs.\n  _Elec._  First then observe my thin and wasted state.\n  _Ores._  Wasted with grief, so that I pity thee.\n  _Elec._  Behold my head, its crisped honours shorn.\n  _Ores._  Mourning thy brother, or thy father dead?\n  _Elec._  What can be dearer to my soul than these?\n  _Ores._  Alas!  What deem'st thou are thy brother's thoughts?\n  _Elec._  He, though far distant, is most dear to me.\n  _Ores._  Why here thy dwelling from the city far?\n  _Elec._  O, stranger, in base nuptials I am join'd--\n  _Ores._  I feel thy brother's grief!--To one of rank?\n  _Elec._  Not as my father once to place me hop'd--\n  _Ores._  That hearing I may tell thy brother, speak.\n  _Elec._  This is his house: in this I dwell remote.\n  _Ores._  This house some digger or some herdsman suits.\n  _Elec._  Generous, though poor, in reverence me he holds.\n  _Ores._  To thee what reverence doth thy husband pay?\n  _Elec._  He never hath presumed t' approach my bed.\n\nThe conversation is prolonged, bringing out for the benefit of the\nStrangers and the Chorus the whole of Electra's troubles, and how her\nfather's blood is crying for vengeance.\n\n  _Elec._                   The monarch's tomb\n           Unhonoured, nor libations hath receiv'd,\n           Nor myrtle bough, no hallow'd ornament\n           Hath dignified the pyre.  Inflamed with wine,\n           My mother's husband, the illustrious lord,\n           For so they call him, trampled on the earth\n           Insultingly where Agamemnon lies,\n           And hurling 'gainst his monument a stone,\n           Thus taunts us with proud scorn, \"Where is thy son,\n           \"Orestes where? right noble is thy tomb\n           \"Protected by his presence.\"  Thus he mocks\n           The absent; but, O stranger, tell him this\n           Suppliant I beg thee.  {371}\n\n_Enter unexpectedly the Peasant_.  On hearing that these strangers are\nmessengers from Orestes, he instantly calls for refreshments to be\nbrought, and begs the stranger to delay no longer to enter the cottage:\npoverty must be no excuse for not offering what hospitality he has.--A\nburst of admiration is drawn from Orestes.  {400}\n\n  _Ores._  Nature hath giv'n no outward mark to note\n           The generous mind; the qualities of men\n           To sense are indistinct.  I oft have seen\n           One of no worth a noble father shame,\n           And from vile parents worthy children spring,\n           Meanness oft grov'lling in the rich man's mind,\n           And oft exalted spirits in the poor.\n           How then discerning shall we judge aright?\n           By riches? ill would they abide the test.\n           By poverty? on poverty awaits\n           This ill, through want it prompts to sordid deeds.\n           Shall we pronounce by arms? but who can judge\n           By looking on the spear the dauntless heart?\n           Such judgment is fallacious; for this man,\n           Nor great among the Argives, nor elate\n           With the proud honours of his house, his rank\n           Plebeian, hath approv'd his liberal heart.\n           Will you not then learn wisdom, you whose minds\n           Error with false presentments leads astray?\n           Will you not learn by manners and by deeds\n           To judge the noble?  Such discharge their trust\n           With honour to the state and to their house.\n           Mere flesh without a spirit is no more\n           Than statues in the forum; nor in war\n           Doth the strong arm the dang'rous shock abide\n           More than the weak; on nature this depends\n           And an intrepid mind.  But we accept\n           Thy hospitable kindness; for the son\n           Of Agamemnon, for whose sake we come,\n           Present or not is worthy to this house.\n           Go, my attendants, I must enter it;\n           This man, though poor, more cheerful than the rich\n           Receives me; to his kindness thanks are due.\n           More would it joy me if thy brother, blest\n           Himself, could lead me to his prosperous house:\n           Yet haply he may come; th' oracular voice\n           Of Phoebus firmly will be ratified:\n           Lightly of human prophecies I deem.  {438}\n\n                      [_Orestes and his attendants enter the house._]\n\n_Electra_ is in a quandary at the idea of people of such rank being\ninvited into her humble cottage.\n\n  _Peas._  Why not?  If they are noble, as their port\n           Denotes them, will they not alike enjoy\n           Contentment, be their viands mean or rich?\n\nThe only device Electra can think of is to send to an old servant of\nher father's house--the same who, as Tutor, preserved the child Orestes\non the fatal night--now an aged herdsman forced to hide himself in\nobscurity, and ask him to help them in this emergency.  _Exit Peasant\nto the fields to find the old Tutor; Electra into the cottage_.  {474}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE I\n\napostrophises the array of ships that went to the Trojan war, the great\nchiefs who commanded, especially Achilles, whose shield they have seen,\nwith its Gorgons, and Sphinxes, and Hermes in flight, and other\nwondrous figures--suddenly at the end connects itself with the subject\nof the play by the thought: it was the Prince who commanded heroes like\nthese that a wicked wife dared to slay!  {530}\n\nEPISODE II\n\n_Enter from the fields the Aged Tutor, tottering under the weight of a\nkid and other viands, clad in rags, and in tears_.  _Electra_ wonders\nwhy he weeps: to mourn for Agamemnon or Orestes is surely now to mourn\nin vain.\n\n  _Tut._   In vain; but this my soul could not support;  {553}\n           For to his tomb as on the way I came,\n           I turned aside, and falling on the ground,\n           Alone and unobserved, indulg'd my tears;\n           Then of the wine, brought for thy stranger guests,\n           Made a libation, and around the tomb\n           Plac'd myrtle branches; on the pyre I saw\n           A sable ewe, yet fresh the victim's blood,\n           And clust'ring auburn locks shorn from some head;\n           I marvell'd, O my child, what man had dar'd\n           Approach the tomb, for this no Argive dares.\n           Perchance with secret step thy brother came\n           And paid these honors to his father's tomb.\n           But view these locks, compare them with thine own,\n           Whether like thine their color; nature loves\n           In those who from one father draw their blood\n           In many points a likeness to preserve.\n  _Elec._  Unworthy of a wise man are thy words,\n           If thou canst think that to Mycenae's realms\n           My brother e'er with secret step will come,\n           Fearing Aegisthus.  Then between our locks\n           What can th' agreement be?  To manly toils\n           He in the rough Palaestra hath been train'd,\n           Mine by the comb are soften'd; so that hence\n           Nothing may be inferr'd.  Besides, old man,\n           Tresses like-color'd often may'st thou find\n           Where not one drop of kindred blood is shar'd.\n  _Tut._   Trace but his footsteps, mark th' impression, see\n           If of the same dimensions with thy feet.\n  _Elec._  How can th' impression of his foot be left\n           On hard and rocky ground?  But were it so,\n           Brother and sister never can have foot\n           Of like dimensions: larger is the man's.\n  _Tut._   But hath thy brother, should he come, no vest\n           Which thou wouldst know, the texture of thy hands,\n           In which when snatch'd from death he was array'd?\n  _Elec._  Know'st thou not, when my brother from this land\n           Was saved, I was but young?  But were his vests\n           Wrought by my hands, then infant as he was,\n           How could he now in his maturer age\n           Be in the same array'd, unless his vests\n           Grew with his person's growth?  No, at the tomb\n           Some stranger, touch'd with pity, sheared his locks,\n           Or native, by the tyrant's spies unmark'd.\n  _Tut._   Where are these strangers?  I would see them: much\n           Touching thy brother wish I to inquire.\n  _Elec._  See, from the house with hast'ning step they come.  {599}\n\n_Re-enter Orestes and Pylades_: Conversation in which the aged Tutor\neyes him curiously all over, and declares he is Orestes--general\nrecognition and burst of joy.--Then they turn to vengeance, and in\nstichomuthic dialogue lay their plans.  Aegisthus, the Tutor says, is\nto come to a neighboring field to celebrate a sacrifice; they lay a\nplan for Orestes and Pylades to gain admission as travellers and kill\nhim in the moment of sacrifice.  As to Clytaemnestra: a report is\nprevalent in the palace that Electra has given birth to a child; they\nconspire to give currency to the report and invite Clytaemnestra to\nperform the ten days' rite: once in the house, Orestes will do the\ndreadful deed; they tremble at their horrid tasks, but their father\nmust be avenged.--_Exeunt Orestes and, his Attendants to the fields;\nand Electra to the Cottage_ begging the Chorus, who are privy to all\nthis as confidential friends, to keep watch and summon her if news\ncomes.  {763}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE II\n\n  _Strophe_ 1.      The Argive mountains round,\n                   'Mongst tales of ancient days\n               From age to age recorded this remains:\n                   Tuned to mellifluous lays,\n                   Pan taught his pipe to sound,\n               And as he breath'd the sprightly-swelling strains,\n                   The beauteous ram, with fleece of gold,\n                   God of shepherds, on he drove.\n                   The herald from the rock above\n               Proclaims, \"Your monarch's wonders to behold,\n               \"Wonders to sight, from which no terrors flow,\n               \"Go, Mycenaeans, to th' assembly go.\"\n                   With reverence they obey the call,\n                   And fill th' Atridae's spacious hall.\n\n  _Antis._         Its gates with gold o'erlaid,\n                   Wide oped each Argive shrine,\n               And from the altar hallow'd flames arise;\n                   Amidst the rites divine,\n                   Joying the Muse to aid,\n               Breath'd the brisk pipe its sweet notes to the skies;\n                   Accordant to the tuneful strain\n               Swell'd the loud acclaiming voice,\n                   Now with Thyestes to rejoice:\n               He, all on fire the glorious prize to gain,\n               With secret love the wife of Atreus won,\n               And thus the shining wonder made his own;\n                   Then to the assembly vaunting cried,\n                   \"Mine is the rich Ram's golden pride.\"\n\n  _Strophe_ 2.     Then, oh then, indignant Jove\n                   Bade the bright sun backward move,\n                   And the golden orb of day,\n                   And the morning's orient ray;\n                   Glaring o'er the Western sky\n                   Hurl'd his ruddy lightnings fly;\n                   Clouds, no more to fall in rain,\n                   Northward roll their deep'ning train;\n                   Libyan Ammon's thirsty seat,\n                   Wither'd with the scorching heat,\n                   Feels nor show'rs nor heavenly dews\n                   Grateful moisture round diffuse.\n\n  _Antis._ 2.      Fame hath said (but light I hold\n                   What the voice of fame hath told)\n                   That the sun, retiring far,\n                   Backward roll'd his golden car;\n                   And his vital heat withdraw,\n                   Sick'ning man's bold crimes to view.\n                   Mortals, when such tales they hear,\n                   Tremble with an holy fear,\n                   And th' offended gods adore;\n                   She, this noble pair who bore,\n                   Dar'd to murder, deed abhorr'd!\n                   This forgot, her royal lord.  {815}\n\nEPISODE III\n\n_As the Ode is concluding, shouts are heard from the direction of the\nfield where the sacrifice is: Chorus summon Electra_.\n\nAfter a brief conversation, a Messenger arrives breathless, and after\nrapidly giving the news that Aegisthus has fallen, is encouraged to\ntell the scene at length, which he does in the regular 'Messenger's\nSpeech.'\n\n  _Mess._  Departing from this house, the level road  {845}\n           We enter'd soon, mark'd by the chariot wheel\n           On either side.  Mycenae's noble king\n           Was there, amidst his gardens with fresh streams\n           Irriguous walking, and the tender boughs\n           Of myrtles, for a wreath to bind his head,\n           He cropt; he saw us, he address'd us thus\n           Aloud: \"Hail, strangers; who are ye, and whence\n           Come, from what country?\"  Then Orestes said,\n           \"Thessalians; victims to Olympian Jove\n           We at the stream of Alpheus go to slay.\"\n           The King replied, \"Be now my guests, and share\n           The feast with me; a bullock to the Nymphs\n           I sacrifice; at morn's first dawn arise,\n           Then shall you go; but enter now my house.\"\n           Thus as he spoke, he took us by the hand\n           And led us, nothing loth: beneath his roof\n           Soon as we came, he bade his slaves prepare\n           Baths for the strangers, that, the altars nigh,\n           Beside the lustral ewers they might stand.\n           Orestes then, \"With lavers from the pure\n           And living stream we lately have been cleansed:\n           But with thy citizens these rites to share,\n           If strangers are permitted, we, O King,\n           Are ready to thy hospitable feast,\n           Nothing averse.\"  The converse here had end.\n           Their spears, with which they guard the king, aside\n           Th' attendants laid, and to their office all\n           Applied their hands; some led the victim, some\n           The baskets bore, some rais'd the flames and plac'd\n           The cauldrons on the hearth; the house resounds.\n           Thy mother's husband on the altars cast\n           The salted cakes, and thus address'd his vows;\n           \"Ye Nymphs that haunt the rocks, these hallow'd rites\n           Oft let me pay, and of my royal spouse\n           Now absent, both by fortune blest as now;\n           And let our foes as now, in ruin lie;\"\n           Thee and Orestes naming.  But my lord,\n           Far other vows address'd, but gave his words\n           No utt'rance, to regain his father's house.\n           Aegisthus then the sacrificing sword\n           Took from the basket, from the bullock's front\n           To cut the hair, which on the hallow'd fire\n           With his right hand he threw; and, as his slaves\n           The victim held, beneath its shoulder plung'd\n           The blade; then turning to thy brother spoke:\n           \"Among her noble arts Thessalia boasts\n           To rein the fiery courser, and with skill\n           The victim's limbs to sever; stranger, take\n           The sharp-edg'd steel and show that fame reports\n           Of the Thessalians truth.\"  The Doric blade\n           Of temper'd metal in his hand he grasp'd,\n           And from his shoulders threw his graceful robe;\n           Then to assist him in the toilsome task\n           Chose Pylades, and bade the slaves retire:\n           The victim's foot he held, and its white flesh,\n           His hand extending, bared, and stript the hide\n           E'er round the course the chariot twice could roll,\n           And laid the entrails open.  In his hands\n           The fate-presaging parts Aegisthus took,\n           Inspecting: in the entrails was no lobe;\n           The valves and cells the gall containing show\n           Dreadful events to him, that view'd them, near.\n           Gloomy his visage darken'd; but my lord\n           Ask'd whence his sadden'd aspect: He replied--\n           \"Stranger, some treachery from abroad I fear;\n           Of mortal men Orestes most I hate,\n           The son of Agamemnon; to my house\n           He is a foe.\"  \"Wilt thou,\" replied my lord,\n           \"King of this state, an exile's treachery dread?\n           But that, these omens leaving, we may feast,\n           Give me a Phthian for this Doric blade,\n           The breast asunder I will cleave.\"  He took\n           The steel and cut.  Aegisthus, yet intent,\n           Parted the entrails; and, as low he bow'd\n           His head, thy brother, rising to the stroke,\n           Drove through his back the ponderous axe, and riv'd\n           The spinal joints: his heaving body writh'd\n           And quiver'd, struggling in the pangs of death.\n           The slaves beheld, and instant snatched their spears,\n           Many 'gainst two contesting; but my lord\n           And Pylades with dauntless courage stood\n           Oppos'd, and shook their spears.  Orestes then\n           Thus spoke: \"I come not to this state a foe,\n           Nor to my servants; but my father's death\n           I on his murderer have aveng'd; you see\n           Th' unfortunate Orestes: kill me not,\n           My father's old attendants.\"  At these words\n           They all restrain'd their spears, and he was known\n           By one grown hoary in the royal house.\n           Crowns on thy brother's head they instant plac'd\n           With shouts of joy.  He comes, and with him brings\n           Proof of his daring, not a Gorgon's head,\n           But whom thou hat'st, Aegisthus: blood for blood,\n           Bitter requital, on the dead has fall'n.  {939}\n\nGeneral exultation (_in Lyric measures_) succeeds, which increases as\n_Orestes_ and _Pylades re-enter bearing the corpse of Aegisthus_.\nAfter brief celebration of the deed the face of the corpse is\nuncovered, and Electra, gazing at it, gives vent to her scorn and\nhatred: how he had slain a hero, made her an orphan, lived in shame\nwith her mother, enjoying and trusting in her father's wealth: but\n\n           Nature is firm, not riches: she remains\n           For ever, and triumphant lifts her head.\n           But unjust wealth, which sojourns with the base,\n           Glitters for some short space, then flies away.\n\nHis effeminate manners are more than maiden tongue may speak of; beauty\ngraced his perfect form:\n\n           But be not mine a husband, whose fair face\n           In softness with a virgin's vies, but one\n           Of manly manners; for the sons of such\n           By martial toils are trained to glorious deeds;\n           The beauteous only the dance give grace.\n\nLet the wicked in future learn they are not secure till the goal of\nlife is reached.  {1092}\n\nClytaemnestra is then seen approaching: they hurry Orestes in; his\nheart fails him at the thought of his mother; with difficulty Electra\nrouses him to his appointed vengeance.  [_Exeunt all but Electra into\nthe Cottage.  Enter Clytaemnestra in a Chariot and splendid array._]\n_The Chorus_ welcome her, and she begs their aid to alight.--_Electra_\nthrusts herself forward clad in rags as she is, and begs that she too\nmay assist.--_Clyt._ feels the impropriety of the scene, and falls into\nan apologetic tone; it was Electra's father who, by his injustice to\nIphigenia, was the real cause of Electra's trouble.  This leads to the\nusual judicial disputation: _Clyt._ pleading that this sacrifice of her\ndaughter was done not for a good cause, but for the wanton Helen; this\nsacrifice she had avenged, and to avenge it must join an enemy, not a\nfriend, of Agamemnon.--_Electra_, getting permission, replies: Helen\nwas not the only wanton one of her family; if no motive but vengeance,\nwhy begin to adorn as soon as Agamemnon was out of the way, why rejoice\nwhenever the Trojans prospered, why go on to persecute Orestes and\nherself, nay, why not slay Aegisthus for persecuting these her\nchildren?  The sight of Electra's miserable condition makes even\n_Clyt._ feel compunction: she has been too harsh, she will be kinder\nnow, and so shall Aegisthus--Electra replying to all that it is too\nlate.  At last _Clyt._ prepares to go within the house and perform the\nrite for Electra; then she will join her husband.  _Exeunt Attendants\nwith Chariot, and Electra ushers Clytaemnestra into the Cottage_.\n\n           Let my poor house receive thee: but take heed\n           Lest thy rich vests the blackening smoke denies.--\n           There shalt thou sacrifice, as to the gods\n           Behoves thee sacrifice: the basket there\n           Is for the rites prepared, and the keen blade\n           Which struck the bull; beside him shalt thou fall\n           By a like blow; in Pluto's courts his bride\n           He shall receive, with whom in heav'n's fair light\n           Thy couch was shared: to thee this grace I give,\n           Thou vengeance for my father shalt give me.  {1274}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE III\n\nThe waves of mischief are flowing back, the gale of Violence is\nveering: Vengeance for the crime of old standing is come at last.\n{1298}\n\nEXODUS, OR FINALE\n\nCries are heard from within: the Chorus know that the deed is done.\n\n_By the machinery of the roller-stage the interior of the Cottage is\ndisplayed, with Orestes and Electra standing over the corpse of\nClytaemnestra_.\n\nA revulsion of feeling has come over them; they did the deed in frenzy;\nnow, instead of triumph, they have no thoughts but for the act they\nhave done, and how they will carry a curse with them ever after, and\nall will shun them.  With horror they recall the details of the scene:\n\n  _Ores._                 Didst thou see her when she drew  {1338}\n           Her vests aside, and bared her breasts, and bow'd\n           To earth her body whence I drew my birth,\n           Whilst in her locks my furious hand I wreath'd?\n\n  _Elec._  With anguish'd mind, I know, thou didst proceed,\n           When heard thy wailing mother's piteous cries.\n\n  _Ores._  These words, whilst with her hands she strok'd my cheeks,\n           Burst forth, \"Thy pity I implore, my son;\"\n           Soothing she spoke, as on my cheeks she hung,\n           That bloodless from my hand the sword might fall.\n\n  _Chor._  Wretched Electra, how could'st thou sustain\n           A sight like this?  How bear thy mother's death,\n           Seeing her thus before thine eyes expire?\n\n  _Ores._  Holding my robe before mine eyes, I rais'd\n           The sword and plung'd it in my mother's breast.\n\n  _Elec._  I urged thee to it, I too touch'd the sword.\n\n  _Chor._  Of deeds most dreadful this which thou hast done.\n           Cover thy mother's body; in her robes\n           Decent compose her wounded limbs.--Thou gav'st\n           Being to those who were to murder thee.\n\nDIVINE INTERVENTION\n\n_Suddenly over the Permanent Scene two Supernatural Beings appear and\nmove along, recognized by the Chorus as Castor and Pollux, the Family\nDeities_.  {1364}\n\n           Hear, son of Agamemnon: for to thee\n           Thy mother's brothers, twin-born sons of Jove\n           Castor, and this my brother Pollux, speak.\n           Late, having calmed the ocean waves, that swell'd\n           The lab'ring vessel menacing, we came\n           To Argos, where our sister we beheld,\n           Thy mother, slain: with justice vengeance falls\n           On her; in thee unholy is the deed.\n           Yet Phoebus, Phoebus--but, my king is he;\n           I will be silent: yet, though wise, he gave\n           To thee response not wise; but I must praise\n           Perforce these things.  Thou now must do what Fate\n           And Jove decree.\n\nElectra is to marry Pylades, and Orestes to flee to Athens and be\npurified by the Court on the Hill of Mars: Apollo assisting.  Orestes'\nfuture life is foretold [thus working out various details of the\nOrestes legends].--With awe Orestes, Electra, and Chorus enter into\nconverse with the gods, and the word is confirmed.  They failed to\navert the trouble from their house on account of dire Fate and 'the\nvoice unwise of Phoebus from his shrine.'  There has been a Demon\nhostile to Electra's parents.--Then the brother and sister's thoughts\nturn to the life-long separation, and the painful wandering, sorrows\ne'en to the gods mournful to hear.  Farewell to Argos: the Gods hurry\nOrestes away for the Furies are already on his track, and conclude:\n\n           To the impious thro' the ethereal tract\n           We no assistance bring: but those to whom\n           Justice and sanctity of life is dear,\n           We from their dangerous toils relieve and save.\n           Let no one then unjustly will to act,\n           Nor in one vessel with the perjured sail:\n           A god to mortals this monition gives.\n\n  _Chor._  Oh, be you blest!  And those, to whom is given\n           Calmly the course of mortal life to pass,\n           By no affliction sunk, pronounce we blest.\n\n\n\n[1] The quotations of Euripides are from Potter's translation.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ALCESTIS OF EURIPIDES[1]\n\nMEMORANDUM\n\n_Of the Story as it would be traditionally familiar to the Audience\nbefore-hand.--Admetus was the splendid King of Pherae, so famous for\nthe sacred rites of Hospitality that he had Sons of the Gods for\nGuests, and the God of Brightness, Apollo, himself while he sojourned\non earth chose Admetus's household to dwell in.  In the full tide of\nhis greatness the time came for him to die: Apollo interposed for his\nchief votary, and won from the Fates that he might die by substitute.\nBut none was found willing to be the victim, not even his aged parents:\nat last Alcestis his wife, young and bright as himself, gave herself\nfor her husband and died.  Then another Guest-Friend of Admetus came to\nthe rescue, Jupiter's own son Hercules, and by main force wrested\nAlcestis from the grasp of Death, and restored her to her husband._\n\nPROLOGUE\n\n_Scene: Pherae in Thessaly.  The early morning sunshine blazes full on\nthe Royal Palace of the Glorious Admetus, and on the statues,\nconspicuous in front of it, of Jupiter Lord of Host and Guest, and\nApollo: nevertheless the Courtyard is silent and deserted.--At last\nApollo himself is seen, not aloft in the air as Gods were wont to\nappear, but on the threshold of the Central Gate._\n\nAPOLLO meditates on his happy associations with the house he is\nquitting.  How when there was trouble in heaven, and he himself, for\nresisting Jove's vengeance on the Healer Aesculapius, was doomed to a\nyear's slavery amongst mortal men, he had bound himself as herdsman to\nAdmetus, and Admetus exercised his lordship with all reverence:\n\n          A holy master o'er his holy slave.  {13}\n\nHow again when trouble came to Admetus he had saved him from the day of\ndeath, on condition that another would die in his stead.\n\n          His friends, his father, e'en the aged dame  {19}\n          That gave him birth were asked in vain: not one\n          Was found, his wife except.\n\nThe dreadful day has come, and Alcestis is at this moment breathing her\nlast in the arms of her husband: and he himself must leave his loved\nfriend, for Deity may not abide in the neighborhood of death's\npollution.  {27}\n\n_Suddenly, the hideous Phantom of Death becomes visible, ascending the\nSteps of the Dead [from below the Orchestra on to the Stage]: his pace\nnever flags, yet he cowers, like all things of darkness, before the Bow\nof Apollo._\n\n_Death_ reproaches Apollo with haunting the dwellings of mortals, and\nwith seeking by that Bow of his to defraud the Infernal Powers of their\ndue.  _Apollo_ defends himself: he is but visiting friends he loves: he\nhas no thought of using force.  But would he could persuade Death to\nchoose his victims according to the law of nature, and slay ripe\nlingering age instead of youth!\n\n  _Death._  Greater my glory when the youthful die!  {58}\n\n_Apollo_ appeals to self-interest: more sumptuous obsequies await the\naged dead.--That, answers _Death_, were to make laws in favor of the\nrich.--_Apollo_ condescends to ask mercy for his friend as a favor; but\nfavors, _Death_ sneers, are not in keeping with his manners; and taunts\nApollo with his helplessness to resist fate.  The taunt rouses Apollo\nto a flash of prophecy (which is one of his attributes), giving (as the\nGreek stage loved to do) a glimpse into the end of the story.\n\n  _Apollo._  Yet, ruthless as thou art, soon wilt thou cease  {67}\n             This contest; such a man to Pherae's house\n             Comes. . . . .  He, in this house\n             A welcome guest to Admetus, will by force\n             Take his wife from thee; and no thanks from me\n             Will be thy due; yet what I now entreat\n             Then thou wilt yield, and I shall hate thee still.\n\nApollo moves away and disappears in the distance [_by Left Side-door_],\nwhile Death, hurling defiance after him, waves his fatal sword and\ncrosses the threshold.  {81}\n\nPARODE, OR CHORUS-ENTRY\n\n_Enter the Orchestra [by the Right Archway, as from the neighborhood]\nthe Chorus: Old Men of Pherae, come to enquire how it is with the Queen\non the morning of this appointed day of her death.  As usual in such\nChorus-Entries their chanting is accompanied with music and\ngesture-dance to a rhythm traditionally associated with marching.  But\nby a very unusual effect they enter in disordered ranks, moving in two\nloosely-formed bodies towards the Central Altar._  {82}\n\n  _1st Semichorus._  What a silence encloses the Palace!\n                     What a hush in the house of Admetus!\n  _2nd Semichorus._  Not a soul is at hand of the household\n                     To answer our friendly enquiry--\n                     Is it over, all over but weeping?\n                     Or sees she the light awhile longer,\n                     Our Queen, brightest pattern of women\n                     The wide world through,\n                     Most devoted of wives, our Alcestis?\n\n_Arriving at the Altar they fall for a time into compact order, and\nexchange their marching rhythm for the elaborate Choral ritual, the\nevolutions taking them to the Right of the Orchestra._  {89}\n\n_Strophe_\n\n  _Full Chorus._        Listen for the heavy groan,\n                        Smitten breast and piercing moan,\n                        Ringing out that life is gone.\n                    The house forgets its royal state,\n                    And not a slave attends the gate.\n                  Our sea of woe runs high:--ah, mid the waves\n                    Appear, Great Healer, Apollo!\n\n_They break again into loose order and marching rhythm, remaining on\nthe Right of the Orchestra._\n\n  _1st Semi._  Were she dead, could they keep such a silence?  {94}\n  _2nd Semi._  May it be--she is gone from the Palace?\n  _1st Semi._  Never!\n  _2nd Semi._          Nay, why so confident answer?\n  _1st Semi._  To so precious a corpse could Admetus\n               Give burial bare of its honours?\n\n_They reunite in Choral order and work back to the Altar._\n\n_Antistrophe_\n\n  _Full Chorus._     Lo, no bath the porch below,  {99}\n                     Nor the cleansing fountain's flow,\n                     Gloomy rite for house of woe.\n                   The threshold lacks its locks of hair,\n                   Clipp'd for the dead in death's despair.\n                 Who hears the wailing voice and thud of hands,\n                   The seemly woe of the maidens?\n\n_At the Altar they again break up and fall into marching rhythm._\n\n  _2nd Semi._  Yet to-day is the dread day appointed--  {105}\n  _1st Semi._  Speak not the word!\n  _2nd Semi._  The day she must pass into Hades--\n  _1st Semi._  I am cut to the heart!\n               I am cut to the soul!\n  _2nd Semi._  When the righteous endure tribulation,\n               Avails nought long-tried love\n               Nought is left to the friendly--but mourning!\n\n_Accordingly they address themselves to a Full Choral Ode, the\nevolutions carrying them to the extreme Left of the Orchestra in the\nStrophe, and in the Antistrophe back to the Altar._\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE I\n\n_Strophe_\n\n          In vain--our pious vows are vain--  {111}\n            Make we the flying sail our care,\n          The light bark bounding o'er the main;\n            To what new realm shall we repair?\n                To Lycia's hallow'd strand?\n            Or where in solitary state,\n              Mid thirsty deserts wild and wide\n              That close him round on every side,\n          Prophetic Ammon holds his awful seat?\n              What charm, what potent hand\n            Shall save her from the realms beneath?\n            He comes, the ruthless tyrant Death:\n              I have no priest, no altar more,\n              Whose aid I may implore!\n\n_Antistrophe_\n\n          O that the Son of Phoebus now  {121}\n            Lived to behold th' ethereal light!\n          Then might she leave the seats below,\n            Where Pluto reigns in cheerless night!\n                The Sage's potent art,\n          Till thund'ring Jove's avenging pow'r\n            Hurl'd his red Thunders at his breast,\n            Could, from the yawning gulf releast,\n          To the sweet light of life the dead restore.\n                Who now shall aid impart?\n            To ev'ry god, at ev'ry shrine,\n            The king hath paid the rites divine:\n                But vain his vows, his pious care;\n                And ours is dark despair!\n\nEPISODE I\n\n_At last they have been heard, and one of the Queen's Women comes\nweeping from the Palace [by one of the Inferior Doors]: the Chorus fall\ninto their Episode position, in two ranks, between the Altar and the\nStage, taking part by their Foreman in the dialogue._\n\nThe Chorus eagerly enquire whether Alcestis yet lives.  {138}\n\n  _Attend._  As living may I speak of her, and dead.\n  _Cho._     Living and dead at once, how may that be?\n  _Attend._  E'en now she sinks in death and breathes her last.\n\nThey join in extolling her heroic devotion, and the Attendant tells of\nher bearing on this day of Death, which she celebrates as if a day of\nreligious festival.\n\n                              When she knew  {160}\n          The destin'd day was come, in fountain water\n          She bath'd her lily-tinctured limbs, then took\n          From her rich chests, of odorous cedar form'd,\n          A splendid robe, and her most radiant dress;\n          Thus gorgeously array'd she stood before\n          The hallow'd flames, and thus address'd her pray'r:\n          \"O Queen, I go to the infernal shades!\n          Yet, e'er I go, with reverence let me breathe\n          My last request: Protect my orphan children,\n          Make my son happy with the wife he loves,  {170}\n          And wed my daughter to a noble husband:\n          Nor let them, like their mother, to the tomb\n          Untimely sink, but in their native land\n          Be blest through length'ned life to honour'd age.\"\n          Then to each altar in the royal house\n          She went, and crown'd it, and address'd her vows,\n          Plucking the myrtle bough; nor tear, nor sigh\n          Came from her, neither did the approaching ill\n          Change the fresh beauties of her vermeil cheek.\n          Her chamber then she visits, and her bed;  {180}\n          There her tears flow'd, and thus she spoke: \"O bed\n          To which my wedded lord, for whom I die,\n          Led me a virgin bride, farewell; to thee\n          No blame do I impute, for me alone\n          Hast thou destroy'd; disdaining to betray\n          Thee and my lord, I die: to thee shall come\n          Some other woman, not more chaste, perchance\n          More happy\"--as she lay, she kissed the couch,\n          And bath'd it with a flood of tears; that pass'd,\n          She left her chamber, then return'd, and oft  {190}\n          She left it, oft return'd, and on the couch\n          Fondly, each time she enter'd, cast herself.\n          Her children, as they hung upon her robes,\n          Weeping, she rais'd, and clasp'd them to her breast\n          Each after each, as now about to die.\n          Each servant through the house burst into tears\n          In pity of their mistress; she to each\n          St[r?]etch'd her right hand; nor was there one so mean\n          To whom she spoke not, and admitted him\n          To speak to her again.  Within the house  {200}\n          So stands it with Admetus.  Had he died,\n          His woes were over: now he lives to bear\n          A weight of pain no moment shall forget.\n\nAlcestis is wasting away, and fading with swift disease, while her\ndistracted husband holds her in his arms, entreating impossibilities.\nAnd now they are about to bring her out, for the dying Alcestis has a\nlonging for one more sight of heaven and the radiant morning.  The\nChorus are plunged in despair: how will their king bear to live after\nthe loss of such a wife!\n\nThe lamentations rise higher still _as the Central Gates open and the\ncouch of Alcestis is borne out, Admetus holding her in his arms, and,\nher children clinging about her; the Stage fills with weeping friends\nand attendants.  The whole dialogue falls into lyrical measures with\nstrophic alternations just perceptible_.  _Alcestis_ commences to\naddress the sunshine and fair scenery she has come out to view--when\nthe scene changes to her dying eyes, and she can see nothing but the\ngloomy river the dead have to cross, with the boatman ready waiting,\nand the long dreary journey beyond.  Dark night is creeping over her\neyes, when _Admetus_, as he ever mingles his passionate prayers with\nher wanderings, conjures her for her children's sake as well as his own\nnot to forsake them.  A thought for her children's future rouses the\nmother from her stupor, and she rallies for a solemn last appeal [_the\nmeasure changing to blank verse to mark the change of tone_].  She\nbegins to recite the sacrifice she is making for her lord:\n\n                I die for thee, though free  {284}\n          Not to have died, but from Thessalia's chiefs\n          Preferring whom I pleas'd, in royal state\n          To have lived happy here--I had no will\n          To live bereft of thee with these poor orphans--\n          I die without reluctance, though the gifts\n          Of youth are mine to make life grateful to me.  {290}\n          Yet he that gave thee birth, and she that bore thee,\n          Deserted thee, though well it had beseem'd them\n          With honour to have died for thee, t' have saved\n          Their son with honour, glorious in their death.\n          They had no child but thee, they had no hope\n          Of other offspring, should'st thou die; and I\n          Might thus have lived, thou mightst have lived till age\n          Crept slowly on, nor wouldst thou heave the sigh\n          Thus of thy wife deprived, nor train alone\n          Thy orphan children:--but some God appointed  {300}\n          It should be thus: thus be it.\n\nAll this is the basis for a requital she demands of her husband: that\nhe shall let her children be lords in their own house, and not set over\nthem the cruel guardianship of a step-mother.\n\n          My son that holds endearing converse with thee  {315}\n          Hath in his father a secure protection;\n          But who, my daughter, shall with honour guide\n          Thy virgin years?  What woman shalt thou find\n          New-wedded to thy father, whose vile arts\n          Will not with slanderous falsehoods taint thy name,\n          And blast thy nuptials in youth's freshest bloom?\n          For never shall thy mother see thee led\n          A bride, nor at thy throes speak comfort to thee,\n          Then present when a mother's tenderness\n          Is most alive: for I must die!  {325}\n\nThe _Chorus_ pledge their faith that the king will honour such a\nrequest as long as reason lasts.  _Admetus_ addresses a solemn vow to\nhis dying wife, that her will shall be done:\n\n                    Living thou wast mine,  {334}\n          And dead thou only shalt be called my wife.\n\nIt will be only too easy to keep such a pledge as that, for life\nhenceforth will be one long mourning to him.\n\n                    Hence I renounce\n          The feast, the cheerful guest, the flow'ry wreath,  {350}\n          And song that used to echo through my house:\n          For never will I touch the lyre again,\n          Nor to the Libyan flute's sweet measures raise\n          My voice: with thee all my delights are dead.\n          Thy beauteous figure, by the artist's hand\n          Skillfully wrought, shall in my bed be laid;\n          By that reclining, I will clasp it to me,\n          And call it by thy name, and think I hold\n          My dear wife in my arms, and have her yet,\n          Though now no more I have her: cold delight  {360}\n          I ween, yet thus th' affliction of my soul\n          I shall relieve, and visiting my dreams\n          Shalt thou delight me.\n\nO for the power of Orpheus's lyre, that might rescue thee even from the\nrealms of the dead!\n\n          But there await me till I die; prepare  {374}\n          A mansion for me, as again with me\n          To dwell; for in thy tomb I will be laid,\n          In the same cedar, by thy side composed:\n          For e'en in death I will not be disjoin'd\n          From thee who hast alone been faithful to me!\n\nAs the Chorus join in Admetus's sorrow the pledge is reiterated, and\nthe dying mother is satisfied.\n\n  _Alc._  Thus pledging, from my hands receive thy children.  {386}\n  _Adm._  A much-loved gift, and from a much-loved hand!\n\nThe strength Alcestis had summoned for her last effort now forsakes\nher: she sinks rapidly.\n\n  _Alc._  A heavy weight hangs on my darkened eye.  {396}\n  _Adm._    If thou forsake me I am lost indeed!\n  _Alc._  As one that is no more I now am nothing.\n  _Adm._    Ah, raise thy face! forsake not thus thy children!\n  _Alc._  It must be so perforce: farewell, my children.\n  _Adm._  Look on them, but a look.\n  _Alc._                           I am no more.\n  _Adm._  How dost thou?  Wilt thou leave us so?\n  _Alc._                                      Farewell.\n  _Adm._  And what a wretch, what a lost wretch am I!\n  _Cho._  She's gone!  Thy wife, Admetus, is no more!\n\nThe little Son flings himself passionately on the corpse [_the metre\nbreaking out into strophic alternations._]\n\n_Strophe_\n\n  _Son._             O my unhappy fate!  {405}\n          My mother sinks to the dark realms of night,\n          Nor longer views this golden light;\n              But to the ills of life exposed\n                  Leaves my poor orphan state!\n              Her eyes, my father, see, her eyes are closed,\n                  And her hand nerveless falls.\n          Yet hear me, O my mother, hear my cries!\n                  It is thy son who calls,\n          Who prostrate on the earth breathes on thy lips his sighs.\n\n  _Adm._  On one that hears not, sees not!  I and you\n          Must bend beneath affliction's heaviest load.\n\n_Antistrophe_\n\n  _Son._           Ah! she hath left my youth--  {417}\n          My mother, my loved mother is no more--\n          Left me my sufferings to deplore,\n              Left me a heritage of woe:\n                  Who shall my sorrows soothe?\n              Thou too, my sister, thy full share shalt know\n                  Of grief, thy heart to rend.\n          Vain, O my father, vain thy nuptial vows,\n                  Brought to this speedy end:\n          For when my mother died in ruin sank our house!  {425}\n\nThe Chorus [_in calm blank verse_] call on their king to command\nhimself and bear what many have had to bear before.--_Admetus_ knows he\nmust: this calamity has not come without notice.  He rouses himself to\ngive orders as to the preparations for burial: the mourning rites shall\nlast a whole year, and shall extend throughout the whole region of\nThessaly: the very horses shall have their waving manes cut close, and\nno sound of flute or instrument of joy shall be heard in the city.\n{445}\n\n_The corpse is slowly carried out, and at last the Stage is vacant.\nThen the Chorus address themselves to a Choral Ode in memory of the\nSpirit now passed beneath the earth: the evolutions as usual, carrying\nthem with each Strophe to one end of the Orchestra, and with the\nAntistrophe back to the Altar._\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE II\n\n_Strophe_ I\n\n            Immortal bliss be thine,  {446}\n          Daughter of Pelias, in the realms below,\n            Immortal pleasures round thee flow,\n          Though never there the sun's bright beams shall shine.\n            Be the black-brow'd Pluto told,\n            And the Stygian boatman old,\n          Whose rude hands grasp the oar, the rudder guide,\n            The dead conveying o'er the tide,--\n          Let him be told, so rich a freight before\n            His light skiff never bore;\n            Tell him that o'er the joyless lakes\n          The noblest of her sex her dreary passage takes.\n\n_Antistrophe I_\n\n            Thy praise the bards shall tell,\n          When to their hymning voice the echo rings,\n            Or when they sweep the solemn strings,\n          And wake to rapture the seven-chorded shell:\n            Or in Sparta's jocund bow'rs,\n            Circling when the vernal hours\n          Bring the Carnean Feast, whilst through the night\n            Full-orb'd the high moon rolls her light;\n          Or where rich Athens, proudly elevate,\n            Shows her magnific state:\n            Their voice thy glorious death shall raise,\n          And swell th' enraptured strain to celebrate thy praise.\n\n_Strophe II_\n\n            O that I had the pow'r,\n          Could I but bring thee from the shades of night,\n            Again to view this golden light,\n          To leave that boat, to leave that dreary shore,\n            Where Cocytus, deep and wide,\n            Rolls along his sullen tide!\n          For thou, O best of women, thou alone\n            For thy lord's life daredst give thy own.\n          Light lie the earth upon thy gentle breast,\n            And be thou ever blest!\n            While, should he choose to wed again,\n          Mine and his children's hearts would hold him in disdain.\n\n_Antistrophe II_\n\n            When, to avert his doom,\n          His mother in the earth refused to lie;\n            Nor would his ancient father die\n          To save his son from an untimely tomb;\n            Though the hand of time had spread\n            Hoar hairs o'er each aged head:\n          In youth's fresh bloom, in beauty's radiant glow,\n            The darksome way thou daredst to go,\n          And for thy youthful lord's to give thy life.\n            Be ours so true a wife!\n            Though rare the lot, then should we prove\n          Th' indissoluble bond of faithfulness and love.\n\nEPISODE II\n\n_Enter on the Stage through the distance-entrance [Left Side-door] the\ncolossal figure of Hercules.  Here is the turning-point of the play:\nwhich has the peculiarity of combining an element of the Satyric Drama\n(or Burlesque) with Tragedy, the combination anticipating the\n'Action-Drama' (or 'Tragi-Comedy') of modern times.  Accordingly the\ncostume and mask of Hercules are compounded, of his conventional\nappearance in Tragedy, in which he is conceived as the perfection of\nphysical strength toiling and suffering for mankind, and his\nconventional appearance in Satyric plays as the gigantic feeder, etc.\nThe two are harmonized in the conception of conscious energy rejoicing\nin itself, and plunging with equal eagerness into duty and relaxation,\nwhile each lasts._\n\n_Hercules_ hails the Chorus and enquires for Admetus.  They reply that\nhe is within the Palace, and [shrinking, like all Greeks, from being\nthe first to tell evil tidings] turn the conversation by enquiring what\nbrings the Demi-god to Pherae--_in stichomuthic dialogue_ it is brought\nout that Hercules is on his way to one of his 'Labors'--that of the\nThracian Steeds; and (so lightly does the thought of toil sit on him)\nit appears he has not troubled to enquire what the task meant: from the\nChorus he learns for the first time the many dangers before him, and\nhow the Steeds are devourers of human flesh.\n\n  _Herc._  A toil you tell of that well fits my fate,  {517}\n           My life of hardship, ever struggling upward.\n\nAdmetus now appears, in mourning garb: after first salutations between\nthe two friends, Hercules enquires what his trouble is, which gives\nscope for a favorite effect in Greek Drama--'dissimulation.'\n\n  _Herc._  Why are thy locks in sign of mourning shorn?  {530}\n  _Adm._   'Tis for one dead, whom I to-day must bury.\n  _Herc._  The Gods avert thy mourning for a child!\n  _Adm._   My children, what I had, live in my house.\n  _Herc._  Thy aged father, haply he is gone.\n  _Adm._   My father lives, and she that bore me lives.\n  _Herc._  Lies then thy wife Alcestis mongst the dead?\n  _Adm._   Of her I have in double wise to speak.\n  _Herc._  As of the living speakst thou, or the dead?\n  _Adm._   She is, and is no more: this grief afflicts me.\n  _Herc._  This gives no information: dark thy words.  {540}\n  _Adm._   Knowst thou not then the destiny assign'd her?\n  _Herc._  I know that she submits to die for thee.\n  _Adm._   To this assenting is she not no more?\n  _Herc._  Lament her not too soon: await the time.\n  _Adm._   She's dead: one soon to die is now no more.\n  _Herc._  It differs wide to be, and not to be.\n  _Adm._   Such are thy sentiments, far other mine.\n  _Herc._  But wherefore are thy tears?  What man is dead?\n  _Adm._   A woman: of a woman I made mention.\n  _Herc._  Of foreign birth, or one allied to thee?  {550}\n  _Adm._   Of foreign birth, but to my home most dear.\n\nHercules is moving away for the purpose of seeking hospitality\nelsewhere: Admetus will not hear of it, and, when Hercules loudly\nprotests, puts aside his opposition with the air of one whose authority\nin matters of hospitable rites is not to be disputed.  He orders\nattendants to conduct Hercules to a distant quarter of the Palace, to\nspread a sumptuous feast, and bar fast the doors, lest the voice of woe\nshould affect the feasting guest.  When Hercules is gone the _Chorus_\nare staggered by such a mastery of personal grief as this implies.  But\n_Admetus_ asks how could he let a guest depart from his house?\n\n              My affliction would not thus  {575}\n          Be less, but more unhospitable I.\n\nBut why, the _Chorus_ ask, conceal the truth?--His friend, answers\n_Admetus_, would never have entered, had he known.  Some may blame him,\nhe continues, but his house simply knows not how to do dishonor to a\nguest.--Admetus returns into the Palace, to his funeral preparations:\nthe _Chorus_ are moved to enthusiasm by this forgetfulness of self in\nhospitable devotion; their enthusiasm breaks out in an Ode celebrating\nthe glories of their king's hospitality in the past, and ending in a\ngleam of hope that it may yet do something for him in the future.  {588}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE III\n\n_Evolutions, etc., as usual._\n\n_Strophe I_\n\n          O liberal house! with princely state  {589}\n            To many a stranger, many a guest,\n          Oft hast thou oped thy friendly gate,\n            Oft spread the hospitable feast.\n          Beneath thy roof Apollo deign'd to dwell,\n            Here strung his silver-sounding shell,\n            And, mixing with thy menial train,\n          Deigned to be called the shepherd of the plain:\n            And as he drove his flocks along,\n            Whether the winding vale they rove,\n            Or linger in the upland grove,\n          He tuned the pastoral pipe, or rural song.\n\n_Antistrophe I_\n\n          Delighted with his tuneful lay,  {601}\n            No more the savage thirsts for blood;\n          Amidst the flocks, in harmless play,\n            Wantons the lynx's spotted brood;\n          Pleas'd from his lair on Othrys' rugged brow\n            The lion seeks the vale below:\n            Whilst to the lyre's melodious sound\n          The dappled hinds in sportive measures bound;\n            And as the vocal echo rings,\n            Lightly their nimble feet they ply,\n            Leaving their pine-clad forests high,\n          Charm'd by the sweet notes of his gladdening strings.\n\n_Strophe II_\n\n          Hence is thy house, Admetus, graced\n            With all that plenty's hand bestows;\n          Near the sweet-streaming current placed,\n            That from the lake of Boebia flows;\n          Far towards the shades of night thy wide domain,\n            Rich-pastured mead and cultured plain,\n            Extends, to those Molossian meads\n          Where the sun stations his unharnessed steeds;\n            And stretching towards his eastern ray,\n            Where Pelion, rising in his pride,\n            Frowns o'er th' Aegean's portless tide:\n          Reaches from sea to sea thy ample sway.\n\n_Antistrophe II_\n\n          And thou wilt ope thy gate e'en now,  {625}\n            E'en now wilt thou receive this guest;\n          Though from thine eye the warm tear flow,\n          Though sorrow rend thy suffering breast,\n          Sad tribute to thy wife, who, new in death,\n          Lamented lies thy roof beneath!\n          Nature in truth has thus decreed:\n          The pure soul must bear fruit of reverent deed.\n          Lo, all the pow'r of wisdom lies\n          Fix'd in the righteous bosom: hence\n          Rests in my soul this confidence--\n          The good shall yet safe from their trials rise.  {636}\n\nEPISODE III\n\n_The Central Gates open and the Funeral Procession slowly files out and\nbegins to fill the Stage_.  Admetus beside the bier of Alcestis is\ncalling on the Chorus (as representing the citizens of Pherae) to join\nin the invocations to the dead--when _suddenly another Procession\nappears on the Stage [entering by the Right Side-door, as from the\nimmediate neighborhood]: it is headed by the father and mother of\nAdmetus, both of whom have reached the furthest verge of old age, and\nwho with difficulty totter along, while attendants follow them bearing\nsumptuous drapery and other funeral gifts.  The scene settles down into\nthe 'Forensic Contest,' a fixed feature of every Greek Tragedy, in\nwhich the 'case' of the hero and the opposition to it are brought out\nwith all the formality of a judicial process, the long rheses\nrepresenting advocates' speeches, the stichomuthic dialogue suggesting\ncross-examination, and the Chorus interposing as moderators_.\n\n_Pheres_ in the tone of conventional consolation speaks of the virtues\nof the dead, and the special virtue of Alcestis's sacrifice, which has\nsaved her husband's life, and himself from a childless old age; it is\nmeet then that he should do honor to the corpse.  _Attendants of\nAdmetus advance to receive the presents: Admetus waves them back and\nstands coldly confronting his father.  At last he speaks._  His father\nis an uninvited guest at this funeral feast, and unwelcome: the dead\nshall never be arrayed in his gifts.  Then was the time for his father\nto show kindness when a life was demanded: and yet he could stand aloof\nand let a younger die!  He will never believe himself the son of so\nmean and abject a soul.\n\n          At such an age, just trembling on the verge  {677}\n          Of life, thou would'st not, nay, thou dared'st not die\n          For thine own son; but thou couldst suffer _her_,\n          Though sprung from foreign blood: with justice then\n          Her only as my father must I deem,\n          Her only as my mother.  Yet this course\n          Mightst thou have run with glory, for thy son\n          Daring to die; brief was the space of life\n          That could remain to thee: I then had lived\n          My destin'd time, she too had lived.\n\nYet Pheres had already had his share of all that makes life happy: a\nyouth amid royal luxury, a prosperous reign, a son to inherit his state\nand who ever did him honor.  But let him beget him new sons to cherish\nhis age and attend him in death: Admetus's hand shall never do such\noffices for him.  And this is all that comes of old age's longing for\ndeath: let death show itself, and the old complaints of life are all\nsilenced!\n\n  _Cho._  Forbear!  Enough the present weight of woe:  {710}\n          My son, exasperate not a father's mind.\n\nTo this long rhesis _Pheres_ answers in a set speech of similar length.\nIs he a slave to be so rated by his own son?  And for what?  He has\ngiven his son birth and nurture, he has already handed over to him a\nkingdom and will bequeath him yet more wide lands; all that fathers owe\nto sons he gives.  What new obligation is this for Greece to submit to,\nthat a father should die for his son?\n\n          It is a joy to thee   {730}\n          To view the light of heaven, and dost thou think\n          Thy father joys not in it?  Long I deem\n          Our time in death's dark regions: short the space\n          Of life, yet sweet!  So thought thy coward heart\n          And struggled not to die: and thou dost live,\n          Passing the bounds of life assign'd by fate,\n          By killing _her_!  My mean and abject spirit\n          Dost thou rebuke, O timidest of all,\n          Vanquish'd e'en by a woman, her who gave\n          For thee, her young fair husband, her own life!  {740}\n          A fine device that thou mightst never die,\n          Couldst thou persuade--who at the time might be\n          Thy wife--to die for thee!\n\nIf such a man takes to heaping reproaches on his own kin he shall at\nleast hear the truth told him to his face!\n\n  _Cho._  Too much of ill already hath been spoken:  {750}\n          Forbear, old man, nor thus revile thy son.\n\n_Admetus_ says if his father does not like to hear the truth he should\nnot have done the wrong.\n\n  _Pher._  Had I died for thee, greater were the wrong.\n  _Adm._   Is death alike then to the young and old?\n  _Pher._  Man's due is one life, not to borrow more.\n  _Adm._   Thine drag thou on and out-tire heaven's age!\n  _Pher._  Darest thou to curse thy parents, nothing wrong'd?\n  _Adm._   Parents in dotage lusting still to live!  {760}\n  _Pher._  And thou--what else but life with this corpse buyest?\n  _Adm._   This corpse--the symbol of thy infamy!\n  _Pher._  For us she died not; that thou canst not say!\n  _Adm._   Ah! mayst thou some time come to need my aid!\n  _Pher._  Wed many wives that more may die for thee!\n  _Adm._   On thee rests this reproach--thou daredst not die!\n  _Pher._  Sweet is this light of heav'n! sweet is this light!\n  _Adm._   Base is thy thought, unworthy of a man!\n  _Pher._  The triumph is not thine to entomb my age.\n  _Adm._   Die when thou wilt, inglorious wilt thou die.  {770}\n  _Pher._  Thy ill report will not affect me dead.\n  _Adm._   Alas, that age should outlive sense of shame!\n  _Pher._  But lack of age's wisdom slew _her_ youth.\n  _Adm._   Begone, and suffer me to entomb my dead.\n  _Pher._  I go: no fitter burier than thyself\n           Her murderer!  Look for reckoning from her friends:\n           Acastus is no man, if his hand fails\n           Dearly to avenge on thee his sister's blood.\n  _Adm._   Why, get you gone, thou and thy worthy wife:\n           Grow old in consort--that is now your lot--\n           The childless parents of a living son:\n           For never more under one common roof\n           Come you and I together: had it needed,\n           By herald I your hearth would have renounced.\n\n_Pheres and his train withdraw along the Stage [to the Right\nSide-door].  The interrupted Funeral Procession is continued, filing\namidst lamentations of the Chorus, down the steps from the Stage into\nthe Orchestra: there the Chorus join it and the whole passes out [by\nthe Right Archway] to the royal sepulchre in the neighbourhood._\n\n_Stage and Orchestra both vacant for a while._\n\nSTAGE EPISODE[2]\n\n_Enter the Stage [by one of the Inferior Doors of the Palace] the\nSteward of Admetus_: he has stolen away to get a moment's respite from\nthe hateful hilarity of this strange visitor--some ruffian or robber he\nsupposes--on whom his office has condemned him to wait, and thereby to\nmiss paying the last offices to a mistress who has been more like a\nmother to him.  The guest has been willing to enter, and though he saw\nthe mourning of the household, he did not allow it to make any\ndifference to his mirth:\n\n                      Grasping in his hands  {804}\n          A goblet wreath'd with ivy, fill'd it high\n          With the grape's purple juice, and quaff'd it off\n          Untemper'd, till the glowing wine inflamed him;\n          Then binding round his head a myrtle wreath,\n          Howls dismal discord:--two unpleasing strains\n          We heard, his harsh notes who in nought revered\n          Th' afflictions of Admetus, and the voice\n          Of sorrow through the family that wept\n          Our mistress.  Yet our tearful eyes we showed not,\n          Admetus so commanded, to the guest.  {814}\n\nHe starts as he feels on his shoulder the huge hand of _Hercules_, who\nhas followed him, and _now appears on the Stage goblet in hand,\nwreathed and attired like a reveller in full revel_.  Hercules\ngood-humouredly scolds him for letting a remote family bereavement\nhinder him from showing a sociable countenance to his lord's guest.  He\nlectures him on the easy ethics of the banquet-hour:\n\n          Come hither, that thou mayst be wiser, friend:  {832}\n          Knowst thou the nature of all mortal things?\n          Not thou, I ween: how shouldst thou? hear from me.\n          By all of human race death is a debt\n          That must be paid; and none of mortal men\n          Knows whether till to-morrow life's short space\n          Shall be extended: such the dark events\n          Of fortune, never to lie learn'd or traced\n          By any skill.  Instructed thus by me  {840}\n          Bid pleasure welcome, drink; the life allow'd\n          From day to day esteem thine own; all else\n          Fortune's.\n\nThe Steward receives his lecture with a bad grace: he knows all\nthat--but there is a time for all things.  His manner raises Hercules'\nsuspicions that Admetus has been keeping something back:\n\n  _Herc._  Is it some sorrow which he told not me?  {866}\n  _Stew._  Go thou with joy: ours are our lord's afflictions.\n  _Herc._  These are not words that speak a foreign loss.\n  _Stew._  If such, thy revelry had not displeased me.\n\nThe secret is not long kept against the questioning of Hercules.  When\nthe truth comes out Hercules drops the goblet: he might have known all\nfrom so grief-worn a face!  All the lightness of the reveller\ndisappears, and the godlike bearing returns to Hercules' figure as he\ncatches the full dignity of his friend's hospitable feat: he is fired\nto essay a rival deed of nobility.\n\n          Now, my firm heart, and thou, my daring soul,  {894}\n          Show what a son the daughter of Electryon,\n          Alcmena of Tirynthia, bore to Jove!\n          This lady, new in death, behoves me save,\n          And, to Admetus rendering grateful service,\n          Restore his lost Alcestis to his house.\n          This sable-vested tyrant of the dead\n          Mine eye shall watch, not without hope to find him\n          Drinking th' oblations nigh the tomb.  If once\n          Seen from my secret stand I rush upon him,\n          These arms shall grasp him till his panting sides\n          Labour for breath; and who shall force him from me\n          Till he gives back this woman?  {906}\n\nIf he fails to find Death elsewhere he will descend to the dark world\nof spirits itself, rather than fail in making a fit return to his\nfriend:\n\n                    Whose hospitable heart  {913}\n          Receiv'd me in his house, nor made excuse\n          Though pierc'd with such a grief; this he conceal'd\n          Through generous thought, and reverence to his friend.\n          Who in Thessalia bears a warmer love\n          To strangers?  Who, through all the realms of Greece?\n          It never shall be said this noble man\n          Received in me a base and worthless wretch!\n\n_Exit [through the Stage Right Side-door] in the direction of the tomb._\n\n_Stage and Orchestra vacant for a while._\n\nEPISODE V\n\n_Return of the Funeral Procession, headed by the Chorus who remain in\nthe Orchestra; the rest file up the steps onto the stage, Admetus last.\nThe Episode is technically a 'Dirge' between Admetus, whose speeches\nfall into the rhythm of a Funeral March, and the Chorus, who speak in\nStrophes and Antistrophes of more elaborate lyric rhythm, often\ninterrupted by the wails of Admetus._\n\n_Admetus reaching the top of the Steps from the Orchestra stands face\nto face with the splendid facade of his Palace_.  Hateful entrance,\nhateful aspect of a widowed home!  How find rest there, in the heavy\nwoes to which he is now doomed?  It is with the dead that rest is\nfound: his heart is in their dark houses, where he has placed a loved\nhostage torn from him by fate!  {931}\n\n_Chorus_ [_in Strophe_].  Nevertheless he must go forward; he must hide\nhim in the deepest recesses of his Palace with his grief, the helpless\ngroans that yet will nothing aid her whom he will never see more!  {938}\n\n_Admetus_ cries that that is the deepest wound of all!  Would he had\nnever wedded!  To mourn single is pain endurable; to see children\nwasting with disease, to see death invading the nuptial bed--that is\nthe pang unbearable!  {950}\n\n_Chorus_ [_in Antistrophe_].  Fate is resistless: shall sorrow then\nhave no bounds?  Other men have known what it is to lose a wife: and in\none or other of innumerable forms misery has found out every son of\nmortality.  {956}\n\n_Admetus_ begins to speak of the life-long mourning for the lost--but\nthe thought is too much for him; why did they hold him back when he\nwould have cast himself into the gaping tomb, and gone the last journey\nwith his love?  {963}\n\n_The Chorus_ [_in Strophe_] think of one they knew who lost a son in\nthe flower of his age, an only son and well worthy of tears: yet he\nbore his lonely burden like a man, and--courage! his hair is white and\nhe is nearing the end.  {969}\n\n_Admetus moves a few steps forward and the Procession, advances towards\nthe portal_: but the contrast catches his thought between this and\nanother procession towards the same threshold, when, amidst blazing\ntorches of Pelian pine and bridal dances, he led his new wife by the\nhand, and shouts wished their union happy.  Now wails for shouts, black\nfor glistening raiment, and before him the solitary chamber!  {983}\n\n_Chorus_ [_in Antistrophe_].  Trouble has come upon their master all at\nonce, in the midst of prosperity, and on one unschooled in misfortune.\nBut if the wife is gone the love is left.  Many have had Admetus's\nloss: but his gain let him remember: a rescued life.  {988}\n\nAs if this jarred upon his mind, _Admetus_ turns round and addresses\nthe Chorus, his whole tone changed [_the dirge measures giving place to\nblank verse_].\n\n  _Adm._  My friends, I deem the fortune of my wife\n          Happier than mine, though otherwise it seems.  {990}\n          For nevermore shall sorrow touch her breast,\n          And she with glory rests from various ills.\n          But I, who ought not live, my destined hour\n          O'erpassing, shall drag on a mournful life,\n          Late taught what sorrow is.  How shall I bear\n          To enter here?  To whom shall I address\n          My speech?  Whose greeting renders my return\n          Delightful?  Which way shall I turn?  Within\n          In lonely sorrow shall I waste away,\n          As, widowed of my wife, I see my couch,  {1000}\n          The seats deserted where she sat, the rooms\n          Wanting her elegance.  Around my knees\n          My children hang, and weep their mother lost:\n          The household servants for their mistress sigh.\n          This is the scene of misery in my home:\n          Abroad the nuptials of Thessalia's youth\n          And the bright circles of assembled dames\n          Will but augment my grief: how shall I bear\n          To see the lov'd companions of my wife!\n          And if one hates me, he will say: Behold  {1010}\n          The man who basely lives, who dared not die,\n          But giving, through the meanness of his soul,\n          His wife, avoided death--yet would be deem'd\n          A man: he hates his parents, yet himself\n          Had not the spirit to die.  These ill reports\n          Cleave to me: why then wish for longer life,\n          On evil tongues thus fallen, and evil days!\n\n_Admetus sinks down on the threshold and buries his face in his robe.\nThe Chorus gather up the feeling of the situation in a full Choral Ode,\ncelebrating the natural topics of consolation; the stern laws of\nNecessity, the fair memory of the dead._\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE IV\n\n_Strophe I_\n\n            My venturous foot delights  {1018}\n          To tread the Muses' arduous heights;\n          Their hallow'd haunts I love t' explore,\n            And listen to their lore:\n          Yet never could my searching mind\n        Aught, like Necessity, resistless find.\n          No herb of sovereign pow'r to save,\n          Whose virtues Orpheus joy'd to trace,\n          And wrote them in the rolls of Thrace;\n            Nor all that Phoebus gave,\n          Instructing the Asclepian train,\n        When various ills the human frame assail,\n          To heal the wound, to soothe the pain,\n          'Gainst Her stern force avail.\n\n_Antistrophe I_\n\n            Of all the Pow'rs Divine  {1032}\n          Alone none dares t' approach Her shrine;\n          To Her no hallow'd image stands,\n            No altar She commands.\n          In vain the victim's blood would flow,\n        She never deigns to hear the suppliant's vow.\n          Never to me mayst Thou appear,\n          Dread Goddess, with severer mien\n          Than oft in life's past tranquil scene\n            Thou hast been known to wear.\n          By Thee Jove works his stern behest:\n        Thy force subdues e'en Scythia's stubborn steel;\n          Nor ever does Thy rugged breast\n            The touch of pity feel.\n\n_Strophe II_\n\n            And now, with ruin pleas'd,  {1046}\n          On thee, O King, her hands have seiz'd,\n          And bound thee in her iron chain:\n            Yet her fell force sustain.\n          For from the gloomy realms of night\n        No tears recall the dead to life's sweet light.\n          No virtue, though to heav'n allied,\n          Saves from the inevitable doom:\n          Heroes and sons of gods have died,\n            And sunk into the tomb.\n          Dear, whilst our eyes her presence blest,\n        Dear, in the gloomy mansions of the dead:\n          Most generous she, the noblest, best,\n            Who graced thy nuptial bed.\n\n_Antistrophe II_\n\n            Thy wife's sepulchral mound   {1060}\n          Deem not as common, worthless ground\n          That swells their breathless bodies o'er\n            Who die, and no are more.\n          No, be it honor'd as a shrine;\n        Raised high, and hallow'd to some Pow'r Divine:\n          The traveller, as he passes by,\n          Shall thither bend his devious way,\n          With reverence gaze, and with a sigh,\n            Smite on his breast, and say:\n          \"She died of old to save her lord;\n        Now blest among the blest; Hail, Pow'r revered,\n          To us thy wonted grace afford!\"\n            Such vows shall be preferred.\n\nEXODUS, OR FINALE\n\n_Re-enter Hercules, leading a veiled woman_\n\n  _Herc._  I would speak freely to my friend, Admetus,\n           Nor what I blame keep secret in my breast.\n           I came to thee amidst thy ills, and thought\n           I had been worthy to be proved thy friend.\n           Thou told'st me not the obsequies prepared  {1080}\n           Were for thy wife; but in thy house receiv'dst me\n           As if thou griev'dst for one of foreign birth.\n           I bound my head with garlands, to the gods\n           Pouring libations in thy house with grief\n           Oppress'd.  I blame this: yes, in such a state\n           I blame this: yet I come not in thine ills\n           To give thee pain; why I return in brief\n           Will I unfold.  This woman from my hands\n           Receive to thy protection, till return'd\n           I bring the Thracian steeds, having there slain  {1090}\n           The proud Bistorian tyrant; should I fail--\n           Be that mischance not mine, for much I wish\n           Safe to revisit thee--yet should I fail,\n           I give her to the safeguard of thy house.\n           For with much toil she came unto my hands.\n           To such as dare contend some public games,\n           Which well deserv'd my toil, I find propos'd;\n           I bring her thence, she is the prize of conquest:\n           For slight assays each victor led away\n           A courser; but for those of harder proof  {1100}\n           The conqueror was rewarded from the herd,\n           And with some female graced; victorious there,\n           A prize so noble it were base to slight.\n           Take her to thy protection, not by stealth\n           Obtain'd, but the reward of many toils:\n           The time, perchance, may come when thou will thank me.\n  _Adm._   Not that I slight thy friendship, or esteem thee\n           Other than noble, wished I to conceal\n           My wife's unhappy fate; but to my grief\n           It had been added grief, if thou had'st sought\n           Elsewhere the rites of hospitality;\n           Suffice it that I mourn ills which are mine.\n           This woman, if it may be, give in charge,\n           I beg thee, king, to some Thessalian else,\n           That hath not cause like me to grieve; in Pherae\n           Thou may'st find many friends; call not my woes\n           Fresh to my memory; never in my house\n           Could I behold her, but my tears would flow:\n           To sorrow add not sorrow; now enough\n           I sink beneath its weight.  Where should her youth\n           With me be guarded? for her gorgeous vests\n           Proclaim her young; if mixing with the men\n           She dwell beneath my roof, how shall her fame,\n           Conversing with the youths, be kept unsullied?\n           It is not easy to restrain the warmth\n           Of that intemperate age; my care for thee\n           Warns me of this.  Or if from them remov'd\n           I hide her in th' apartments late my wife's,\n           How to my bed admit her?  I should fear\n           A double blame: my citizens would scorn me\n           As light and faithless to the kindest wife\n           That died for me, if to her bed I took\n           Another blooming bride; and to the dead\n           Behoves me pay the highest reverence\n           Due to her merit.  And thou, lady, know,\n           Whoe'er thou art, that form, that shape, that air\n           Resembles my Alcestis!  By the Gods,\n           Remove her from my sight! it is too much,\n           I cannot bear it; when I look on her,\n           Methinks I see my wife; this wounds my heart\n           And calls the tears fresh gushing from my eyes.\n           This is the bitterness of grief indeed!\n  _Chor._  I cannot praise thy fortune; but behoves thee\n           To bear with firmness what the gods assign.\n  _Herc._  O that from Jove I had the pow'r to bring\n           Back from the mansions of the dead thy wife\n           To heav'n's fair light, that grace achieving for thee!\n  _Adm._   I know thy friendly will; but how can this\n           Be done?  The dead return not to this light.\n  _Herc._  Check then thy swelling griefs; with reason rule them.\n  _Adm._   How easy to advise, but hard to bear!\n  _Herc._  What should it profit should'st thou always groan?\n  _Adm._   I know it; but I am in love with grief.\n  _Herc._  Love to the dead calls forth the ceaseless tear.\n  _Adm._   O, I am wretched more than words can speak.\n  _Herc._  A good wife hast thou lost, who can gainsay it?\n  _Adm._   Never can life be pleasant to me more.\n  _Herc._  Thy sorrow now is new; time will abate it.\n  _Adm._   Time say'st thou?  Yes, the time that brings me death.\n  _Herc._  Some young and lovely bride will bid it cease.\n  _Adm._   No more: What say'st thou?  Never could I think--\n  _Herc._  Will thou still lead a lonely widow'd life?\n  _Adm._   Never shall other women share my bed.\n  _Herc._  And think'st thou this will aught avail the dead?\n  _Adm._   This honor is her due, where'er she be.\n  _Herc._  This hath my praise, though near allied to frenzy.\n  _Adm._   Praise me or not, I ne'er will wed again.\n  _Herc._  I praise thee that thou'rt faithful to thy wife.\n  _Adm._   Though dead, if I betray her, may I die!\n  _Herc._  Well, take this noble lady to thy house.  {1170}\n  _Adm._   No, by thy father Jove, let me entreat thee.\n  _Herc._  Not to do this would be the greatest wrong.\n  _Adm._   To do it would with anguish rend my heart.\n  _Herc._  Let me prevail; this grace may find its meed.\n  _Adm._   O that thou never had'st receiv'd this prize!\n  _Herc._  Yet in my victory thou art victor with me.\n  _Adm._   'Tis nobly said: yet let this woman go.\n  _Herc._  If she must go, she shall! but must she go?\n  _Adm._   She must, if I incur not thy displeasure.\n  _Herc._  There is a cause that prompts my earnestness.  {1180}\n  _Adm._   Thou hast prevailed, but much against my will.\n  _Herc._  The time will come when thou wilt thank me for it.\n  _Adm._   Well, if I must receive her, lead her in.\n  _Herc._  Charge servants with her!  No, that must not be.\n  _Adm._   Lead her thyself, then, if thy will incline thee.\n  _Herc._  No, to thy hand alone will I commit her.\n  _Adm._   I touch her not; but she hath leave to enter.\n  _Herc._  I shall entrust her only to thy hand.\n  _Adm._   Thou dost constrain me, king, against my will.\n  _Herc._  Venture to stretch thy hand, and touch the stranger's.  {1190}\n  _Adm._   I touch her, as I would the headless Gorgon.\n  _Herc._  Hast thou her hand?\n  _Adm._                 I have.\n  _Herc._                (_lifting the veil_) Then hold her safe.\n           Hereafter thou wilt say the son of Jove\n           Hath been a generous guest; view now her face,\n           See if she bears resemblance to thy wife,\n           And thus made happy bid farewell to grief.\n  _Adm._   O, Gods, what shall I say?  'Tis marvelous,\n           Exceeding hope.  See I my wife indeed?\n           Or doth some god distract me with false joy?\n  _Herc._  In very deed dost thou behold thy wife.  {1200}\n  _Adm._   See that it be no phantom from beneath.\n  _Herc._  Make not thy friend one that evokes the shades.\n  _Adm._   And do I see my wife, whom I entomb'd?\n  _Herc._  I marvel not that thou art diffident.\n  _Adm._   I touch her; may I speak to her as living?\n  _Herc._  Speak to her: thou hast all thy heart could wish.\n  _Adm._   Dearest of women, do I see again\n           That face, that person?  This exceeds all hope;\n           I never thought that I should see thee more.\n  _Herc._  Thou hast her; may no God be envious of thee.  {1210}\n  _Adm._   O be thou blest, thou generous son of Jove!\n           Thy father's might protect thee!  Thou alone\n           Hast rais'd her to me; from the realms below\n           How hast thou brought her to the light of life?\n  _Herc._  I fought with him that lords it o'er the shades.\n  _Adm._   Where with the gloomy tyrant didst thou fight?\n  _Herc._  I lay in wait and seized him at the tomb.\n  _Adm._   But wherefore doth my wife thus speechless stand?\n  _Herc._  It is not yet permitted[3] that thou hear\n           Her voice addressing thee, till from the Gods  {1220}\n           That rule beneath she be unsanctified\n           With hallow'd rites, and the third morn return.\n           But lead her in; and as thou'rt just in all\n           Besides, Admetus, see thou reverence strangers.\n           Farewell: I go t' achieve the destined toil\n           For the imperial son of Sthenelus.\n  _Adm._   Abide with us, and share my friendly hearth.\n  _Herc._  That time will come again; this demands speed.\n  _Adm._   Success attend thee: safe may'st thou return.\n           Now to my citizens I give in charge,  {1230}\n           And to each chief, that for this blest event\n           They institute the dance; let the steer bleed,\n           And the rich altars, as they pay their vows,\n           Breathe incense to the gods; for now I rise\n           To better life, and grateful own the blessing.\n\nTHE CHORUS, RETIRING:\n\n           Our fates the Gods in various shapes dispose:  {1236}\n           Heaven sets the crown on many a hopeless cause:\n                    That which is looked for\n                    Fails in the issue.\n                    To goals unexpected\n                    Heav'n points out a passage.\n               And this is the end of the matter.\n\n\n\n\n[1] The quotations are from Potter's Translation, in Routledge's\nUniversal Library, freely altered in parts for the purpose of bringing\nout changes of metre, etc., in the original.  The References are to the\nnumbering of the lines in Potter.\n\n[2] That is, a scene carried on upon the Stage without the presence of\nthe Chorus in the Orchestra,--a very rare effect in Greek Drama.\n\n[3] The fact was that the _Alcestis_ was represented in place of a\n'Satyric Drama,' which only allowed two (speaking) personages on the\nStage at the same time.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CYCLOPS OF EURIPIDES\n\nA SPECIMEN OF THE SATYRIC DRAMA\n\n\n_Scene_: Sicily, in front of cave of the Cyclops, Polyphemus.\n\n_Prologue_ by Silenus, the rural demi-god, who recounts his faithful\nservice to Bacchus, and yet the ungrateful god has let himself and his\nchildren fall into this slavery to the horrid Cyclops Polyphemus,\nwhere, worst of their many woes, they are debarred from the wine they\nworship.\n\n_Parode_: The Chorus of Satyrs driving their goats and lamenting how\ndifferent this from the merry service of Bacchus.\n\n_Episode I_.  Silenus hurries back with the news that a ship is\napproaching to water in the island: fresh victims for the monster.\n_Enter Ulysses and crew_: mutual explanations, all couched in\n'burlesque' tone.  The mariners have had no food except flesh, and\ngladly partake milk and fruits of the Satyrs, affording in return to\nSilenus the long-lost luxury of wine: the scene then going on to paint\n[with the utmost coarseness] the oncoming of drunkenness.\n\nSuddenly _enter Polyphemus_: Ulysses and the crew hide.  After some\nrough bandying between the Monster and the Chorus, the strangers are\ndiscovered: and Silenus, to save himself, turns traitor, and tells\nPolyphemus how they have beaten him because he would not let them\nsteal, also what dire woes they were going to work upon Polyphemus.  In\nspite of their protests Silenus is believed: Ulysses promises, if set\nfree, to erect shrines in Greece for the Cyclops, besides dwelling upon\nthe impiety of attacking innocent strangers: Polyphemus replies that he\ndoes not care for shrines, and as for impiety he is independent of\nZeus; which gives occasion for a glorification of the life of nature.\nThey are driven into the cave to be fed on at leisure.\n\n_Choral Ode_: General disgust at the monster.\n\n_Episode II_.  Ulysses [_apparently standing at the mouth of the cave_]\ndescribes Polyphemus gorging--then details his plan of deliverance by\naid of the wine.\n\n_Choral Ode_: Lyric delight of Chorus at prospect of deliverance.\n\n_Episode III_.  The Cyclops appears sated with his banquet, and\nsettling down to this new treat of drinking--the effects of on-coming\nintoxication are painted again in Polyphemus, with the usual\ncoarseness--a farcical climax being reached when the monster begins to\nbe affectionate to his cup-bearer, old Silenus, in memory of Zeus and\nhis famous cup-bearer, Ganymede.\n\n_Choral Ode_: Anticipation of Revenge.\n\n_Exodus_.  The plan of Revenge, the boring out of the Cyclops's one eye\nwhile overpowered with drink, is carried out--various farcical effects\nby the way, e.g., the Chorus drawing back with excuses and leaving\nUlysses to do the deed at the critical moment.  The Drama ends with the\nMonster's rage and vain attempts to catch the culprit, Ulysses putting\nhim off with his feigned name 'No man': thus all are delivered.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BACCHANALS OF EURIPIDES[1]\n\nPROLOGUE\n\n_The permanent scene covered by movable scenery representing a wide\nlandscape--the valley of the Dirce.  A pile of buildings occupies the\nmiddle, to which the central entrance is an approach: these are the\nCadmeia and royal palaces.  That on the left is the palace of Pentheus,\nand further to the left is the mystic scene of Bacchus's birth--a heap\nof ruins, still miraculously smouldering, and covered by trailing\nvines.  On the right is the palace of Cadmus, and the scene extends to\ntake in the Electron gate of Thebes, and (on the right turn-scene) the\nslopes of Cithaeron._\n\nDIONYSUS enters, in mortal guise, through the distance archway, and (in\nformal prologue) opens the situation.  He brings out the points of the\nlandscape before him, dear as the site of his miraculous birth and the\nsad end of his mortal mother.  Then he details the Asiatic realms\nthrough which he has made triumphant progress, Lydia, Phrygia,\nsun-seared Persia, Bactria; the wild, wintry Median land; Araby the\nBlest, and the cities by the sea; everywhere his orgies accepted and\nhis godhead received.  Now for the first time he has reached an\nHellenic city: and here--where least it should have been--his divinity\nis questioned by his own mother's sisters who make the story of his\nbirth a false rumor, devised to cover Semele's shame, and avenged by\nthe lightning flash which destroyed her.  To punish his unnatural kin\nhe has infected all their womenkind with his sacred phrensy, and\nmaddened out of their quiet life, they are now on the revel under the\npale pines of the mountain, unseemly mingled with the sons of Thebes:\nso shall the recusant city learn her guilt, and make atonement to him\nand his mother.  Pentheus, it seems, is the main foe of his godhead,\nwho reigns as king over Thebes, the aged Cadmus having yielded the\nsovereignty in his lifetime to his sister's son: he repels Bacchus from\nthe sacred libations, nor names him in prayer.  So he and Thebes must\nlearn a dread lesson, and then away to make revelation in other lands.\nAs to force, if attempt is made to drive the Maenads from the\nmountains, Bacchus himself will mingle in the war, and for this he has\nassumed mortal shape.\n\nHe calls upon his 'Thyasus of women,' fellow-pilgrims from the lands\nbeyond the sea, to beat their Phrygian drums in noisy ritual about the\npalace of Pentheus till all Thebes shall flock to hear; he goes to join\nhis worshippers on Cithaeron.  {70}\n\nPARODE, OR CHORUS-ENTRY\n\n_The Chorus enter the orchestra, Asiatic women in wild attire of\nBacchic rites, especially the motley (dappled fawnskin) always\nassociated with abandon: they move with wild gestures and dances\nassociated with Asiatic rituals._\n\nThe wild ode resumes the joyous dance that has made their whole way\nfrom Asia one long sacred revel--\n\n          Toilless toil and labour sweet.\n\nBlest above all men he who hallows his life in such mystic rites, and,\npurified with holiest waters, goes dancing with the worshippers of\nBacchus, and of thee, mighty Mother Cybele, shaking his thyrsus, and\nall his locks crowned with ivy.  Bacchus's birth is sung, and how from\nthe flashing lightning Jove snatched him and preserved in his thigh,\nuntil at the fated hour he gave him to light, horned and crowned with\nserpents.  Wherefore should Thebes, sacred scene of the miracle, be one\nblossom of revellers, clad in motley and waving the thyrsus, the whole\nland maddening with the dance.  The Chorus think of the first origin of\nsuch noisy joys, when the wild ones of Crete beat their cymbals round\nthe sunless caverns where the infant Jove was hidden, and these rites\nof Rhoea soon mingled for the frantic Satyrs with the third year's\ndances to Bacchus.  Then the ode recurs to the bliss of such holy\nrites, luxurious interchange of wild energy and delicious repose.  They\nlong for the climax of the dance, when, with luxuriant hair all\nfloating, they can rage and madden to the clash of heavy cymbals and\nthe shout Evoe, Evoe, frisking like colts to the soft breathing of the\nholy pipe, while the mountain echoes beneath their boundings.  {178}\n\nEPISODE I\n\nThe blind prophet Teiresias enters from Thebes, and is soon joined by\nCadmus from the palace.  Old as they are they have put on the livery of\nthe god, and will join in the dance, for which supernatural strength\nwill be given: they alone of the city are wise.\n\n          The ancestral faith, coeval with our race,\n          No subtle reasoning, if it soar aloft\n          Ev'n to the height of wisdom, can o'erthrow.\n\nThey are stopped by the entrance of Pentheus, as from a far journey.\nHis opening words betray his anxiety as to the scandal in his\nrealm--the young women of his family, even his mother Agave, all gone\nto join the impious revels.\n\n          In pretext, holy sacrificing Maenads,\n          But serving Aphrodite more than Bacchus.\n\nSome he has imprisoned, the rest he will hunt from the mountains, and\nput an end to the joyous movements of this fair stranger with golden\nlocks, who has come to guide their maidens to soft inebriate rites.\nSuddenly he sees his hero ancestor and the prophet in Bacchic attire.\nBitter reproaches follow; the scene soon settling down into the\nforensic contest.  Teiresias elaborately puts the case for the god.\nMan has two primal needs: one is the solid food of the boon mother, the\nother has been discovered by the son of their Semele--the rich grape's\njuice: this beguiles the miserable of their sorrow, this gives\nall-healing sleep.  The author of such blessings is recognized in\nheaven as a god: yet Pentheus puts scorn upon him by the story of the\nbabe hidden in Jove's thigh.  [This is explained away by a play upon\nwords, as between _ho meeros_, thigh, and _homeeros_, a hostage: Jove\nhid the infant god in a cleft of air, a hostage from the wrath of\nHere.]  Prophecy is ascribed to the wine-god, for phrensy is prophetic;\nand he is an ally in war, sending panic on the foe ere lance crosses\nlance.  He will soon be a god celebrated through all Greece and hold\ntorchdance on the crags of Delphi.  Let Thebes take her place among the\nworshippers, fearing nought for the purity of its daughters, who will\nbe no less holy in the revel than at home.--The Chorus approve, and\nCadmus follows on the same side, urging policy: a splendid falsehood\nmaking Semele the mother of a god will advance their household.\nPentheus shakes off Cadmus's clasp in disgust: bids some of his\nservants go and overturn the prophet's place of divination, and others\nseek out the stranger who leads the rebels.  Exit to the palace, while\nTeiresias and Cadmus depart, in horror at his impiety, in the direction\nof Cithaeron.  {379}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE I\n\nShocked at such defiance of heaven the Chorus invoke Sanctity, crowned\nas goddess in the nether world, to hear the awful words of Pentheus,\nuttered against the immortal son of Semele, first and best of gods,\nruler of the flower-crowned feast, and the dance's jocund strife, and\nthe laughter, and the sparkling wine-cup, and the sweet sleep that\nfollows the festival.  Sorrow closes the lot of such aweless, unbridled\nmadness: stability is for the calmly reverent life, knitting whole\nhouses in sweet domestic harmony.  Clasp the present of brief life: no\ngrasping after a bright future with far-fetched wisdom.  Oh, for the\nlands where the graces and sweet desire have their haunts, and young\nloves soothe the heart with tender guile: fit regions for the\nBacchanals, whose joy is Peace--wealth-giver to rich and poor.  Away\nwith stern austerity: hail the homely wisdom of the multitude.  {439}\n\nEPISODE II\n\nAn officer brings in Dionysus as prisoner; he has yielded himself\nwithout resistance, while as for the imprisoned worshippers their\nchains have fallen off spontaneous, and they are away to the revels on\nthe mountains.  In long-drawn parallel dialogue Pentheus questions the\nStranger--struck with his beauty though he be.  Dionysus calmly answers\nto every point, but allows the orgies are secret and must not be\nrevealed to the uninitiated.  The King threatens in vain.\n\n  _Pen._  First I will clip away those soft bright locks.\n  _Dio._  My locks are holy, dedicate to my god.\n  _Pen._  Next, give thou me that thyrsus in thy hand.\n  _Dio._  Take it thyself; 'tis Dionysus' wand.\n  _Pen._  I'll bind thy body in strong iron chains.\n  _Dio._  My god himself will loose them when he will.\n  _Pen._  When thou invok'st him 'mid thy Bacchanals.\n  _Dio._  Even now he is present, he beholds me now.\n  _Pen._  Where is he then? mine eyes perceive him not.\n  _Dio._  Near me: the impious eyes may not discern him.\n\nThe king relies on his superior strength.\n\n  _Dio._  Thou knowest not where thou art or what thou art.\n  _Pen._  Pentheus, Agave's son, my sire Echion.\n  _Dio._  Thou hast a name whose very sound is woe.\n\nDionysus is removed a prisoner to the palace of Pentheus, while the\nlatter retires to prepare measures against the Maenads.\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE II\n\nThe Chorus, addressing the landscape before them, expostulate with the\nsacred stream in which the infant god was dipped for not accepting the\ndivinity whose mystic name is 'Twice-born.'  They call upon Dionysus to\nsee them from Olympus, his rapt prophets at strife with dark necessity,\nand, golden wand in hand, to come to their rescue against the threats\nof the proud dragon-brood.  They are wondering what fair land of song\nmay be holding their sacred leader, when cries from within put an end\nto the ode.  {582}\n\nEPISODE III\n\nIn wild lyric snatches shouts are interchanged between Dionysus within\nand groups of the disordered Chorus, bringing out the tumultuous\nscene--the earth rocking beneath them, sounds of crashing masonry,\ncapitals of pillars hurled through the air; then _by the machinery of\nthe hemicyclium the whole scene left of the center disappears and is\nreplaced by a tableau representing Pentheus' palace in ruins, and the\nsmouldering tomb of Semele surmounted by bright flame.  From the ruins\nsteps Dionysus, unharmed and free, the metre breaking into accelerated\nrhythm_.  {613}\n\n  _Dio._   O, ye Barbarian women.  Thus prostrate in dismay;\n           Upon the earth ye've fallen!  See ye not as ye may,\n           How Bacchus Pentheus' palace In wrath hath shaken down?\n           Rise up! rise up! take courage--Shake off that trembling swoon.\n  _Chor._  O light that goodliest shinest Over our mystic rite,\n           In state forlorn we saw thee--Saw with what deep affright!\n  _Dio._   How to despair ye yielded As I boldly entered in\n           To Pentheus, as if captured, into that fatal gin.\n  _Chor._  How could I less?  Who guards us If thou shouldst come to woe?\n           But how wast thou delivered From thy ungodly foe?\n  _Dio._   Myself myself delivered With ease and effort slight.\n  _Chor._  Thy hands had he not bound them In halters strong and tight?\n  _Dio._   'Twas even then I mocked him: He thought me in his chain;\n           He touched me not nor reached me; His idle thoughts were vain!\n           In the stable stood a heifer Where he thought he had me bound;\n           Round the beast's knees his cords And cloven hoofs he wound,\n           Wrath-breathing, from his body The sweat fell like a flood,\n           He bit his lips in fury, While I beside who stood\n           Looked on in unmoved quiet.\n                                 As at that instant come,\n           Shook Bacchus the strong palace, And on his mother's tomb\n           Flames kindled.  When he saw it, on fire the palace deeming,\n           Hither he rushed and thither.  For 'Water, water,' screaming;\n           And every slave 'gan labor, But labored all in vain,\n           The toil he soon abandoned.  As though I had fled amain\n           He rushed into the palace: In his hand the dark sword gleamed.\n           Then as it seemed, great Bromius--I say but, as it seemed--\n           In the hall a bright light kindled.  On that\n                    he rushed, and there,\n           As slaying me in vengeance, Stood stabbing the thin air.\n           But then the avenging Bacchus Wrought new calamities;\n           From roof to base that palace In smouldering ruin lies.\n           Bitter ruing our imprisonment, With toil forespent he threw\n           On earth his useless weapon.  Mortal, he had dared to do\n           'Gainst a god unholy battle.  But I, in quiet state,\n           Unheeding Pentheus' anger, Came through the palace gate.\n           It seems even now his sandal Is sounding on its way;\n           Soon is he here before us, And what now will he say?\n           With ease will I confront him, Ire-breathing though he stand.\n           'Tis easy to a wise man To practice self-command.  {651}\n\nBlank verse is resumed as Pentheus enters, and meets his escaped\nprisoner who calmly confronts him.  As Pentheus begins to threaten,\nDionysus advises him first to hear the messenger even now entering from\nCithaeron.  An elaborate _Messenger's Speech_ describes the miraculous\nlife of the Maenads as they lie on the mountains, careless but not\nimmodest.  At the touch of their thyrsus the rock yields dew and the\nsoil wine; their fingers lightly scraping the soil draw streams of\nexquisite milk, and honey distils from their ivied staffs.  A city-bred\nagitator stirred up the herdsmen to confront them, but the phrensied\nwomen drove the men before them, and tore the herds to pieces; like a\nflock of birds they skimmed along the land, and all gave way before\nthem.\n\n           And what they threw across their shoulders, clung\n           Unfastened, nor fell down to the black ground,\n          No brass, nor ponderous iron; on their locks\n          Was fire that burned them not.\n\nThen god-given fountains washed off the stains of their toil, and their\nserpents licked them clean.  Even the Messenger advises submission to\nso mighty a god, dispensing such gifts.\n\nPentheus breathes nothing but defiance, and issues orders for the whole\nmilitary force of Thebes to assemble.  He is bewildered by the\nstranger, who doing or suffering still holds his peace.  In long-drawn\nparallel verses Dionysus gradually assumes the friend, and--still\nwarning the king that he is on the side of the god--insinuates into the\nmind of Pentheus the idea of visiting the scene, disguised in the\nfeminine robes of the revellers.  As the king retires to prepare,\nDionysus proclaims that he is fallen into the net, and vengeance shall\nfirst deprive him of sense and then destroy him.  {868}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE III\n\nAs the crisis comes nearer the Chorus long for the moment of\nescape--the sensation of the hart that has leaped the net and with\nstorm-wind haste escaped the hunter's pursuit and reached the silent\nshadow of the old hospitable wood.  VICTORY IS THE JOY OF JOYS.  Slow\nand true are the avenging deities, with printless foot hounding the\nimpious along their winding path: for law is old as oldest time.\nVICTORY IS THE JOY OF JOYS.  Happy the sailor in port, he whose race is\no'er: hopes hover over thousands, but\n\n          Happiness alone is his\n          That happy is to-day.  {928}\n\nEPISODE IV\n\nPentheus appears from the palace of Cadmus in disguise as a Maenad.\nInfatuation has become a phrensy: he sees double, Dionysus seems a\nbull, his eyes penetrate into distance and perceive his mother and her\ncomrades.  Unconscious of the laughter of Dionysus he adjusts his\nfeminine dress and practices the Maenad step.  Irony is added:\n\n  _Dio._  Follow me! thy preserver goes before thee;\n          Another takes thee hence.\n  _Pen._                        Mean'st thou my mother?\n  _Dio._  Aloft shalt thou be borne--\n  _Pen._                        O the soft carriage!\n  _Dio._  In thy mother's hands.\n  _Pen._                        Wilt make me thus luxurious?\n  _Dio._  Strange luxury, indeed!\n  _Pen._                       'Tis my desert.\n\nExclaiming in ambiguous phrase as to the awful end to which he is\ndestined, Dionysus leads the king out towards Cithaeron.  {986}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE IV\n\nThe crisis is come!  Ho, to the mountains; where the Chorus picture the\nscene already being enacted, the hunter of the Bacchanals caught in the\ninexorable net of death.  VENGEANCE ON THE LAWLESS SON OF ECHION is the\nrecurrent burden of the ode.  Its prayer is to hold fast the pious\nmind, the smooth painless life at peace with heaven and earth, instead\nof fighting with the invincible, aweless outcast from all law.  {1036}\n\nEPISODE V\n\nA _Messenger's Speech_ describes the catastrophe.  How Pentheus,\narrived within sight of the orderly Maenads, was not satisfied, but\ndesired a higher station from which to view their unseemly life.  Then\na wonder: the stranger bent down an ash tree, and seating Pentheus in a\nfork of it let the tree return to its position, holding the wretched\nking aloft, seen of all.\n\n          The stranger from our view had vanished quite.\n          Then from the heavens a voice, as it should seem,\n          Dionysus, shouted loud, \"Behold, I bring,\n          O maidens, him that you and me, our rites,\n          Our orgies laughed to scorn; now take your vengeance.\"\n          And as he spake, a light of holy fire\n          Stood up, and blazed from earth straight up to heaven.\n          Silent the air, silent the verdant grove\n          Held its still leaves; no sound of living thing.\n          They, as their ears just caught the half-heard voice,\n          Stood up erect, and rolled their wandering eyes,\n          Again he shouted.  But when Cadmus' daughters\n          Heard manifest the god's awakening voice,\n          Forth rushed they, fleeter than the winged dove,\n          Their nimble feet quick coursing up and down.\n\nHow then the Maenads set upon him and tore him to pieces, his own\nmother leading them on: in triumph dance they are bringing his head to\nthe city.  Adore the gods, is the moral.  {1164}\n\nCHORAL INTERLUDE V\n\nA short outburst of triumph from the Chorus: then the  {1180}\n\nEXODUS\n\nbegins with the approach of the Maenads, Agave bearing her son's head\non a thyrsus.  In a brief _lyric concerto_ between her and the mocking\nChorus her phrensied triumph is brought out, and how she takes the\nbleeding object to be head of a young lion.  At that moment the trumpet\nsounds, and the army that had been summoned appears at the Electran\ngate.  Agave turns to them, and (in blank verse) calls all Thebans to\nbehold the quarry she has taken without the useless weapons of the\nhunter; it shall be nailed up a trophy before her father's house.\n_Shortly after enters on the right a melancholy procession of Cadmus\nand his servants bearing the fragments of Pentheus' body, with\ndifficulty discovered and pieced together_.  In extended parallel\ndialogue between Cadmus and Evadne the phrensy gradually passes away\nfrom her and she recognizes the deed she has done.  Cadmus sums up the\nfinal situation: all the house enwrapped in one dread doom.  The Chorus\nsympathize with Cadmus, but have no pity for Agave.  She then follows\nwith a rhesis of woe, interrupted by  {1365}\n\nDIVINE INTERVENTION\n\nDionysus appears aloft, in divine form.  The MSS. are defective here:\nfrom what we have the god appears to be painting the future of Cadmus:\nlife in a dragon form, victories at the head of barbarian hosts,\nfinally the Isles of the Blest.  Agave as stained with blood is\nbanished the land, vainly imploring the god's mercy.  With lamentations\nat the thought of exile, which is the lot of both, the play ends.\n\n\n\n[1] The quotations are from Milman's translation in Routledge's\nUniversal Library.\n\n\n\n\nPASSAGES\n\n\n1\n\n_Evolution of human life_\n\n  _Prometheus._               List rather to the deeds\n                I did for mortals: how, being fools before\n                I made them wise and true in aim of soul,\n                And let me tell you--not as taunting men,\n                But teaching you the intention of my gifts--\n                How, first beholding, they beheld in vain,\n                And hearing, heard not, but like shapes in dreams\n                Mixed all things wildly down the tedious time;\n                Nor knew to build a house against the sun\n                With wicketed sides, nor any woodcraft knew,\n                But lived, like silly ants, beneath the ground,\n                In hollow caves unsunned.  There came to them\n                No steadfast sign of winter nor of spring,\n                Flower perfumed, nor summer full of fruit;\n                But blindly and lawlessly they did all things,\n                Until I taught them how the stars do rise\n                And set in mystery, and devised for them\n                Number, the inducer of philosophies,\n                The synthesis of letters, and, beside,\n                The artificer of all things, Memory,\n                That sweet Muse-Mother.  I was first to yoke\n                The servile beasts in couples, carrying\n                An heirdom of man's burdens on their backs.\n                I joined to chariots steeds that love the bit\n                They clamp at--the chief pomp of golden ease.\n                And none but I originated ships,\n                The seaman's chariots wandering on the brine,\n                With linen wings.  And I--oh miserable!--\n                Who did devise for mortals all these arts,\n                Have no device left now to save myself\n                From the woe I suffer.\n\n  _Chorus._                       Most unseemly woe\n                Thou sufferest, and dost stagger from the sense\n                Bewildered! like a bad leech falling sick,\n                Thou art faint at soul, and canst not find the drugs\n                Required to save thyself.\n\n  _Prometheus._                               Hearken the rest,\n                And marvel further, what more arts and means\n                I did invent, this greatest: if a man\n                Fell sick there was no cure, nor esculent,\n                Nor chrism, nor liquid, but for lack of drugs\n                Men pined and wasted, till I showed them all\n                Those mixtures of emollient remedies,\n                Whereby they might be rescued from disease,\n                I fixed the various rules of mantic art,\n                Discerned the vision from the common dream,\n                Instructed them in vocal auguries,\n                Hard to interpret, and defined as plain\n                The wayside omens--flights of crook-clawed birds--\n                Showed which are, by their nature, fortunate,\n                And which not so, and what the food of each,\n                And what the hates, affections, social needs,\n                Of all to one another,--taught what sign\n                Of visceral lightness, colored to a shade,\n                May charm the genial gods, and what fair spots\n                Commend the lung and liver.  Burning so\n                The limbs encased in fat, and the long chine,\n                I led my mortals on to an art abstruse,\n                And cleared their eyes to the image in the fire,\n                Erst filmed in dark.  Enough said now of this:\n                For the other helps of man hid underground,\n                The iron and the brass, silver and gold,\n                Can any dare affirm he found them out\n                Before me?  None, I know, unless he choose\n                To lie in his vaunt.  In one word learn the whole:\n                That all arts come to mortals from Prometheus.\n                    Aeschylus: _Prometheus_.  [Mrs. Browning's\n                                               translation.]\n\n2\n\n(_For comparison with the preceding_)\n\n                Warmly this argument with others oft\n                Have I disputed, who assert that ill\n                To mortal man assign'd outweighs the good.\n                Far otherwise I deem, that good is dealt\n                To man in larger portions: were it not,\n                We could not bear the light of life.  That Power,\n                Whatever god he be, that called us forth\n                From foul and savage life, hath my best thanks.\n                Inspiring reason first, he gave the tongue\n                Articulate sounds, the intercourse of language:\n                The fruits of earth he gave, and to that growth\n                The heaven-descending rain, that from the earth,\n                Cheer'd by its kindly dews, they might arise,\n                And bear their life-sustaining food mature: to this\n                The warm defense against th' inclement storm\n                He taught to raise, and the umbrageous roof\n                The fiery sun excluding: the tall bark\n                He gave to bound o'er the wide sea, and bear\n                From realm to realm in grateful interchange\n                The fruits each wants.  Is aught obscure, aught hid?\n                Doubts darkening on the mind the mounting blaze\n                Removes; or from the entrail's panting fibres\n                The seer divines, or from the flight of birds.\n                Are we not then fastidious to repine\n                At such a life so furnish'd by the gods?\n                    Euripides: _Suppliants_ 214.  [Potter.]\n\n3\n\n_Specimen of Accelerated Rhythm in the exact metre_\n\nAEGISTHUS\n\n  How thy word and act shall issue thou shalt shortly understand.\nCHORUS\n\n  Up to action, O my comrades! for the fight is hard at hand,\n  Swift, your right hands to the sword hilt! bare the weapon as for strife.\n\nAEGISTHUS\n  Lo! I too am standing ready, hilt to hilt, for death, or life!\n\nCHORUS\n  'Twas thy word and we accept it! onward to the chance of war!\n\nCLYTEMNESTRA\n  Nay, enough, enough, my champion! we will smite and slay no more.\n  Already we have heaped enough the harvest-field of guilt,\n  Enough of wrong and murder, let no other blood be spilt!\n  Peace, old men! and pass away into the homes by fate decreed,\n  Lest ill valor meet our vengeance--'twas a necessary deed.\n  But enough of toils and troubles--be the end, if ever, now,\n  Ere the wrath of the Avenger deal another deadly blow.\n  'Tis a woman's word of warning, and let who will list thereto.\n\nAEGISTHUS\n  But that these should loose and lavish reckless blossoms of the tongue,\n  And in hazard of their fortune cast upon me words of wrong,\n  And forget the law of subjects, and to heed their ruler's word--\n\nCHORUS\n  Ruler? but 'tis not for Argives, thus to own a dastard lord!\n\nAEGISTHUS\n  I will follow to chastise thee in my coming days of sway.\n\nCHORUS\n  Not if Fortune guide Orestes safely on his homeward way.\n\nAEGISTHUS\n  Ah, well I know how exiles feed on hopes of their return!\n\nCHORUS\n  Feed and batten on pollution of the right, while 'tis thy turn!\n\nAEGISTHUS\n  Thou shalt pay, be well assured, heavy quittance for thy pride.\n\nCHORUS\n  Crow and strut, with her beside thee, like a cock, his mate beside!\n\nCLYTEMNESTRA\n  Heed not thou too highly of them--let the cur-pack growl and yell--\n  I and thou will rule the palace and will order all things well?\n          Conclusion of _Agamemnon_.  (Morshead.)\n\n\n4\n\n_Scene from the 'Hercules Mad' of Euripides_\n\n_Translated by Robert Browning_\n\nCHORUS OF OLD MEN\n\n  Horror!\n  Are we come to the self-same passion of fear,\n  Old friends?--such a phantasm fronts me here\n  Visible over the palace-roof!\n  In flight, in flight, the laggard limb\n  Bestir, and haste aloof\n  From that on the roof there--grand and grim!\n  O Paian, king!\n  Be thou my safeguard from the woeful thing!\n\nIRIS\n  Courage, old men! beholding here--Night's birth--\n  Madness, and me the handmaid of the gods,\n  Iris: since to your town we come no plague--\n  Wage war against the house of but one man\n  From Zeus and from Alkmene sprung, they say.\n  Now, till he made an end of bitter toils\n  Fate kept him safe, nor did his father Zeus\n  Let us once hurt him, Here nor myself.\n  But since he has toiled through Eurustheus' task\n  Here desires to fix fresh blood on him--\n  Slaying his children; I desire it too.\n\n  Up then, collecting the unsoftened heart,\n  Unwedded virgin of black Night!  Drive, drag,\n  Frenzy upon the man here--whirls of brain\n  Big with child-murder, while his feet leap gay.\n  Let go the bloody cable its whole length!\n  So that,--when o'er the Acherousian ford\n  He has sent floating, by self-homicide,\n  His beautiful boy-garland,--he may know\n  First, Here's anger, what it is to him,\n  And then learn mine.  The gods are vile indeed\n  And mortal matters vast if he 'scape free.\n\nMADNESS\n  Certes, from well-born sire and mother too\n  Had I my birth, whose blood is Night's and Heaven's;\n  But here's my glory,--not to grudge the good!\n  Nor love I raids against the friends of man.\n  I wish, then, to persuade, before I see\n  You stumbling, you and Here: trust my words!\n  This man, the house of whom ye hound me to,\n  Is not unfamed on earth, nor gods among;\n  Since, having quelled waste land and savage sea,\n  He alone raised again the falling rights\n  Of gods--gone ruinous through impious men.\n  Desire no mighty mischief, I advise!\n\nIRIS\n  Give thou no thought to Here's faulty schemes!\n\nMADNESS\n  Changing her step from faulty to fault-free!\n\nIRIS\n  Not to be wise, did Zeus' wife send thee here!\n\nMADNESS\n  Sun, thee I cite to witness--doing what I loath to do!\n  But since indeed to Here and thyself I must subserve,\n  And follow you quick, with a whizz,\n        as the hounds a-hunt with the huntsman,\n  --Go I will! and neither the sea, as it groans\n        with its waves so furiously,\n  Nor earthquake, no, nor the bolt of thunder\n        gasping out heaven's labor-throe,\n  Shall cover the ground as I, at a bound,\n        rush into the bosom of Herakles!\n  And home I scatter and house I batter,\n  Having first of all made the children fall,--\n  And he who felled them is never to know\n  He gave birth to each child that received the blow,\n  Till the Madness I am have let him go!\n\n  Ha, behold, already he rocks his head--he is off\n        from the starting place!\n  Not a word, as he rolls his frightful orbs,\n        from their sockets wrenched in the ghastly race!\n  And the breathings of him he tempers and times no more\n        than a bull in act to toss,\n  And hideously he bellows invoking the Keres, daughters of Tartaros.\n  Ay and I soon will dance thee madder, and pipe thee\n        quite out of thy mind with fear!\n  So, up with the famous foot, thou Iris,\n        march to Olu[y?]mpus, leave me here!\n  Me and mine, who now combine, in the dreadful shape no mortal sees,\n  And now are about to pass, from without,\n        inside of the home of Herakles!\n\nCHORAL ODE\n\n  Otototoi,--groan: Away is mown\n  Thy flower, Zeus' offspring, City!\n  Unhappy Hellas, who dost cast (the pity!)\n  Who worked thee all the good,\n  Away from thee,--destroyest in a mood\n  Of Madness him, to death whom pipings dance!\n  There goes she, in her chariot,--groans, her brood\n  And gives her team the goad, as though adrift\n  For doom, Night's Gorgon, Madness, she whose glance\n  Turns man to marble! with what hissings lift\n  Their hundred heads the snakes, her head's inheritance!\n  Quick has the God changed fortune: through their sire\n  Quick will the children, that he saved, expire!\n  O miserable me!  O Zeus! thy child--\n  Childless himself--soon vengeance, hunger-wild,\n  Craving for punishment, will lay how low--\n  Loaded with many a woe!\n  O palace-roofs! your courts about,\n  A measure begins all unrejoiced\n  By the tympanies and the thyrsos hoist\n  Of the Bromian revel-rout,\n  O ye domes! and the measure proceeds\n  For blood, not such as the cluster bleeds\n  Of the Dionusian pouring-out!\n  Break forth! fly, children! fatal this--\n  Fatal the lay that is piped, I wis!\n  Ay, for he hunts a children-chase--\n  Never shall madness lead her revel\n  And leave no trace in the dwelling-place!\n  Ai, ai, because of the evil!\n  Ai, ai, the old man--how I groan\n  For the father, and not the father alone!\n  She who was nurse of his children small,--small\n  Her gain that they never were born at all!\n  See! see!\n  A whirlwind shakes hither and thither\n  The house--the roof falls in together!\n  Ha, ha, what dost thou, son of Zeus?\n  A trouble of Tartaros broke loose,\n  Such as once Pallas on the Titan thundered,\n  Thou sendest on thy domes, roof-shattered and wall-sundered.\n\n\nIdeas of Deity\n\n5\n\n  None of mortal men\n  Escape unhurt by fortune, nor the gods,\n  Unless the stories of the bards be false.\n  Have they not formed connubial ties to which\n  No law assents?  Have they not gall'd with chains\n  Their fathers through ambition?  Yet they hold\n  Their mansions on Olympus, and their wrongs\n  With patience bear.\n                             Euripides: _Hercules_ 1414.\n\n6\n\n  These are your works, ye gods! these changes fraught\n  With horrible confusion, mingled thus\n  That we through ignorance might worship you.\n                             Euripides: _Hecuba_ 943.\n\n7\n\n          O supreme of heav'n,\n  What shall we say? that thy firm providence\n  Regards mankind? or vain the thoughts, which deem\n  That the just gods are rulers in the sky,\n  Since tyrant fortune lords it o'er the world?\n                             Do. 470.\n\n8\n\n          Mortal as I am\n  In virtue I exceed thee, though a god\n  Of mighty pow'r; for I have not betray'd\n  The sons of Hercules: well did'st thou know\n  To come by stealth unto my couch, t' invade\n  A bed not thine, nor leave obtain'd; to save\n  Thy friends thou dost not know; thou art a god\n  In wisdom or in justice little vers'd.\n                             Euripides: _Hercules_ 385.\n\n9\n\n  I deem not of the gods, as having form'd\n  Connubial ties to which no law assents,\n  Nor as oppressed with chains: disgraceful this\n  I hold, nor ever will believe that one\n  Lords it o'er others: of no foreign aid\n  The god, who is indeed a god, hath need:\n  These are the wretched fables of the bards.\n                             Euripides: _Hercules_ 1444.\n\n10\n\n  O Jove, who rulest the rolling of the earth,\n  And o'er it hast thy throne, whoe'er thou art,\n  The ruling mind, or the necessity\n  Of nature, I adore thee: dark thy ways,\n  And silent are thy steps; to mortal man\n  Yet thou with justice all things dost ordain.\n                             Euripides: _Daughters of Troy_ 955.\n\n    Was this then human, or divine?\n    Did it a middle nature share?\n      What mortal shall declare?\n    Who shall the secret bounds define?\n    When the gods work we see their pow'r;\n    We see on their high bidding wait\n    The prosperous gales, the storms of fate:\n  But who their awful councils shall explore?\n                             Euripides: _Helena_ 1235.\n\n12\n\n  And those, the Ever-Virgin ones, I call,\n  Erinnyes dread that see all human deeds,\n  Swift-footed, that they mark how I am slain\n  By you Atreidae; may they seize on them.\n  Doers of evil, with all evil plagues\n  And uttermost destruction.\n                             Sophocles: _Ajax_ 937 [Plumptre].\n\n\nPassing bits of Nature-Painting\n\n13\n\n  Thou firmament of God, and swift-wing'd winds,\n  Ye springs of rivers, and of ocean waves\n  That smile innumerous!  Mother of us all,\n  O Earth, and Sun's all-seeing eye, behold,\n  I pray, what I a God from Gods endure.\n                             Aeschylus: _Prometheus_ 88 [Plumptre].\n\n14\n\n_A Sacred Spot_\n\n  This spot is holy, one may clearly tell,\n  Full as it is of laurel, olive, vine.\n  And many a nightingale within sings sweetly.\n  Rest my limbs here upon this rough-hewn rock.\n                             Sophocles: _Oedipus at Colonus_ 16.\n\n15\n\n_A Grove of the Furies_\n\n                Rush not on\n      Through voiceless, grass-grown grove,\n  Where blends with rivulet of honey'd stream\n      The cup of water clear.\n                             Do. 156.\n\n16\n\n_A Meadow of Artemis_\n\n  Thee, goddess, to adorn I bring this crown\n  Inwoven with the various flowers that deck\n  The unshorn mead, where never shepherd dared\n  To feed his flock, and the scythe never came,\n  But o'er its vernal sweets unshorn the bee\n  Ranges at will, and hush'd in reverence glides\n  Th' irriguous streamlet: garish art hath there\n  No place; of these the modest still may cull\n  At pleasure, interdicted to th' impure.\n                             Euripides: _Hippolytus_ 81.\n\n17\n\n_The Nile_\n\n  These are the streams of Nile, the joy of nymphs,\n  Glowing with beauty's radiance; he his floods\n  Swell'd with the melted snow o'er Egypt's plain\n  Irriguous pours, to fertilize her fields,\n  Th' ethereal rain supplying.\n                             Euripides: _Helena_ 1.\n\n18\n\n_The Nightingale_\n\n  On thee, high-nested in the museful shade\n      By close-inwoven branches made,\n      Thee, sweetest bird, most musical\n  Of all that warble their melodious song\n          The charmed woods among,\n      Thee, tearful nightingale, I call:\n      O come, and from thy dark-plumed throat\n  Swell sadly-sweet thy melancholy note.\n                             Euripides: _Helena_ 1191.\n\n19\n\n_Flight of Cranes_\n\n      O might we through the liquid sky\n      Wing'd like the birds of Lybia fly;\n      Birds, which the change of seasons know,\n      And, left the wintry storms and snow,\n      Their leader's well-known call obey.\n  O'er many a desert dry and cultured plain\n      He guides the marshall'd train,\n      And cheers with jocund notes their way.\n      Ye birds that through th' aerial height\n      Your course with clouds light-sailing share,\n      Your flight amidst the Pleiads hold,\n  And where Orion nightly flames in gold;\n      Then on Eurota's banks alight,\n      And this glad message bear:\n  \"Your king from Troy shall reach once more,\n  With conquest crown'd, his native shore.\"\n                             Euripides: _Helena_ 1603.\n\n20\n\n_A Storm_\n\n      So is it as a wave\n      Of ocean's billowing surge\n      (Where Thrakian storm-winds rave,\n  And floods of darkness from the depths emerge,)\n  Rolls the black sand from out the lowest deep,\n  And shores re-echoing wail, as rough blasts o'er them sweep.\n                             Sophocles: _Antigone_ 586 [Plumptre].\n\n21\n\n  Steering their rough course o'er this boisterous main,\n      Form'd in a ring beneath whose waves\n      The Nereid train in high-arch'd caves\n  Weave the light dance, and raise the sprightly song,\n      Whilst whisp'ring in their swelling sails\n      Soft Zephyrs breathe, or southern gales\n      Piping amidst their tackling play,\n      As their bark ploughs its wat'ry way\n  Those hoary cliffs, the haunts of birds, among,\n      To that wild strand, the rapid race\n      Where once Achilles deigned to grace.\n                             Euripides: _Iphigenia among the Tauri_ 492.\n\n\n(Specimens of Gnomic Verses)\n\n22\n\n  Amongst barbarians all are slaves, save one.\n                             _Helena_ 311.\n\n23\n\n  He is no lover who not always loves.\n                             _Daughters of Troy_ 1148.\n\n24\n\n  What our necessities demand, becomes\n  Of greater moment than to conquer Troy.\n                             _Andromache_ 427.\n\n25\n\n  'Tis not the counsel, but the speaker's worth,\n  That gives persuasion to his eloquence.\n                             _Hecuba_ 266.\n\n26\n\n          Skilful leech\n  Mutters no spell o'er sore that needs the knife.\n                             _Ajax_ 581.\n\n27\n\n  It is through God that man or laughs or mourns.\n                             _Ajax_ 385.\n\n28\n\n            No mortal man\n  May therefore be call'd happy, till you see\n  The last of all his days, and how, that pass'd,\n  He to the realms of Pluto shall descend.\n                             _Andromache_ 114.\n\n29\n\n            All human things\n  A day lays low, a day lifts up again;\n  But still the gods love those of order'd soul.\n                             _Ajax_ 130.","title":"Book of illustrations : Ancient Tragedy","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":37216}